I bet you’ve
seen Rakesh Belal. He is ubiquitous. An 18-year-old dropout, the sort
found in trackpants and a fake Nike t-shirt outside shantytown video
parlours and ramshackle gyms anywhere across the country. But this is
not how we found him. It was the summer of 1996, and we were setting
off from New Delhi railway station, going to Ghazipur for Muharram.
We were in our compartment, when we noticed a boy, scavenging for food.
The innocence of his face captured Mom’s heart. She gave him something
to eat, and Dad gestured at him to come inside. Once with us, he settled
down as if he had always been part of the family. When the train moved,
Mom and Dad found it hard to send him away. And soon Rakesh Belal was
en route to Ghazipur too.
Belal was not his
real name. He was Rakesh Singh from village in Uttar Pradesh called
Hauwwapura. He had no clue where it was, but knew that the nearest city
was Agra. His father’s name he gave as “Jungli Singh”
— which we later found out to be Jungani Singh — and his
mother’s name was Shanti Devi. His father was dead and his mother
had left home. He had lived once with an aunt, but she ill-treated him,
pushing him to leave home. In Delhi, he found refuge at a constable’s
home, but was mistreated there too. Having fled that place as well,
he was caught later by the authorities and thrown into a correction
facility — an abysmal institution, where the rooms were cramped,
the food miserable and the older kids were vicious to the younger ones.
Finally he escaped, and that’s when we found him on the platform.
Before Belal, we
had once tried adopting a street kid whom we named Jalal. He ran away
11 months later, after a tiff with our servant. My parents were heartbroken.
They looked for him everywhere, and tried filing a complaint at the
local police station, but were told that they had no locus standi to
report his going missing since they had never reported finding him in
the first place. This time, we were better prepared. We had Belal photographed,
and filed an fir stating that we had found him and requesting that we
be treated as his legal guardians until the police found his real ones.
Of course, the fir was a formality. The police never did anything.
Initially, Belal
was very conscious of his non-Muslim antecedents. He would resist our
habits, our food, the way we would use Arabic phrases. The first debate
arose over his name. Mom was unhappy with “Rakesh”. After
much deliberation, we yoked an Arabic “Belal” to his Hindu
“Rakesh”. But this made me question our own politics. Why
didn’t we name him Ali or Hasan? Why did we choose Belal? Belal
was one of the Prophet’s most revered associates, but he was a
Black slave whom the Prophet had rescued. Though much beloved of Allah,
a slave he remained in the popular eye.
In time, Belal
got over his inhibitions. He started enjoying non-vegetarian food, and
soon showed comfort and familiarity with Muslim habits. Mom and Dad
had him admitted at a local government school. It made me question our
motives again. When it had been time for my admission, it was unthinkable
to have me go anywhere but to an “English-medium” school.
However, there was no such urgency when it came to Belal. One evening,
I asked Mom about this discrimination. She paused, composed herself,
and with motherly assurance said, “Son, this is the best we can
afford for him right now.” I made an uneasy peace with our charity.
Belal started going
to school; he would call Mom, Mom and Dad, Dad; he loved watching TV,
would eat what we ate and went where we went. But he remained an outsider.
Our relatives never accepted him. He’d ask Mom why the extended
family didn’t treat him as one of its own. Mom would cuddle him
and say, we treat you as son and that’s all that matters. That
would assure him but the discomfort remained. His interest in his studies
waned. When he failed Class vii, there was general disappointment at
home but none of the gloom there would have been had any of us failed.
A repeat attempt again resulted in failure. By then, he was completely
off studies. He dropped out, made strange friends, remained away for
long hours with no explanation, started stealing from Dad, and became
rude and indifferent. He started questioning our motives and often pointed
out our discrimination. Our relationship plummeted. When confronted,
he’d maintain a dour silence that exasperated us even more. Often
I would end up thrashing him — I would regret it later, but I
didn’t have the guts to apologise. One day, he lost his cool,
caught me by the scruff of my neck and pinned me against the wall. It
took three people to pull him off me. He could have killed me. That
day I realised he had grown up and could not be subdued by violence.
Then one day we
got a call from the police station, asking whether someone called Rakesh
Belal lived with us. My father nervously admitted he did. The officer
reported that he was in custody, accused of video piracy and stealing
cds from a shop he worked at in Lajpat Rai Market. We had seen a sudden
surge of video and game cds at home, but had had no clue where he had
got them from. But I guess we didn’t care either. Dad apologised,
and assured the policeman the incident would never be repeated. Belal
got off with a couple of slaps, and came home a frightened boy. Mom
and Dad made the best use of the opportunity — they made him pledge
to give up his bad habits, reform, and resume his studies. Belal applied
at the National Open School for Class x, and started his second innings
with us.
His interest in
technology grew. Around this time, he was also introduced to the Internet.
He’d spend hours on the Net, and, after a cousin of mine told
him about Google Earth, this became a search for his roots. He looked
endlessly for Hauwwapura but found nothing. Then, one day, he chanced
on an entry that mentioned a town called Karawali. Before we knew it,
he was aboard a bus to Agra and then to Karawali. When he reached Karawali,
he couldn’t find anything resembling what he remembered. Disappointed,
he was about to board the bus back to Delhi, when he struck up a conversation
with a fellow passenger. In the course of their talk, he asked if the
man knew a certain Mansingh, who was his uncle in Hauwwapura. The man
said yes, and gave him directions straight to his ancestral home. At
9pm on May 26, 2007, 11 years after we found him on a railway platform,
we got a call from a triumphant Rakesh Belal. His opening words were,
“Mummy! I’ve found my home. I’m standing in front
of it.” My Mom had a huge smile running across her face. My Dad,
tears.
Belal became a
hero in his village. The news of his return spread like wildfire and
people from adjoining villages poured in to have a look at the wonder
boy. Three days later, he returned to jubilation in our house. We all
huddled around him, hanging on his every word. He said the people in
his village were awestruck that even Muslims could be human enough to
bring up an orphan. I chuckled when I heard that.
I don’t know
how fair we’ve been to Rakesh but he has grown up with us. His
triumph is ours and we share his newfound happiness. He still stays
with us and perhaps will forever.
