UNCLEJI

Uncleji! Uncleji! the voice chanted. Me, hearing but filtering out, continued my walk in the lush environs of the ashram, knowing fully well that I was not the uncleji being beckoned.  My being, absorbed in the myriads of blooms and smells in this garden, I did one more round of my morning ambulation.  The chanting persisted, causing me to casually look in the direction of the voice. Perched on top of the 20 feet high boundary wall that circled the west edge of the ashram, sat a little boy, probably all of 8 years old. My eyes widened as I contemplated the drop he faced on this side of the wall.  Grubby shirt, bare dirty feet and the confidence of a street urchin that you may not want to mess with, he sat astride the divide. I was wont to calls from the orphanage building next door, during my walks. The building rose higher than the high wall - trouncing its efforts to shut out and to shut in.

As I made eye contact with him, I understood that he had persistently been beckoning me. Momentarily stumped, I looked down at my shirt and wondered how I could be an uncleji.  I am barely used to being 'aunty' to all and sundry, to now make this bold transition to being uncle as well. It dawned on me. My silhouette was that of a boy or a man. Long shorts, baggy black t-shirt, short cropped hair and sneakers. Especially to a child closeted within four walls, he was unlikely to have seen women dressed like me.  There have been many occasions in Bangalore where people on the street, unused to women in pants, have wandered loudly whether I was a boy or a girl, their necks straining to view me from different angles.

The kid had lost his ball apparently. He pointed at the ball in the ashram grounds repeatedly and pleaded that I help him retrieve it. The ball that he pointed to was nowhere to be seen.  There was a large area of brush and untidy mounds of earth rendered muddy with the recent rain. No ball in sight. Thoughts of snake in the tall grass. My mind wanted to dispense with the urchin's request. I shook my hands and my head and said that there was no ball there. He pleaded more urgently. His voice could have been louder, should have been louder. He bent forward to use the wall as a shield for his voice, as he pleaded so his voice would not carry to the other side. 

I dithered and then melted. I wove my way up and down the piles of soil, looking for an unsuspecting snake and the ball. There it was, a cream coloured soccer ball that had lost all its oomph. As I picked it up it collapsed, a sack of hexagons sown together. He urged me with some speed, in a whisper, to throw it to him. As I stepped back from the wall to aim, he disappeared but I could still hear his voice guiding me - Uncleji! here, throw here. I tossed the ball as high as its airless mass would go. It flounced precariously on the top edge of the wall on my side and then mysteriously recovered its arc and disappeared to the other side. I heard nothing - not even the ball dropping as I resumed my walk.