You and I were born together.
I to love you,
and you to deliver me from
the couch of many loves.
Though I did not count you
as my premier lover
you did not frown, and did not
Stop pursuing me. Sometimes though
I wished I knew you better.
sometimes we had an encounter-
you would just smile at me.
and give me shivers.
Tired of my many wanderings
when I come back to look at you
I have the same shiver
I wish I had more often.
In my fading memory
that unfading smile has always
defined Love, and
kept me on track
searching for it.
--------------------------------------
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Points to Ponder 1
Once while interacting with a senior secondary class, I got into the problem of corruptions in society, and spoke rather animatedly about it. After some time I found some of them were whispering something to each other. I stopped, looked around, and said, “any questions ?”
One young man stood up and asked, “ Sir, corruption is so much a part of life now that you can not possibly root it out. It has come to stay. How can you follow Truth and Righteousness in the present circumstances ?”
I smiled, and asked him, “You are in the maths group, right ?”
“Yes”.
“You would like to join some Engineering course, isn’t it ?”
“Yes, Sir”.
“You shall have to write a selection test to enter a good Engineering college, and suppose you got a very high position in the success list, you shall be very pleased.”
The boy smiled, and said, “Yes Sir. I need blessings of all elders for that”.
“I am sure all your elders shall profusely bless a brilliant boy like you, and I personally don’t expect anything less than the first position for you.”
“First position, Sir ?” The boy was very pleasantly surprised at the possibility of standing first.
“Why, you don’t want it ?” I asked.
“I sure want it Sir. But…can I get it ?”
“Why not ? Someone like you is going to get to the first position. Then why not you ? What is necessary is self-confidence, and hard work. And I don’t expect you lack any, do you ?”
“No Sir. Thank you very much sir.” He was obviously pleased, and was going to take his seat. Then I said, “One minute, please”. He looked at me askance.
“Now, my son, you got a very high position in the success list, and were almost assured of a seat. Your father sold a piece of land, and got all the money necessary for your admission and fees. Suddenly you found out that you have lost your seat to some ‘powerful’ person who has bought your seat with a very high price for his son who was far down the list. What would be your reaction ?”
The face of the boy got red. He burst out, “I will kill him.”
I laughed, and asked, “Why my boy ? Hasn’t corruption come to stay ? Why should you expect people to follow truth and Righteousness when you don’t think it is possible, or even expected to be followed ?”
“And suppose you joined college, and in the first month you were severely ragged. A fellow was almost going to kill you. You escaped with severe injuries, and your father went to complain to the police. But the police did not accept his FIR because the boy involved was the son of a high profile leader. What would you do ? Would you support the police because it is alright to be corrupt and unrighteous ?”
“How can I support the police, Sir ? I will never accept it.”
“Let us think, God forbid, you had fever while staying in the hostel. The hostel Warden arranged for a Doctor to see you. He came to the hostel on the third day, and advised them to shift you to a nearby nursing home where he worked. There He carried on some investigations and treated you for Typhoid. After a fortnight, he thought you had contacted T.B. and put you under T.B. treatment. It did not work. Your condition grew worse, and after three weeks in the nursing home you were on the brink of death. You father sold another piece of land to pay the Doctor’s bills, and took you to your family physician, an old time MBBS. He studied the entire case, and said you had simple fever, but the Doctor complicated it by wrong and very powerful drugs. It took you a fortnight after that to be on your feet. But you have already lost the year. You will have to repeat next year. Besides the financial implications, the psychological challenges almost devastated you. Inefficiency in certain fields can cost lives, and that is another form of untruth and unrighteousness. Are you prepared to say that we shall accept it as the order of the day ?”
“No Sir, we can not accept it. We have to fight it.”
“Now you see, you want all your rights, you want the society should support justice, you want the Doctor should diagnose your ailment correctly and administer right medicine, you want the job you deserve, you want a hundred things for yourself a healthy society should make it available for you, but you don’t believe Truth and Righteousness can be practised ! Isn’t it strange ?”
The boy thought for some time, and said, “Yes Sir. I did not think of the implications of what I said. I was only trying to voice what someone whispered in my ear. I am sorry, Sir.”
“On the other hand, I am glad that you voiced it. Now you understand how important it is to analyse one’s thoughts and beliefs rationally, and do what is right to do. A good life is not democratically determined. A good life is judged by its intrinsic values. And if we do not stand up to the basic values of life, we have no rights to expect a good life. If you compromise it on personal counts, the trend could be very dangerous for the society. A society which is made up of people who can not see their social responsibility can not protect any individual rights. So you see, we have practically no choice in this. Values of society, and individual values are not divorced from each other. They complement each other.”
