Rickety rendezvous
I was humming down the road, trying to loosen my load… well not quite, but fittingly enough, I was humming the tunes of ‘Satisfaction’ on my way to dinner, returning from another back-breaking day at work, when I was stopped by a complete stranger.
A complete, total stranger, with a family and a very pleading note in his eyes, who only asked, “bhaiya, aap hindi samajhte hain?”
I furtively looked around (a bit shamefully, I must confess) to see who all were watching me. A security guard few metres away shrugged his shoulders, helping the next car out on the main road. A few passers-by looked on for a second longer than one would normally, but walked on without a break in the rhythm. An elderly gentleman had more than his usual share of a stare, but no words followed. Bred on true Indian middle class mentality, I already knew what was coming next. I was already thinking how to frame an answer to tell him that I can’t help him, and how to sound convincing enough in the process.
And this was all before I even had a good look at him.
I turned to him again, and only then knew the reason for all the glances. It was written all over those eyes. A middle-aged man, a wife and two babies, with a story to tell. He was returning from tirupati all the way to his hometown in pune, and was stuck here on his way back with no money to spare. 220 more rupees would have fetched him and his wife a ticket home.
It was the look on his face. It was something in the eyes, close to being tearful, close to being fearful. It was something in the voice, pleading, breaking, picking up again. The misty-eyed effort to prove that he wasn’t a con, without any evidence to show for it. For a moment the onward surge of humanity became a blur, and the only clarity was that face. The whistle of the security guard and the angry response in an alien language became a part of the background noise, and the only lucidity was in that voice, in that request.
I can’t recall what I thought or concluded at that exact moment, even though it happened barely 2 hours ago. I was spellbound, not by a great eyecatching spectacle, but by a mundane request for an element of humanity. But I found myself reaching for my wallet, when, almost suddenly, I was pinched to reality.
The stares suddenly grew clearer, the whistle shriller, and I found myself again looking around, almost guiltily, to see if anyone had witnessed the proceedings in my direction, or my eventual decision. The security guard shrugged again.
I took out a 100 rupee note, and casually glanced inside the wallet to see how many I still had. I had sufficient. But something stopped me. I passed on the note to him, and said that I could only help with so much, as I didn’t have any more. He looked a bit comforted, but still hopeful. I added on to my lie by saying that I had 120-odd with me, 100 of which I gave to him, and with the rest I intended to have something to eat and go back home.
It was those eyes again. The look of gratitude that came over made me want to dig a hole and bury my head within. The thrice repeated “sahib aapka ehsaan hamesha yaad rakhenge” felt like a blow each time it was uttered. I felt too overwhelmed, almost misty-eyed myself. I mumbled something, immediately turned around and walked into Kamat to give my tortured stomach some relief.
After the muddle in the mind and the grumble in the stomach subsided, and after I convinced myself that no one, really, was staring at me when I entered Kamat, I walked back out, after 20-odd minutes, kind of hoping to see that face again in the crowd. But it was not to be seen. I glanced a bit this way and that, almost secretively, but at the same time trying hard to make it appear casual to anyone who cared to look in my direction.
The milling crowd had swallowed that face, that voice. Maybe he was a con, maybe not. Maybe I was foolish, maybe I was gullible, or maybe it was real as it was supposed to be. I felt good, but not as happy as I guess I should have, and I felt weird, but not as cheated as I guess I should have. Either way, depending on the way you look at it.
I dragged myself back home, poorer by 100 rupees, and all the time hoped that I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I furtively looked around (a bit shamefully, I must confess) to see who all were watching me. A security guard few metres away shrugged his shoulders, helping the next car out on the main road. A few passers-by looked on for a second longer than one would normally, but walked on without a break in the rhythm. An elderly gentleman had more than his usual share of a stare, but no words followed. Bred on true Indian middle class mentality, I already knew what was coming next. I was already thinking how to frame an answer to tell him that I can’t help him, and how to sound convincing enough in the process.
And this was all before I even had a good look at him.
I turned to him again, and only then knew the reason for all the glances. It was written all over those eyes. A middle-aged man, a wife and two babies, with a story to tell. He was returning from tirupati all the way to his hometown in pune, and was stuck here on his way back with no money to spare. 220 more rupees would have fetched him and his wife a ticket home.
It was the look on his face. It was something in the eyes, close to being tearful, close to being fearful. It was something in the voice, pleading, breaking, picking up again. The misty-eyed effort to prove that he wasn’t a con, without any evidence to show for it. For a moment the onward surge of humanity became a blur, and the only clarity was that face. The whistle of the security guard and the angry response in an alien language became a part of the background noise, and the only lucidity was in that voice, in that request.
I can’t recall what I thought or concluded at that exact moment, even though it happened barely 2 hours ago. I was spellbound, not by a great eyecatching spectacle, but by a mundane request for an element of humanity. But I found myself reaching for my wallet, when, almost suddenly, I was pinched to reality.
The stares suddenly grew clearer, the whistle shriller, and I found myself again looking around, almost guiltily, to see if anyone had witnessed the proceedings in my direction, or my eventual decision. The security guard shrugged again.
I took out a 100 rupee note, and casually glanced inside the wallet to see how many I still had. I had sufficient. But something stopped me. I passed on the note to him, and said that I could only help with so much, as I didn’t have any more. He looked a bit comforted, but still hopeful. I added on to my lie by saying that I had 120-odd with me, 100 of which I gave to him, and with the rest I intended to have something to eat and go back home.
It was those eyes again. The look of gratitude that came over made me want to dig a hole and bury my head within. The thrice repeated “sahib aapka ehsaan hamesha yaad rakhenge” felt like a blow each time it was uttered. I felt too overwhelmed, almost misty-eyed myself. I mumbled something, immediately turned around and walked into Kamat to give my tortured stomach some relief.
After the muddle in the mind and the grumble in the stomach subsided, and after I convinced myself that no one, really, was staring at me when I entered Kamat, I walked back out, after 20-odd minutes, kind of hoping to see that face again in the crowd. But it was not to be seen. I glanced a bit this way and that, almost secretively, but at the same time trying hard to make it appear casual to anyone who cared to look in my direction.
The milling crowd had swallowed that face, that voice. Maybe he was a con, maybe not. Maybe I was foolish, maybe I was gullible, or maybe it was real as it was supposed to be. I felt good, but not as happy as I guess I should have, and I felt weird, but not as cheated as I guess I should have. Either way, depending on the way you look at it.
I dragged myself back home, poorer by 100 rupees, and all the time hoped that I hadn’t done anything wrong.
posted by Anshuman at 11:13 PM
2 Comments:
Our blood pact of not saying anything good about each other forces me to keep quiet about this post. However, I can say that being the low, despicable fellow you are, you wrote this post in an attempt to make me break our pact. However, being the pillar of determination and discipline that I am, I did not fall for your mean, dirty trick.
yadda yadda yadda! let me not spell out the pointlessness of your filthy existence, u bane on humanity!
let us just reserve it for some conversation over gtalk. sunday morning i m going to blore probly, how abt monday morning (ur sunday night?)
Post a Comment
<< Home