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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Inspirational / Uplifting
- Published: 08/30/2024
M09-Get Mad But Do Not BE Mad
Born 1950, U, from Arlington, TX, United StatesThe Dharavi district in Mumbai, India, has earned its title as the largest slum in the world. Reclaimed from a swamp by outcasts of what was once called Bombay, it is now surrounded by the more recently named sprawl of Mumbai. It is thought to be home to over a million poor residents, many living in haphazardly constructed plywood and tin shacks, crammed together in what should be misery. Instead, these disadvantaged souls have thrived, many of them starting their own micro-enterprises, tucked away among the nooks and crannies of the incredible number of serpentine streets and alleys which snake between the hovels which covered most of the Dharavi Slums. Its residents may mostly be poor, but they are far from downtrodden, instead predominately being industrious and happily making the best of the lot they were given in this life.
It was in this environment that, on a normally hot, dry day in June, Dhruv Anand walked along Apna Street on his way to his shift at a cooking oil can recycling 'factory' where he earned his living. He was trying to ignore the stench of ammonia, likely caused by the decay of sewage, the unmistakable smell of which permeated the street. He considered buying one of the paan leaves that a nearby vendor was hawking, as a way of masking the odors. The vendor swore that holding the leaf to your face and inhaling the aromatic betel nut paste inside would overcome the pervasive, odoriferous scents of too many people confined in too small a space.
Some called Dhruv a mountain of a man, but more called him other, less complimentary names. He was taller than most, at 6'1", and had massive shoulders and arms, which gave him a distinctly ape-like appearance. Adding to this simian similarity, his coarse black hair covered him head to toe, spiking out from all over his scalp and growing down his forehead until it almost touched his thick eyebrows, and also peeking from under the cuffs of his sleeves. In addition, he typically walked hunched forward, as he did today. With such a fearsome demeanor, one would think that the crowds would part before him, but the reality of life in Dharavi is that the crowds parted for no one. Everyone pushed their way through the ramshackle streets on the way to their personal goals. It seemed as though everyone constantly wanted to be somewhere in the opposite direction from everyone else.
Dhruv was in a sour mood this day, which was not so unusual. He had been asked this morning for what must have been the umpteenth time if he was related to 'that' Anand, the World Chess Champion. Viswanathan Anand, known has Vishy to his friends and competitors had been the Champion of the World in Chess from 2000 to 2014. Dhruv had no relationship to Viswanathan and was so tired of being asked about it. He was certain that people were just making fun of him when they asked, as if someone with his bulk could not possibly possess the intelligence to even play Chess, much less become World Champion. So when one of the street children who scurried about between the throngs, stopped in his path, burdened with a huge collection of miscellaneous plastic bottles in a loosely tied, misshapen bundle, he was less than pleased.
"Get gone!" he shouted at the unfortunate lad, starting to raise his right fist in order to accelerate the lad's compliance. He was intending to follow this outburst up with various comments regarding the boy’s probable lineage and prospects for future parentage but was interrupted.
Forgotten was the counsel of Messenger Nivaan, an invisible being of ethereal energy, who was even now right behind Dhruv. Nivaan had been trying for years to help Dhruv control his seething anger, which was quick to appear at the least provocation. Dhruv was very familiar with Messenger Nivaan, with whom he had spent many an evening in discussion regarding his penchant towards quick anger, as well as other more enjoyable philosophical matters. The two would lounge in Dhruv's small living space, the Messenger usually clad in a Nehru or Sherwani jacket made of silk jacquard fabric of subdued hues somewhere between blue and purple, while Dhruv merely removed his outer closing and sprawled across his one chair in faded pajamas. Dhruv could speak for hours about all sorts of topics to this slightly glowing being of another plane. It soothed his ragged nerves and fed his quest for knowledge, and he did not find it at all strange that he should be visited in this manner.
Nivaan now whispered in Dhruv ear, 'When you feel yourself getting angry, close your lips and press them together for a moment. Do not say something that you wish that you had not said.'
Such advice rarely helped Dhruv in the instant that his anger flared, but he did pause this time before launching into a tirade. Seizing on this moment of opportunity, Nivaan continued, 'The lad has no way to move. He is not deliberately trying to detain you.'
