The vista of those droplets from the mellowed canvas of the sky, kissing the dry lips of the thirsty clay, yielded magic. Their lovemaking was intoxicating. And the smell of that love was pleasing to the soul. Adding to it, the sound of those pearls from the grey coloured chest, the metronome of them hitting the bruised glass of my train – it was music to my ears. The ripples that formed in those small patches of water, was like a little magic show by nature. I have always loved the freshness it spread. The comfort it brought. The look of how beautiful the nature looked after it took a bath. I have always loved rain. But that day had its exception.
Normally, the jerks of the changing gears were just like my heartbeats. And so was the filthiness of the local train, which connected me to the realism. The clatters of people discussing politics were my daily dose of unadulterated mandate and news. And certainly, the child with a big black dot on his temple, demanding something through the tunes of his cries was my daily reminder of the fact that the world is actually a concoction of needs. Adding to all of it, the unpossessed soul in the live performance of the unknown folks was my daily entertainment. But, it was not one of my normal days.
The gentle strokes of the iron compartment were trying to send me into the calm lap of gentle sleep. The reality demanded to gradually sink away from my mind. A calm dream was waiting to envelope me, but it was improbable. An invisible shackle was around my mind palace, and it had refused to budge. One news in the morning and nothing was feeling the same. The glimpse of real beauty falls on the mirror of an untroubled soul. I was troubled. Uncertain. Impure.
I was a teacher. Scores of students were dependent on me in my institute. They loved me and I reciprocated the affection in the form of my lessons. Our relation was engrossing from both sides. But few hours before, I had received a cruel slap.
The ownership of my coaching center had changed hands. It was bought a rich businessman, who preferred to keep huge degree holders, who already earned lakhs, over part-timers like me, who preferred to work there for a few thousands, along with their studies.
Needless to say, I was sacked.
That inevitable boom of volume broke my chords with my troubled thoughts. The train came to a stop at Sahibabad. There is an unknown lust that works between people and local trains. The moment the metallic wheels screeched to a halt, a river of crowd flowed into the compartment. A package of a few million combinations of unprecedented smells, and distinguished textures of voice, therefore, presented itself in front of my eyes. And that was when I felt like any other day for the first time.
Transfixed were my eyes, at the entrance of the train, as the splash of water brought joy inside the train. Placed near the edge of the opened iron door, sat an untroubled body. His face adorned a silver mop of beard, which carried the beautification of some untroubled, unkempt knots. The wrinkles he possessed were as stark as if coloured just now by a kid using a crayon. A few layers of tattered clothing covered his fragile body, and his head had a priceless crown of a dusty monkey cap folded, just to fit his skull.
An empty container was kept in his front, which redefined beauty through the effervescence of its orange coloured rust. But his hands were joined in a shape of a bowl, and his eyes, meticulously highlighted in black by life, were half closed, in a plain state of celestial meditation. The parched lips he carried trembled in an inaudible prayer. But his very divinity told me that he was the same one.
Every journey of mine from Shivaji Bridge to Ghaziabad was incomplete without having a meet with him. Every day for the last six months, I encountered him and out of my meagre income, donated a rupee or two to him every single day. Something strange drove me towards him every time. As if my luck was programmed that way.
One day, I had dropped a hundred rupee near him, out of sudden kindness, and since then, everyday thereafter, he would just raise a few of his withered bits of fingers, which carried worn out skin with broken and disfigured nails, and bless me with some invisible prayer that ran like a spell on his discoloured lips.
And then he would continue smiling at me till I boarded a train and finally I would see his smile vanish with the chaos of the crowd giving no room to that peace of happiness to reach me.
I gazed at him, calmly submerged in his prayers, and the sounds that disobediently emerged from everywhere sounded terribly punishing. He stayed unfazed. While I was on the verge of meeting doom, the peace in him felt derogatory. I hadn’t expected to share a train ride with him. Before he could come out of his journey from the celestial void of silence where God met people, I turned face away to hide it from the magnetic whirlpool inside his eyes.
The train, in the meanwhile, jogged its way inside Ghaziabad Junction, my destination.
I slowly got down, taking the gate opposite to that beggar. As I stepped on the platform, the soft fingers of the cool breeze tried to cuddle my senses but a strange feeling of despondency, a diffused rebellion, made me disregard the comforting touch. I felt a hatred towards everything about that place. My very existence in that place felt like a grievous mistake of my life. I suddenly started missing my home; the unending rage of my father. Those fights I had with him for the meagre money he sent. I felt the need of a helping hand. A shoulder to cry. A hero exclusive for me, to make miracles happen in my life. For I was gravely in a need of one.
