The Last Soul Children

By Aman Chougle

The Last Soul Children is a look back at the childhood and youth of the author through the people surrounding him during his formative years; realising himself as much as he traces his memories through them.
Whether it be your first infatuation or the realisation that you are not a kid anymore; the stories here are a quintessential blueprint of deliverance from innocence for many of us who grew up like anybody else, muzzled from one institute to another: school, college, and finally into the mouths of big business. Forever repressed, forever the victims of false ideals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: May 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781482847987

Aman Chougle

Aman Chougle is a poet and writer from Thane, Maharashtra, India. He also enjoys making short-films and dabbling into music from time to time. Currently he’s working on his first collection of poems, a self-exploratory endeavour to realise the best for himself, and for the ones close to him.

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Copyright © 2015 by Aman Chougle.

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4828-4800-7

                Softcover      978-1-4828-4799-4

                eBook         978-1-4828-4798-7

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Partridge India

000 800 10062 62

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CONTENTS

The Vagabond

Time Makes Two

Kiss Me On My Neck

It All Makes Sense

Goodness

Gootlimama

The Local Thug

Changes

Gender-Boxes Of Vanity

Low-Waist Jeans

Company Loves Misery

The Price Of Reticence

Like Rest Of Them

From The Alcove

Dedicated to

the memory of

Nitin Gopi.

THE VAGABOND

Imagine: a young man of twenty-three, of average height and built, dark skin, and hair as shiny as new imitation-leather shoes; that’s how I last saw my childhood friend.

He and I lived in the same building, I in wing ‘C’ and he in ‘A’. Being kids, playing sports and games was how we passed most our time. During vacations I’d go to his house early morning, and he’d be singing Bollywood songs in the bathroom. He sang in tune but it was mostly done to amuse the kid who’d come to pick him up for play. In between those songs he’d do this crazy laugh, which almost sounded like a grown man clearing his throat. He took his time to get ready. His hair needed a good combing, and his clothes properly ironed and worn. If you came in while he was getting ready, he’d again try his level best to amuse you, say if he were putting on powder, which back then was quite common unlike now, he’d hold the thing up and do one those things where the guy acts as a delicate female, as if he was some young girl getting ready for her lover.

He had the habit of stealing money from a very early age. Before leaving he’d always take some from his mother’s purse or from his parent’s cupboard. If you asked him about it he’d say, ‘It’s my money after all, isn’t it?’ He’d say it with humour so you couldn’t really hit back a reply. Anyhow he spent the money on us boys so what could we really say? He’d buy us cold-drinks and snacks after we finished play. I saw the ease and luxury it created and soon started doing the same. But I had no flair for it and was caught pretty soon. My mother gave me such a thrashing that I never repeated again. But it always made me uncomfortable, his stealing, as if he was going too far. And he did it every day! Each theft erasing tomorrow’s conscience for the habit to continue.

His mother always thought I was a good influence on him, which couldn’t have been farther from the truth. We were both perfect devils, both in need of each other. Only he was a terrible student, and I as a child a good one. So when caught you knew who was going to be blamed. As a child if you were a good student, elders around you always had this strange conviction (they still do) that somehow you were good even in a general sense, not just in academics. There was another kid in our building, who was a brilliant student but he was basically an asshole, though the elders never saw that. Another kid, whom I knew in middle-school, had the same kind of advantage. He was as shady as a pimp, but he was in the good books of all our parents ’cause he was a good student. Our parents saw my friend as the devil and I the innocent adventure seeker running after him. But it wasn’t that, even though he was fascinating.

He was always very entertaining. I remember even watching him play carrom was a spectacle in itself. He was exceptionally good. If he were to break, the next the time the striker went to him he’d finish the game. A minimum of three to four pieces every time the striker went to him. And he’d do it with such style: it was a sort of laidback assault, as if he knew he’d already won. Then during evening when the girls came, the striker wouldn’t even come your way. And he’d rub it in your face by asking you in which pocket you wanted the last piece, doing that ridiculous laugh of his.

He was really a bad student. Having bad grades in primary can be a muddle ’cause no one’s expecting it of you. You’re very soon put down from sight and left to fend for yourself. Treated as a reject, they think you’ll mostly end up as a clerk. It’s clearly visible in the teacher’s eye. I think somewhere that downgraded him to do the things he did later on. Later on he just couldn’t pass his exams, as if he were removed to some other activity far more important. He wasn’t dumb, he just wasn’t interested. It was as obvious as cheap clothing. His tuition teacher was sick of him, his school had given up on him and he was soon to be removed. He had a heart condition which made him miss school for treatment, further worsening his record.

His mother started working again as he was kept at tuition the whole day, and she didn’t want to stay alone at home, though during vacations he’d have the house to himself. He’d call us all to his house and we’d have a ball. He would blast his music-system and start dancing to amuse us. He’d even tell you to play with the switch of a yellow-bulb that was in the centre of the living-room, to create an illusion of a disco; he had bought plastic sunglasses from somewhere which he’d put on and do that famous John Travolta pose. Then we’d play video-games. He’d stand behind us and play ’cause he replicated the moves he saw on TV, the kicks and the Karate chops, again, mostly to amuse us.

Those goofy fun-filled afternoons were an escape for him, a sort of detox, ’cause you do feel like a loser, like a born-loser destined for nothing even though he didn’t show it. After all, it is the jewel in every other person’s eye (to be a model student) so how could you not? Your grief is acute, so when the time comes to have fun, you go overboard. He didn’t bother about anything else but having fun when there was no one at home. If the neighbours were bothered by the noise he’d shoo them away. He’d stand behind the door making funny noises, while they rang the doorbell. He knew his mother came at a certain time, and till then he was going to have fun, come what may.

Poor soul was in love with a girl who never even looked his way. She was from his school and so she knew about his abysmal academic record. When nothing else is working your way you try to fall in love to appease your heart, but even that was a failure in his case. He was crazy about her. He was practically convinced that she was the one girl for him, which he knew intuitionally. He had their initials made on his cycle, school haversack and cricket bat. He never asked her