“Yes Sir, I agree with you.” The boy replied.
“And if you see how truth and righteousness do not end up as personal choices, but are social obligations too, you shall contribute well to build a healthy society of healthy people.
----------------------------------------------------------------
One young man stood up and asked, “ Sir, corruption is so much a part of life now that you can not possibly root it out. It has come to stay. How can you follow Truth and Righteousness in the present circumstances ?”
I smiled, and asked him, “You are in the maths group, right ?”
“Yes”.
“You would like to join some Engineering course, isn’t it ?”
“Yes, Sir”.
“You shall have to write a selection test to enter a good Engineering college, and suppose you got a very high position in the success list, you shall be very pleased.”
The boy smiled, and said, “Yes Sir. I need blessings of all elders for that”.
“I am sure all your elders shall profusely bless a brilliant boy like you, and I personally don’t expect anything less than the first position for you.”
“First position, Sir ?” The boy was very pleasantly surprised at the possibility of standing first.
“Why, you don’t want it ?” I asked.
“I sure want it Sir. But…can I get it ?”
“Why not ? Someone like you is going to get to the first position. Then why not you ? What is necessary is self-confidence, and hard work. And I don’t expect you lack any, do you ?”
“No Sir. Thank you very much sir.” He was obviously pleased, and was going to take his seat. Then I said, “One minute, please”. He looked at me askance.
“Now, my son, you got a very high position in the success list, and were almost assured of a seat. Your father sold a piece of land, and got all the money necessary for your admission and fees. Suddenly you found out that you have lost your seat to some ‘powerful’ person who has bought your seat with a very high price for his son who was far down the list. What would be your reaction ?”
The face of the boy got red. He burst out, “I will kill him.”
I laughed, and asked, “Why my boy ? Hasn’t corruption come to stay ? Why should you expect people to follow truth and Righteousness when you don’t think it is possible, or even expected to be followed ?”
“And suppose you joined college, and in the first month you were severely ragged. A fellow was almost going to kill you. You escaped with severe injuries, and your father went to complain to the police. But the police did not accept his FIR because the boy involved was the son of a high profile leader. What would you do ? Would you support the police because it is alright to be corrupt and unrighteous ?”
“How can I support the police, Sir ? I will never accept it.”
“Let us think, God forbid, you had fever while staying in the hostel. The hostel Warden arranged for a Doctor to see you. He came to the hostel on the third day, and advised them to shift you to a nearby nursing home where he worked. There He carried on some investigations and treated you for Typhoid. After a fortnight, he thought you had contacted T.B. and put you under T.B. treatment. It did not work. Your condition grew worse, and after three weeks in the nursing home you were on the brink of death. You father sold another piece of land to pay the Doctor’s bills, and took you to your family physician, an old time MBBS. He studied the entire case, and said you had simple fever, but the Doctor complicated it by wrong and very powerful drugs. It took you a fortnight after that to be on your feet. But you have already lost the year. You will have to repeat next year. Besides the financial implications, the psychological challenges almost devastated you. Inefficiency in certain fields can cost lives, and that is another form of untruth and unrighteousness. Are you prepared to say that we shall accept it as the order of the day ?”
“No Sir, we can not accept it. We have to fight it.”
“Now you see, you want all your rights, you want the society should support justice, you want the Doctor should diagnose your ailment correctly and administer right medicine, you want the job you deserve, you want a hundred things for yourself a healthy society should make it available for you, but you don’t believe Truth and Righteousness can be practised ! Isn’t it strange ?”
The boy thought for some time, and said, “Yes Sir. I did not think of the implications of what I said. I was only trying to voice what someone whispered in my ear. I am sorry, Sir.”
“On the other hand, I am glad that you voiced it. Now you understand how important it is to analyse one’s thoughts and beliefs rationally, and do what is right to do. A good life is not democratically determined. A good life is judged by its intrinsic values. And if we do not stand up to the basic values of life, we have no rights to expect a good life. If you compromise it on personal counts, the trend could be very dangerous for the society. A society which is made up of people who can not see their social responsibility can not protect any individual rights. So you see, we have practically no choice in this. Values of society, and individual values are not divorced from each other. They complement each other.”