The platform, as usual was a paragon of unending activity. With newspapers, polythene bags, or simply their own office bags covering their heads, people ran in some undefined urgency to their desired destination. Umpteen counts of umbrellas had their days of duty as the sky decided to pour it all. Mats could be seen spread on the clearly dirty floor. Many could be seen sharing the other chunk of spaces and using the bags as pillows for a short nap.
Even shops had rigorous activity. The bookstalls had their products covered with two layers of plastic sheets, skillfully kept in place, with a combination of bricks keeping them to the ground, as if holding their egos. A special rain could be seen trickling down the edges of their tarpaulin shade.
The business at the teastall had a boom. The aroma of the sumptuous, milk tea, flavoured with the blissful mishmash of ginger and cardamom, bouncing out of the big, round, brass container, had many souls possessed. And so did the deep fried crispies made out of a large varieties of vegetables, be it onion, or cauliflower, or grated potatoes, garnished with a combination of pepper and salt, and served hot with mint chutney and a piece of green chilly.
I could almost feel my empty stomach grumbling an earnest request, and the only ten rupee note left in my pocket, straightway rejecting it.
Gradually, I advanced my steps towards the staircase, which could take me towards the exit. But after taking a few brisk steps, I was stopped by a disappointing news that blurted from between the mob that tried to exit to the other side.
The road was waterlogged. No passage for traffic.
A little part of me instantly filled with a burning irritation. I clinched my fists and a silent wince about the situation released. With just a ten rupee note in my pocket, I had no other transport other than the public auto-rickshaws that circled periodically. With waterlogged roads, by no way those vehicles could pass the already narrow roads. So, in short, I was stuck.
I placed myself over a cold bench, wet with droplets of rain sprinkling over it time and again with the heavy wind that blew. I was having a bad day. I had lost my job. I was alone. I hadn’t had anything since morning, and now, there was flimsy chance for me to return to my rented house for that evening. Sitting idle appeared like a sin. The calmness felt like gnawing me inside.
I rose from the bench and for the first time, exposed myself to the attack from the sky. No time taken, and the three day old shirt was already drenched beyond any doubt. I let my rebellion come out through silent groans under the rain. The day was already too bad. A little worse was looking more welcoming.
Just about when I was going to retaliate with some choicest curse for the God, a comforting touch of few fingers tapped my shoulder gently. May be it was feeble, but I felt as if it broke a trance. I exhaled out a cold breath as I met reality once again. Slowly turning around, I saw a curved body, with a dark skin, holding a small bowl, staring at me. It took me no time to realize that it was the beggar I met daily.
He smiled at me. “You don’t look okay?”
“What?” I stared at him, confused. “Go away. I have no money.”
“Are you hungry?” He seemed unfazed with my bursting anger. “You look hungry.”
“Go away!” I snapped. “Why are you here? I have no money, I already said.”
His face may have been some apostle of divine peace, but this time, he chose a wrong situation. He scratched an already flaccid wound. I gave no further chance for him to speak and walked away towards a bench under the platform.
He followed me, clearly testing the already overflowing levels of my patience. He too sat near a pillar, just adjacent to my bench.
For a few minutes we spoke nothing. And within those minutes, the anger that had ruled my tongue, gradually sank and I started feeling bad about treating an old man with such harshness. In my mind, I started framing words to convey a small apology, when suddenly he spoke again.
“How does that feel?”
“What?”
“This hunger,” he said. “This feeling of no food inside you.”
I had no idea about the reason behind his question. But I had an answer. “Terrible.” I gave the perfect answer.
He beamed. “Then why don’t you come with me?” he asked again, “You can’t go home, anyway.”
His reasons and words were right. And so was his intentions. But wrong was my reluctance. It still made me feel condescending. A beggar is inviting me to his home; I ran this truth inside me, before a greater truth touched my fingers. The soaked ten rupee note in my pocket.
I answered him with a reluctant nod. A powerful thunder marked the moment. And slowly, a man started following a beggar. He was right behind me.
Wealth is that imaginary glimpse of water in a hot desert. It may buy you followers but not admirers. It may buy you partners but not friends. It may build confidence but not trust. It may build houses for you but not that cognizance to invite someone in. “Thank you,” I said in my mind.
The way to his house showed an amusing extremity of contrast. The crystal clear water from the sky, changed its personality by having the company of the water of the drain, which overflowed with all its strength. The thatched huts, which stood over thin bamboos wobbled with the violent shudders of storm, but still stayed affix to save the insiders. In every house, a flimsy candle or lantern, lighted the dark spaces, and stagnant smell of litter ruled the air. But the insiders appeared happy. The extraordinary smell of freshly prepared chapatti appeared unmistakable. And nothing appeared as genuine as the chuckles of the children floating paper boats in the soiled water.
