Bullshit! Freedom of Expression

The wee hours of morning. I just wait to hear his footsteps across the living room. He tries to be really quiet hoping I would not wake up. But am ready before he picks up his badminton racket. He gives me a sidelong glance, his head gives an imperceptible shake and then he smiles at my white socks, white shoes, serious sports dress. I carry my racket smaller than his, yellow plastic but still a racket to me.

He would park the bike under the banyan tree and then we would walk down the cemented path to the play court . He would settle me on the white cemented rests and swing his racket with the style of a smile and greet he passed to all around. He was good at badminton, anyway that is what they said and usually he won every game during the so called matches. There were a lot of men professors,bankers,police officers playing and I would watch with pride as my dad smashed the courts and they lost to him.

"Bullshit"...that was said by him when he missed a shot. I loved to hear the way he said it. I loved to sit there and watch and felt happy when someone said he is good at his shots. Hearing him say it across the court I felt that was the best word on earth. It had a definiteness to it, a stylish swish to the way he said it.

It is one such morning that this man sits  next to me. He has a giant size moustache , the kind some police officers use to proclaim to the world they are from  a certain clan. He says,"Don't you get bored sitting here with your racket?" I lose my sense of curiosity of the shape of his moustache the moment he says that. He is jealous of my 'ever' brand new yellow racket and so he says,"Instead of sleeping at home why do you come here with this stupid toy racket?"

I keep quiet  not because he is a police man but because I feel red rage surge through me as he states the reality of my sportsmanship. He says with such amused delight,"you play with this racket in your dreams and sit and stare at the court...ha ha...silly baby girl"

Then I say what I think best at the moment,"Bullshit. Uncle Bull...(I stress vowels over consonants)...Bullshit"

He stares a police stare at me then goes over to my dad and says something. My dad walks over to me, narrows his eyes and tells me,"Go and apologise to him for the word you used"

I know what that narrowing of eyes entails, so I  walk to that insolent man and mumble  a  'sorry'. But my fascination for the sound and feel of a word stands confused between freedom of expression and the adult forces that thwart it.