"Sorry Ayyappa"

When I was studying in the second standard  there joined, mid-term, a plump rich looking well-petted (not spoiled) boy named Ayyappa Swamy. His health and his father's wealth shone on him. Those days, rich people did not mind sending their children to ordinary schools to which middle and lower middle class people sent their children.

Ayyappan looked as if he was made of butter mixed with milk powder. He was an odd Kashmir apple placed in a basket of Andhra sappotas. Teachers loved him. My fellow classmates admired him. I too liked him and there was no envy in my heart for him.

At half past one in the afternoon his father's driver would appear at our classroom's threshold with a four storied tiffin carrier. Spreading a bed sheet under the school's mango tree he would invite his master's son by addressing him as Chinnayya (small boss), sit beside him and literally mouth feed him.

Rice would be there, papads would be there, chapathi would be there and to round off all these there would be a container containing fruits, beautifully sliced bananas and an apple.

The sight was too much for many of us who used to bring an idly or two or hardened curd rice in a small battered aluminium tiffin box. 

Even this opulence of Ayyappan’s lunch did not arouse any envy in my heart though my mouth too watered as in the case of many of the children of our class at the sight of Ayyapan’s beautifully spread out lunch.

My envy started only when.....  I visited his house to attend his 7^th birthday celebration. What a home it was! It looked more like a ship than like a house. Ayyappan had a room of his own filled with exotic toys.

Many of my classmates were from families which lived in tiny sparrow nests like portions. That Ayyappan possessed a big room exclusively for himself blew our minds. Ayyappan was no doubt born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

Even at this point my envy lay dormant. Candles were blown out. A big star shaped cake was cut and distributed and then it happened. Ayyappan's father led him, covering his eyes with his palms, to his room where the birthday gift was kept - A topless toy-car with pedal and steering. With its thoughtfully painted yellow and white stripes it looked like a tiger with four wheels.

An imaginative person indeed was his father I feel when I think back of it now. Ayyappan's face turned yellow with joy and ours, especially mine turned green with envy. When I saw him ride the car around working its pedal and manipulating its wheel I lost all interest in not only the cake but also in life itself.

The delicious rose milk which Ayyappan's mother gave us tasted like bitter gourd juice. When I walked out of Ayyappan’s house that evening I was a very short bad boy with a very long sad face. The scar left by the hankering I had for Ayyappan's toy tiger-car is still there in one of my mind’s back seats.

It seems one cannot forget what one longed for and could not get in his childhood. Now at 70 I feel sorry for having turned envious of my class mate Ayyappan on account of  the Toy-car his father presented to him on his birthday. Sorry Ayyappa!