When this thought occurred to Dhruv, he pressed his considerable bulk to his right, opening a path for the overburdened urchin to slip through. The boy took the proffered opportunity, and then Dhruv was able to continue on his own way also. A smile played across Dhruv’s face for just an instant as he realized that he had been correct about the situation, but it was quickly replaced by his normal frown, when he questioned whether the thought had been his or was from the glowing visitor which he so often entertained. No matter, it had been the correct solution.
* * *
The position that Dhruv occupied in the workflow of the oil can recycling factory where he worked was situated just after the cans had been cleaned of their residual oil and dried, but before they were recoated and painted. His was the task of removing any dents, and for some reason, they all seemed to have myriad types of dents. Some merely had small recesses on their sides where they had been dropped together, but most looked more like they had been compressed into each other with huge matching gouges.
Hour, upon hour, Dhruv would take a can from the drying rack, then sit down on a ragged straw mat in his area of the work floor, barefoot so he could use his supple feet to hold the can in place while he worked with his hands. It was hard work, prying and pounding and pushing. When the owner of the enterprise approached with a frown, Dhruv knew that it was not to praise his diligence.
"You must work faster!" the owner said. "I cannot make a profit if it takes you so long with each can!"
His anger quickly rising, Dhruv looked up from the current object of his labor. "Do you want the job done right, or do you want it done fast?" he asked.
"Both!" the owner exclaimed. "I cannot sell the can back to the manufacturer if it is not pristine, but I cannot afford your wages if you cannot get it ready sooner."
Dhruv was about to escalate his argument, but Messenger Nivaan whispered, 'You do not have to count to ten, but it helps to take a breath and let it out before you speak.'
He had the ability to recognize good advice, but not necessarily the ability to follow it at this time. Nivaan continued, 'Words can harm people. You should try to cause no harm to others.' Nivaan restrained himself from adding that it might also cost him his living if he continued to speak harshly to his supervisor.
Acceding to this wisdom, Dhruv paused a moment and then finally responded with, "You are right, of course. I will find a way to increase my speed."
With this, Dhruv returned to using the large metal bar that he held pushed down into the can to pry the dents outward from inside.
The owner, satisfied that he had corrected this problem, departed.
* * *
After his grueling shift ended, Dhruv began to make his way home. Since he lived alone, there would be no one there to greet him with a tasty meal. He would either have to find the energy and time to create a dinner on his own, or stop at one of the street vendors as he usually chose to do. Neeraj's, located in a small shack with many stools out front for the diners, was only a block from where Dhruv lived. It was known throughout the area as ‘The Place’ to get Bel Puri. The Gujarati dish was a fabulous blend of puffed rice, onions and cilantro, covered with both green spicy cilantro chutney and brown tangy tamarind chutney, and topped with a crumbled crunchy puri mixture, that was a blessing to a confirmed vegetarian palate. Neeraj kept the cost down and the quality up, ensuring a constant demand.
Like most street food eateries in the area, the drawback encountered at Nerraj's was the din of voices, each louder than the next in an attempt to be heard, as the many diners talked about their day, or whatever. The three men seated next to Dhruv just had to choose politics as their topic of shouted discussion. Dhruv hated politics. It was never beneficial to the masses, just the elites. This trio was particularly galling in their support of the policies of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP). It was Dhruv's opinion that the BJP was only using the common folk by promising but never delivering what they wanted, and lying to them about everything, while they blatantly pursued only the goals of their more wealthy supporters.
"I'm telling you, man, the BJP is pulling in support from all the small parties," one of the men was telling his friends.
"Shiv Sena will never go along with that," another added. "They don't believe the BJP will honor their promises."
"The Rashtriya Samaj Paksha will be able to hold them back," the last man threw into the conversation. "The RSP won't stand for it!"
Dhruv could feel his frustration building up. These people never paid attention to the real issues, but merely repeated easy to remember sound bite phrases that they were given by the political parties to distract them from the unpopular truths. As the three prattled on, the brows on Dhruv's forehead knotted closer and closer together, the air around him almost visibly darkening. Messenger Nivaan could sense the growing tension in his charge's demeanor.