“Yes Sir, I agree with you.” The boy replied.
“And if you see how truth and righteousness do not end up as personal choices, but are social obligations too, you shall contribute well to build a healthy society of healthy people.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
THE EYES OF GOD
It was somewhere in a hot June. The drama unfolded itself in a small street corner, in the city of Cuttack, Odisha. Do I have to quote the date ? It could be any day, and anyplace, where men have a tryst with themselves.
I was returning home from my college for a late lunch. I did not have classes in the afternoon, so I thought, I could afford a late lunch to save myself from coming back in the grueling heat. Though my mind was running away to a curd-rice plus saag bhaji , my favourite in summer, I was looking around in search for a fruit stall to buy some banana for puja, specifically wanted by my wife, for it was a Thursday. The street looked almost deserted, every dog taking a nap in some shade, and every puddle in the street simmering in the sun struggling to hold on to dear life. Typical of human life, I mumbled. We are in love with life, but hardly bother to add value to living. I discovered a small shop tucked away in a corner, near a banyan tree in its last lap of life, not because it was too old to exist, but men were too greedy of space to let it exist. Most trees are gone from the side of streets in cities, in the name of expansion. Are we really expanding ?
I got down from the cycle rickshaw, and went near the shop to buy some banana. On my right, a little away from where I stood was unfolding the first scene of the drama. A blind beggar was sitting in shade with the tell-tale tin in front of him. A vendor stepped into the shade and rested his vender’s frame against the trunk of the tree. In villages and side streets of cities we see these vendors selling a thousand things, each not more than a rupee or two. They make a cross-like bamboo frame with three or four bars tied across a vertical pole. Then they hang typical women’s needs on them. One can find ribbons, balloons, tooth-pricks, ear-diggers, nail-clippers, hair-dressing items, locks, and a hundred other things hanging from those bars. They walk the street, stand at a corner, and ring a bell. Customers come to choose whatever they need. Living from hand to mouth. I overheard them.
Vendor – Rahim bhayya, kya kuchh mila ? (did you get anything)
Rahim – Kaun.. Hari bhayya ? Allahki mehrbani, ek paisa bhi nahin.(By the grace of Allah, not even a paisa)
Hari – Hm. To kya khaoge ? (what are you going to eat ?)
Rahim – Allahki mehrbanise thoda pani milegi to achha hoga.(By the grace of Allah if I get a little water to drink, it would be alright)
Hari - Allah karega to panika sath aur kuchh bhi miljayega Rahim bhayya. Aj mujhe do rupayya munafa mila. Isi do rupayyame char puri to hoga. Tum baith raho. Mein abhi char puri lekar aata hun. (If Allah wants, we can get something else with water. Today I got two rupees as profit. Two rupees can buy four puris. You keep sitting here, I will go and bring four puris.)
I kept on standing there pretending I was afraid to brave the sun. In fact I was struck by the piece of great humanity unfolding before me. The vendor came back with two green leaves pack, each containing two puris, and a little chutney each. Hari had brought a tinful of water too. He sat down and passed on one packet to Rahim. Both ate the puris with great relish, drank water from the tin, and fell to their inconsequential daily gossip. They do not talk of purpose of life, of new technologies, of international politics, of fashions and films, but of simple living. I left the shade, washed by the lyrics of life, by the quintessential beauty of an inconsequential life.
2
But that was not all. God had something more for me before the end of the day.
That was a Thursday. So after a short post-lunch nap, I had a wash, and went to a Thursday bhajan centre. Those were the early seventies, and bhajans were held in devotees’ houses. It afforded a beautiful get together in homely environment. Now mandirs have sprung up everywhere as public gathering places, and organized formality has cruelly replaced informal conviviality. I called a rickshaw, and arrived at the centre before time. I was standing before the gentleman’s house waiting for a friend, the second part of the drama showed up.
There was a big gate opening to their compound. The garage faced the gate, the other side of the house had a sprawling balcony. The ground floor hall started under it, and spread inside the house. That was the bhajan hall. The lady of the house and a daughter were standing in the balcony, and probably looking for a known face. A couple of beggars appeared near the gate and asked for alms. The woman was blind, in her forties, with a blind-woman’s staff, led by a girl ten or twelve, probably her daughter. They chanted their prayer two-three times. The ladies were watching them with some disapproval in their eyes. When they heard it a fourth time they realized it was a bhajan day and these people should be disposed of quickly. The lady of the house went inside, got a coin and tossed it to her from her overhead balcony. The coin fell on the hard floor below with a tong and rolled down to the street. The blind woman bent down and groped for the precious coin, the girl helping her. While both of them were frantically searching for ‘heaven’s gift’, the two ladies found it quite amusing, and laughed. Finally they got the quarter-of-a-rupee coin, blessed the giver, and left.
