Asmita smiled as she put the finishing touches on the purple horizon in her painting. It depicted the beautiful dusk she had one seen from her Aaji’s house in the village. It showed a glowing sun setting amidst the blue mountains, far away in the evening haze. Cows grazing on the yellowed landscape, and a silhouette of the dry trees parched for water, in the hot, dry Indian summer. With a last sigh, she glanced with wistful eyes at the painting as she put away her tools - her palette, paintbrushes and the oil paints she had just finished using - into the box-bed. This was the last time she would paint in a long time to come.
Rohan’s Mom called him back home for dinner just as he was about to score the last fifteen runs required for his team to win the T20 cricket match with kids from the neighboring building. “Coming Mom”, he shouted back impatiently, slightly angry. Cricket was the only thing he had ever cared about for as long as he could remember. His eyes twinkled as he faced the opposition’s bowler, his bat swinging in a wide arc, cleanly striking the ball along the pitch for a boundary. This would be the last time he played the game for the next three years.
Nakul sat crouched under the bush, patiently and noiselessly as he waited for hours for the bird to show up. He had spotted its nest just after noon. It was high up on the tree, cozy between the trunk and a thick branch, away from the wind. It was close to dusk, surely the bird must return now, as they always do. Maybe it had gone out hunting for the day, as they always do. His legs hurt from sitting all day in this position, the camera hanging around his neck, his neck sunburned. He waited with baited breath, and... There it was! She had just flown home. In a sudden rush of excitement, he clicked away furiously, capturing the bird in its full glory; swooping in on its nest, landing nimbly on the edge, trying to be fair to all the bird babies as her beak went around distributing the spoils. The chatter of the babies made him happy, joie de vivre running through him. It was the last that that camera ever clicked nature.
Today, and later in the month they will all be appearing for their engineering entrance exams. Fighting to get into the 10,000 or so seats that ‘good’ engineering colleges in the country on offer. Not one of them will get a seat. None of them will be good engineers.
Rohan’s Mom called him back home for dinner just as he was about to score the last fifteen runs required for his team to win the T20 cricket match with kids from the neighboring building. “Coming Mom”, he shouted back impatiently, slightly angry. Cricket was the only thing he had ever cared about for as long as he could remember. His eyes twinkled as he faced the opposition’s bowler, his bat swinging in a wide arc, cleanly striking the ball along the pitch for a boundary. This would be the last time he played the game for the next three years.
Nakul sat crouched under the bush, patiently and noiselessly as he waited for hours for the bird to show up. He had spotted its nest just after noon. It was high up on the tree, cozy between the trunk and a thick branch, away from the wind. It was close to dusk, surely the bird must return now, as they always do. Maybe it had gone out hunting for the day, as they always do. His legs hurt from sitting all day in this position, the camera hanging around his neck, his neck sunburned. He waited with baited breath, and... There it was! She had just flown home. In a sudden rush of excitement, he clicked away furiously, capturing the bird in its full glory; swooping in on its nest, landing nimbly on the edge, trying to be fair to all the bird babies as her beak went around distributing the spoils. The chatter of the babies made him happy, joie de vivre running through him. It was the last that that camera ever clicked nature.
Today, and later in the month they will all be appearing for their engineering entrance exams. Fighting to get into the 10,000 or so seats that ‘good’ engineering colleges in the country on offer. Not one of them will get a seat. None of them will be good engineers.
Not because they are not smart. Not because they are not intelligent. It is because, they were not supposed to be engineers. They were supposed to be painters, and poets, and athletes and ornithologists, all excelling in their fields. 5 years later, they will all be working for as ‘software engineers’, working at a tiny back-office, fixing bugs created by some unseen overlord in some far away land where they have never been. Or faking accents, helping some middle aged lady in Wyoming figure out how to use the new blender she just bought.
Working for a different overlord than the one they gained ‘independence’ from 60 years ago. Or the same one.
Very few of them will actually go back to work at their passions.
Very few of them will actually do work that will change the world in some way.
Very few of them will actually be ‘independent’.
Very few of them will ever be free...