'They speak only of the lies which have been fed to them to distract them. You should inform them of the truth,' Nivaan whispered to Dhruv.
'Evil thrives where good men remain silent,' Nivaan continued and then finished with, 'Getting angry is normal, but do not continue to be angry. The anger only harms you, not others.'
People looked around as Dhruv slammed his open palm down on the board which served as a table, making dishes jump, as he slowly rose to his full height. He could contain his silence no more.
"You people miss the point!" he said fiercely to no one and everyone at the same time. "None of these political parties care about what is good for you. They only care about your votes."
What went for silence in the slum fell as the pervasive rumble of voices died down enough that the other background noises of carts rumbling, and the footfalls of pedestrians along with the quieter sounds of animals could now be heard. Faces were turned to see what the huge man had to say.
Dhruv continued into this lull, "Dharavi has more people in it than any three or four of these political groups. The problem is that most people do not care. Most people do not think that they can change things."
He had the attention of people now. "What do you mean?" one of the three men next to him asked.
"Most people think their politicians are wrong in what they do. They see that the parties support causes that only a few people want, like this plan to relocate people from Dharavi to 'Clean it up and solve the problem' that they are pushing."
"This is not a plan to help us here. It is a plan to help the rich get richer off our precious land," Dhruv continued. "They want to get us off of it, so they can use it for something that makes them more money."
"The solution is to vote!" Dhruv said with a conviction that was catching. "Go to vote. Get your friends and relatives to vote. I don't care which way you vote or which political party that you vote for, just vote. Let all your voices be heard instead of just sitting here complaining that nothing is being done the way you wanted it."
With that, he lifted his bowl of bel puri, scraped the remainder into his mouth and walked off determinedly, amid shouts of 'He is right!' 'We need to mobilize everyone!' and the like.
If only such sentiments were true, Dhruv thought to himself as he left. What was one definition of insanity but continuing to do the same thing but expecting a different outcome.
Messenger Nivaan, replied in a whisper, 'A great fire begins with a little spark! Possibly you should set more such sparks. These people seemed to think much of your words.'
M09-Get Mad But Do Not BE Mad(Denise Arnault)
The Dharavi district in Mumbai, India, has earned its title as the largest slum in the world. Reclaimed from a swamp by outcasts of what was once called Bombay, it is now surrounded by the more recently named sprawl of Mumbai. It is thought to be home to over a million poor residents, many living in haphazardly constructed plywood and tin shacks, crammed together in what should be misery. Instead, these disadvantaged souls have thrived, many of them starting their own micro-enterprises, tucked away among the nooks and crannies of the incredible number of serpentine streets and alleys which snake between the hovels which covered most of the Dharavi Slums. Its residents may mostly be poor, but they are far from downtrodden, instead predominately being industrious and happily making the best of the lot they were given in this life.
It was in this environment that, on a normally hot, dry day in June, Dhruv Anand walked along Apna Street on his way to his shift at a cooking oil can recycling 'factory' where he earned his living. He was trying to ignore the stench of ammonia, likely caused by the decay of sewage, the unmistakable smell of which permeated the street. He considered buying one of the paan leaves that a nearby vendor was hawking, as a way of masking the odors. The vendor swore that holding the leaf to your face and inhaling the aromatic betel nut paste inside would overcome the pervasive, odoriferous scents of too many people confined in too small a space.
Some called Dhruv a mountain of a man, but more called him other, less complimentary names. He was taller than most, at 6'1", and had massive shoulders and arms, which gave him a distinctly ape-like appearance. Adding to this simian similarity, his coarse black hair covered him head to toe, spiking out from all over his scalp and growing down his forehead until it almost touched his thick eyebrows, and also peeking from under the cuffs of his sleeves. In addition, he typically walked hunched forward, as he did today. With such a fearsome demeanor, one would think that the crowds would part before him, but the reality of life in Dharavi is that the crowds parted for no one. Everyone pushed their way through the ramshackle streets on the way to their personal goals. It seemed as though everyone constantly wanted to be somewhere in the opposite direction from everyone else.