I went inside the hall. That day I chose a place far down the congregation in the hall. The bhajan started, but I couldn’t concentrate at all. The faces of Rahim, Hari, the old woman, and the two balcony ladies kept torturing me. I looked at the life size standing picture of Swami on the pedestal. Suddenly his eyes became living, and in their place I saw another pair of eyes.
A few months earlier, during the puja vacation I had been to Prasanthinilalayam. One day I was sitting in the second row for darshan. A middle-aged man was sitting in front of me with his sick child, palsied limbs struck by some wasting disease. After some time Bhagwan came along, stood by him, looked at the father and the child, waved His hands, poured some vibhuti in the hands of the father, wiped His fingers on the forehead of the boy and walked away. I had the good fortune of looking into His eyes. I felt the dewy eyes of Bhagwan reflected all the suffering of humanity, and all the compassion of God. It was such a soul-stirring vision.
I now saw those eyes, soft and glassy, you can pierce them with a pin-prick as it were, yet they encircle all existence. I couldn’t sing a song that day, for there was another song overflowing my heart. I remembered Wordsworth, “…for the vale profound/was overflowing with the sound..”
---------------------- b.k.misra
I was returning home from my college for a late lunch. I did not have classes in the afternoon, so I thought, I could afford a late lunch to save myself from coming back in the grueling heat. Though my mind was running away to a curd-rice plus saag bhaji , my favourite in summer, I was looking around in search for a fruit stall to buy some banana for puja, specifically wanted by my wife, for it was a Thursday. The street looked almost deserted, every dog taking a nap in some shade, and every puddle in the street simmering in the sun struggling to hold on to dear life. Typical of human life, I mumbled. We are in love with life, but hardly bother to add value to living. I discovered a small shop tucked away in a corner, near a banyan tree in its last lap of life, not because it was too old to exist, but men were too greedy of space to let it exist. Most trees are gone from the side of streets in cities, in the name of expansion. Are we really expanding ?
I got down from the cycle rickshaw, and went near the shop to buy some banana. On my right, a little away from where I stood was unfolding the first scene of the drama. A blind beggar was sitting in shade with the tell-tale tin in front of him. A vendor stepped into the shade and rested his vender’s frame against the trunk of the tree. In villages and side streets of cities we see these vendors selling a thousand things, each not more than a rupee or two. They make a cross-like bamboo frame with three or four bars tied across a vertical pole. Then they hang typical women’s needs on them. One can find ribbons, balloons, tooth-pricks, ear-diggers, nail-clippers, hair-dressing items, locks, and a hundred other things hanging from those bars. They walk the street, stand at a corner, and ring a bell. Customers come to choose whatever they need. Living from hand to mouth. I overheard them.
Vendor – Rahim bhayya, kya kuchh mila ? (did you get anything)
Rahim – Kaun.. Hari bhayya ? Allahki mehrbani, ek paisa bhi nahin.(By the grace of Allah, not even a paisa)
Hari – Hm. To kya khaoge ? (what are you going to eat ?)
Rahim – Allahki mehrbanise thoda pani milegi to achha hoga.(By the grace of Allah if I get a little water to drink, it would be alright)
Hari - Allah karega to panika sath aur kuchh bhi miljayega Rahim bhayya. Aj mujhe do rupayya munafa mila. Isi do rupayyame char puri to hoga. Tum baith raho. Mein abhi char puri lekar aata hun. (If Allah wants, we can get something else with water. Today I got two rupees as profit. Two rupees can buy four puris. You keep sitting here, I will go and bring four puris.)
I kept on standing there pretending I was afraid to brave the sun. In fact I was struck by the piece of great humanity unfolding before me. The vendor came back with two green leaves pack, each containing two puris, and a little chutney each. Hari had brought a tinful of water too. He sat down and passed on one packet to Rahim. Both ate the puris with great relish, drank water from the tin, and fell to their inconsequential daily gossip. They do not talk of purpose of life, of new technologies, of international politics, of fashions and films, but of simple living. I left the shade, washed by the lyrics of life, by the quintessential beauty of an inconsequential life.