“Here it is,” he held my hand lightly and pointed his finger towards a hut, having a door, half the size of my height, covered with abandoned pieces of cardboard, tarpaulin, and hay. “Don’t worry, sahib,” the man explained. “It is dry inside.”
“Sure,” His salutation ashamed me. But I followed him inside.
As I entered, the milieu inside, sent me to some well of shame. There was a small bed, heightened by bricks on four legs, with mattress made of unused cloth. Two mats were spread on the floor. At a corner, I could see a small shelf, carved out of plywood, carrying a plank inscribed with something in Urdu. Fresh smell of burnt kerosene defining the fragrance of the room, and not a speck of dirt, talking about its aesthetic brilliance. Its fulfilling look appeared too soothing.
Surely, simplicity is the goal of complexity.
“Sit here,” he said. “I’ll bring you water.”
As he went away, a thing hit me hard. It was a table carrying some books, and a copy, opened, with a pen in the middle.
He returned with a loose kurta, a pajama, along with a bronze glass filled with water. “You should change your clothes now. Drink this.” He kept the glass filled with water near me.
I took those clothes, which smelled fresh, even when the whole world smelled of mildew. It didn’t take me much before I changed into the ill-fitting Kurta and a slightly small pajama.
“You haven’t eaten anything,” he said. “Please have it.”
I was welcomed by a plate, filled with two parathas, a bit of salt at a corner of the plate and two pieces of cut onion along with a long chilly at the other corner. I drank my water, sitting on the bed, and the relaxing of my tired muscles, teamed up with the earthen taste of the sweet water appeared no less than a bliss.
My mouth was already watering. And there was a fight going on between that enraged appetite and my sulking shame. I chose to be with the former and settled myself over the mat, on the ground. “Why don’t you eat, baba?” I asked the man, whose name I still didn’t know.
“Let my daughter eat first,” he answered, “she needs to leave early, tomorrow.”
I nodded and, as the first piece of paratha settled on my tongue, for a moment, I forgot everything. I followed it with a small bite of chilly and a little trinket of onion followed suit. With each moment passing, the taste in it, grew like a happiness of a fulfilled wish. I let no bit of the food escape the hunger that possessed me, and finally realized, what hunger actually is.
As I finally had my hunger contained, I looked the man for the first time. He smiled at me. “Where is your daughter?” I asked. “Is she out?”
“No, no.” He shook his head. “She is right there.”
My eyes turned to the direction of his fingers, and suddenly, I was anything but a puzzled mess. “That?” I asked.
“Yes.” he nodded.
I stared at his face, hunting for a sign of logic that he might have hidden. For his words carried none. How could someone call a pair of books as his daughter? I had no answer for that. “Are you joking?”
He shook his head. “No, sahib. I am not.”
“How… how can those books be your daughter?” I could feel myself angry again.
He sighed and passed a sincere smile. “The most precious things are always away.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have bought them for my daughter.”
I heaved a sigh of relief, finding a sentence of possible logic. “So where is she?”
“She is dead.”
My tongue stiffened and my body paralyzed with a sudden cold. “Dead?”
“Yes,” answered baba, with a pale face now. “Dead.”
“I, I am sorry,” I held his hand. “I… I didn’t…”
“That is fine, sahib,” he smiled. “I buy books for my daughter.”
His words, instead of making any kind of effect on me, now sounded like something that connected to some profundity. I kept quiet to let him speak.
“She was fond of studies,” he sighed as he looked towards the sky. “Even cleared government exams. But then, a disease killed her. And my precious thing was gone.”
I faintly nodded as he continued.
“She used to study with borrowed books. And after she left, I felt like keeping her alive. I do it by buying those books. I donate them to orphanages. The chorus of them studying them, it, it is musical.” His eyes were soggy, now. “I can feel my daughter near me. Studying like that.”
A void filled me. To comfort the old man, or to feel ashamed about insisting him to reveal, I couldn’t decide. “So you beg…”
“Yes, I beg and buy those books. But I am happy because I am contained.”
May be it was directly from the heavens, but those words dug deep inside me. I had a sudden realization. About me. About my gloom. The fact that my sadness was because I didn’t have a job to meet my luxuries. To flaunt raw cash. To be above what my financial status could give.
I looked at the glistening eyes of the old man noticing the birth of a faint smile over my face. I suddenly felt relieved. “Thank you, baba,” it had to come out. “Thank you for guiding me.”
“Containment is a bowl, sahib. Keep it small, and you will find it always filled with happiness.” The God from the platform said.
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