Dhruv was in a sour mood this day, which was not so unusual. He had been asked this morning for what must have been the umpteenth time if he was related to 'that' Anand, the World Chess Champion. Viswanathan Anand, known has Vishy to his friends and competitors had been the Champion of the World in Chess from 2000 to 2014. Dhruv had no relationship to Viswanathan and was so tired of being asked about it. He was certain that people were just making fun of him when they asked, as if someone with his bulk could not possibly possess the intelligence to even play Chess, much less become World Champion. So when one of the street children who scurried about between the throngs, stopped in his path, burdened with a huge collection of miscellaneous plastic bottles in a loosely tied, misshapen bundle, he was less than pleased.
"Get gone!" he shouted at the unfortunate lad, starting to raise his right fist in order to accelerate the lad's compliance. He was intending to follow this outburst up with various comments regarding the boy’s probable lineage and prospects for future parentage but was interrupted.
Forgotten was the counsel of Messenger Nivaan, an invisible being of ethereal energy, who was even now right behind Dhruv. Nivaan had been trying for years to help Dhruv control his seething anger, which was quick to appear at the least provocation. Dhruv was very familiar with Messenger Nivaan, with whom he had spent many an evening in discussion regarding his penchant towards quick anger, as well as other more enjoyable philosophical matters. The two would lounge in Dhruv's small living space, the Messenger usually clad in a Nehru or Sherwani jacket made of silk jacquard fabric of subdued hues somewhere between blue and purple, while Dhruv merely removed his outer closing and sprawled across his one chair in faded pajamas. Dhruv could speak for hours about all sorts of topics to this slightly glowing being of another plane. It soothed his ragged nerves and fed his quest for knowledge, and he did not find it at all strange that he should be visited in this manner.
Nivaan now whispered in Dhruv ear, 'When you feel yourself getting angry, close your lips and press them together for a moment. Do not say something that you wish that you had not said.'
Such advice rarely helped Dhruv in the instant that his anger flared, but he did pause this time before launching into a tirade. Seizing on this moment of opportunity, Nivaan continued, 'The lad has no way to move. He is not deliberately trying to detain you.'
When this thought occurred to Dhruv, he pressed his considerable bulk to his right, opening a path for the overburdened urchin to slip through. The boy took the proffered opportunity, and then Dhruv was able to continue on his own way also. A smile played across Dhruv’s face for just an instant as he realized that he had been correct about the situation, but it was quickly replaced by his normal frown, when he questioned whether the thought had been his or was from the glowing visitor which he so often entertained. No matter, it had been the correct solution.
* * *
The position that Dhruv occupied in the workflow of the oil can recycling factory where he worked was situated just after the cans had been cleaned of their residual oil and dried, but before they were recoated and painted. His was the task of removing any dents, and for some reason, they all seemed to have myriad types of dents. Some merely had small recesses on their sides where they had been dropped together, but most looked more like they had been compressed into each other with huge matching gouges.
Hour, upon hour, Dhruv would take a can from the drying rack, then sit down on a ragged straw mat in his area of the work floor, barefoot so he could use his supple feet to hold the can in place while he worked with his hands. It was hard work, prying and pounding and pushing. When the owner of the enterprise approached with a frown, Dhruv knew that it was not to praise his diligence.
"You must work faster!" the owner said. "I cannot make a profit if it takes you so long with each can!"
His anger quickly rising, Dhruv looked up from the current object of his labor. "Do you want the job done right, or do you want it done fast?" he asked.
"Both!" the owner exclaimed. "I cannot sell the can back to the manufacturer if it is not pristine, but I cannot afford your wages if you cannot get it ready sooner."
Dhruv was about to escalate his argument, but Messenger Nivaan whispered, 'You do not have to count to ten, but it helps to take a breath and let it out before you speak.'
He had the ability to recognize good advice, but not necessarily the ability to follow it at this time. Nivaan continued, 'Words can harm people. You should try to cause no harm to others.' Nivaan restrained himself from adding that it might also cost him his living if he continued to speak harshly to his supervisor.
Acceding to this wisdom, Dhruv paused a moment and then finally responded with, "You are right, of course. I will find a way to increase my speed."
With this, Dhruv returned to using the large metal bar that he held pushed down into the can to pry the dents outward from inside.