2
But that was not all. God had something more for me before the end of the day.
That was a Thursday. So after a short post-lunch nap, I had a wash, and went to a Thursday bhajan centre. Those were the early seventies, and bhajans were held in devotees’ houses. It afforded a beautiful get together in homely environment. Now mandirs have sprung up everywhere as public gathering places, and organized formality has cruelly replaced informal conviviality. I called a rickshaw, and arrived at the centre before time. I was standing before the gentleman’s house waiting for a friend, the second part of the drama showed up.
There was a big gate opening to their compound. The garage faced the gate, the other side of the house had a sprawling balcony. The ground floor hall started under it, and spread inside the house. That was the bhajan hall. The lady of the house and a daughter were standing in the balcony, and probably looking for a known face. A couple of beggars appeared near the gate and asked for alms. The woman was blind, in her forties, with a blind-woman’s staff, led by a girl ten or twelve, probably her daughter. They chanted their prayer two-three times. The ladies were watching them with some disapproval in their eyes. When they heard it a fourth time they realized it was a bhajan day and these people should be disposed of quickly. The lady of the house went inside, got a coin and tossed it to her from her overhead balcony. The coin fell on the hard floor below with a tong and rolled down to the street. The blind woman bent down and groped for the precious coin, the girl helping her. While both of them were frantically searching for ‘heaven’s gift’, the two ladies found it quite amusing, and laughed. Finally they got the quarter-of-a-rupee coin, blessed the giver, and left.
I went inside the hall. That day I chose a place far down the congregation in the hall. The bhajan started, but I couldn’t concentrate at all. The faces of Rahim, Hari, the old woman, and the two balcony ladies kept torturing me. I looked at the life size standing picture of Swami on the pedestal. Suddenly his eyes became living, and in their place I saw another pair of eyes.
A few months earlier, during the puja vacation I had been to Prasanthinilalayam. One day I was sitting in the second row for darshan. A middle-aged man was sitting in front of me with his sick child, palsied limbs struck by some wasting disease. After some time Bhagwan came along, stood by him, looked at the father and the child, waved His hands, poured some vibhuti in the hands of the father, wiped His fingers on the forehead of the boy and walked away. I had the good fortune of looking into His eyes. I felt the dewy eyes of Bhagwan reflected all the suffering of humanity, and all the compassion of God. It was such a soul-stirring vision.
I now saw those eyes, soft and glassy, you can pierce them with a pin-prick as it were, yet they encircle all existence. I couldn’t sing a song that day, for there was another song overflowing my heart. I remembered Wordsworth, “…for the vale profound/was overflowing with the sound..”
---------------------- b.k.misra
Monday, November 17, 2008
THE BUTTERMILK VENDOR
It was the hottest part of summer in Andhra Pradesh, the last week of April. While people sought a lazy afternoon in company with a split air conditioner at home, we were out in a burning compartment in a sluggish train chugging along fuming tracks somewhere near the border between Andhra Pradesh and Orissa.
I was taking my family to my hometown, Cuttack, in Orissa for a visit to other members of the family, and we were looking forward to an early dinner of our choice, and sweet rest. The train was crowded even in the sleeper coach, and we were sweating in spite of the fans. We were thirsty, bored, and no one in the compartment was speaking.
We wanted some cool drinks. Our water container had been drained to the last drop.
Somewhere around Ichhapuram a lady climbed in with the tell-tale pot on her head, typically dressed in a single sari, a huge nose ring, a heavy metal bangle in each wrist, and large bare feet. We were nearer the door, and she settled down just in front of us with the pot filled with delicious looking butter-milk. We woke up from stupor to a heavenly reality, and began drinking glasses after glasses which she handed over to us with great joy. In the course of sipping the heavenly drink, I fell into talking with her. She lived in a village close by.
“Who else in your family ?” I asked her.
“I have a ten year old son, babu(which means, sir). Since his father left me before he was born, I am looking after him all alone.”
“How do you manage your living ?” I continued.
“I cook ragi in the night for dinner and next day lunch. Morning I buy curds from our village, churn and make buttermilk, crush some lemon leaves and chilli for taste, and leave home around 10. Then I travel in train from my village to and from Berhampur each day to sell this buttermilk on board. Before I come on my rounds, I feed my son the ragi with some chilli, and salt. After I return home late afternoon, we again take ragi.”