The owner, satisfied that he had corrected this problem, departed.
* * *
After his grueling shift ended, Dhruv began to make his way home. Since he lived alone, there would be no one there to greet him with a tasty meal. He would either have to find the energy and time to create a dinner on his own, or stop at one of the street vendors as he usually chose to do. Neeraj's, located in a small shack with many stools out front for the diners, was only a block from where Dhruv lived. It was known throughout the area as ‘The Place’ to get Bel Puri. The Gujarati dish was a fabulous blend of puffed rice, onions and cilantro, covered with both green spicy cilantro chutney and brown tangy tamarind chutney, and topped with a crumbled crunchy puri mixture, that was a blessing to a confirmed vegetarian palate. Neeraj kept the cost down and the quality up, ensuring a constant demand.
Like most street food eateries in the area, the drawback encountered at Nerraj's was the din of voices, each louder than the next in an attempt to be heard, as the many diners talked about their day, or whatever. The three men seated next to Dhruv just had to choose politics as their topic of shouted discussion. Dhruv hated politics. It was never beneficial to the masses, just the elites. This trio was particularly galling in their support of the policies of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP). It was Dhruv's opinion that the BJP was only using the common folk by promising but never delivering what they wanted, and lying to them about everything, while they blatantly pursued only the goals of their more wealthy supporters.
"I'm telling you, man, the BJP is pulling in support from all the small parties," one of the men was telling his friends.
"Shiv Sena will never go along with that," another added. "They don't believe the BJP will honor their promises."
"The Rashtriya Samaj Paksha will be able to hold them back," the last man threw into the conversation. "The RSP won't stand for it!"
Dhruv could feel his frustration building up. These people never paid attention to the real issues, but merely repeated easy to remember sound bite phrases that they were given by the political parties to distract them from the unpopular truths. As the three prattled on, the brows on Dhruv's forehead knotted closer and closer together, the air around him almost visibly darkening. Messenger Nivaan could sense the growing tension in his charge's demeanor.
'They speak only of the lies which have been fed to them to distract them. You should inform them of the truth,' Nivaan whispered to Dhruv.
'Evil thrives where good men remain silent,' Nivaan continued and then finished with, 'Getting angry is normal, but do not continue to be angry. The anger only harms you, not others.'
People looked around as Dhruv slammed his open palm down on the board which served as a table, making dishes jump, as he slowly rose to his full height. He could contain his silence no more.
"You people miss the point!" he said fiercely to no one and everyone at the same time. "None of these political parties care about what is good for you. They only care about your votes."
What went for silence in the slum fell as the pervasive rumble of voices died down enough that the other background noises of carts rumbling, and the footfalls of pedestrians along with the quieter sounds of animals could now be heard. Faces were turned to see what the huge man had to say.
Dhruv continued into this lull, "Dharavi has more people in it than any three or four of these political groups. The problem is that most people do not care. Most people do not think that they can change things."
He had the attention of people now. "What do you mean?" one of the three men next to him asked.
"Most people think their politicians are wrong in what they do. They see that the parties support causes that only a few people want, like this plan to relocate people from Dharavi to 'Clean it up and solve the problem' that they are pushing."
"This is not a plan to help us here. It is a plan to help the rich get richer off our precious land," Dhruv continued. "They want to get us off of it, so they can use it for something that makes them more money."
"The solution is to vote!" Dhruv said with a conviction that was catching. "Go to vote. Get your friends and relatives to vote. I don't care which way you vote or which political party that you vote for, just vote. Let all your voices be heard instead of just sitting here complaining that nothing is being done the way you wanted it."
With that, he lifted his bowl of bel puri, scraped the remainder into his mouth and walked off determinedly, amid shouts of 'He is right!' 'We need to mobilize everyone!' and the like.
If only such sentiments were true, Dhruv thought to himself as he left. What was one definition of insanity but continuing to do the same thing but expecting a different outcome.
Messenger Nivaan, replied in a whisper, 'A great fire begins with a little spark! Possibly you should set more such sparks. These people seemed to think much of your words.'
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Denise Arnault
08/31/2024If you want to smile a bit, read my story over in the True Stories area about how this story was written.
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