“The same ragi and chilli all the days of the week !” I could not believe a person could eat the same food all the days of the week. For our educated taste we need ‘variety’ even from lunch to dinner.
“Sometimes when I sell a little ghee, I buy a fish, or some vegetable to go with ragi. My son likes dried fish with ragi.” She said ,matter-of-factly. She picked up her measure swimming in her pot, and poured another glass for me.
While sipping I asked her again.
“What are you planning for your son ? You want him to follow your trade too ?”
“No babu, I want to send my son to school. He must be a babu like you, get married, and give me a grandson”, she smiled hugely.
Life has not defeated her. Poverty has not blotted her smiles. For years she has not fallen sick. She has no complains against anyone. And she has only one dream : retire from life with a grandson to play with. I searched my life cluttered with a great amount of rubbish for a moment of such satisfaction.
The answer column read, ‘did not find to suit the description’.
After we had our fill of her buttermilk and her enviable smiles, I slipped into her hand a tenner, more than her due. She looked at it, tucked it into her ancient looking metal purse, a cylinder like little container with a lid, and started to fill her glasses again. We said we didn’t want any more. She looked at all four of us in surprise, and asked if we didn’t want any more why did I give her that extra money. I told her to buy some rice and vegetable with that extra money and have a good dinner that day with her son. Now, you must have seen her face ! When she realized that it was a sort of charity, she felt humiliated, and protested that she wasn’t prepared to accept anything more than what she deserved, and pulled out her purse to return it to me ! I felt thoroughly embarrassed. I didn’t know how to react. Then my wife assured her that we were returning by the same train two or three days later, and she could make us drink as much buttermilk as she wanted. It was not charity, but a kind of advance payment. She wasn’t convinced until she made us promise profusely that we would keep our words.
After she left, I picked up a newspaper lying by my side. Someone had bought it, and left it there. I turned the pages to suppress a lump rising in my throat. It was filled with stories of high-placed people swindling the country of thousands of crores ! I threw the paper away through the window in disgust.
B.K.misra
I was taking my family to my hometown, Cuttack, in Orissa for a visit to other members of the family, and we were looking forward to an early dinner of our choice, and sweet rest. The train was crowded even in the sleeper coach, and we were sweating in spite of the fans. We were thirsty, bored, and no one in the compartment was speaking.
We wanted some cool drinks. Our water container had been drained to the last drop.
Somewhere around Ichhapuram a lady climbed in with the tell-tale pot on her head, typically dressed in a single sari, a huge nose ring, a heavy metal bangle in each wrist, and large bare feet. We were nearer the door, and she settled down just in front of us with the pot filled with delicious looking butter-milk. We woke up from stupor to a heavenly reality, and began drinking glasses after glasses which she handed over to us with great joy. In the course of sipping the heavenly drink, I fell into talking with her. She lived in a village close by.
“Who else in your family ?” I asked her.
“I have a ten year old son, babu(which means, sir). Since his father left me before he was born, I am looking after him all alone.”
“How do you manage your living ?” I continued.
“I cook ragi in the night for dinner and next day lunch. Morning I buy curds from our village, churn and make buttermilk, crush some lemon leaves and chilli for taste, and leave home around 10. Then I travel in train from my village to and from Berhampur each day to sell this buttermilk on board. Before I come on my rounds, I feed my son the ragi with some chilli, and salt. After I return home late afternoon, we again take ragi.”
“The same ragi and chilli all the days of the week !” I could not believe a person could eat the same food all the days of the week. For our educated taste we need ‘variety’ even from lunch to dinner.
“Sometimes when I sell a little ghee, I buy a fish, or some vegetable to go with ragi. My son likes dried fish with ragi.” She said ,matter-of-factly. She picked up her measure swimming in her pot, and poured another glass for me.
While sipping I asked her again.
“What are you planning for your son ? You want him to follow your trade too ?”
“No babu, I want to send my son to school. He must be a babu like you, get married, and give me a grandson”, she smiled hugely.
Life has not defeated her. Poverty has not blotted her smiles. For years she has not fallen sick. She has no complains against anyone. And she has only one dream : retire from life with a grandson to play with. I searched my life cluttered with a great amount of rubbish for a moment of such satisfaction.
The answer column read, ‘did not find to suit the description’.
After we had our fill of her buttermilk and her enviable smiles, I slipped into her hand a tenner, more than her due. She looked at it, tucked it into her ancient looking metal purse, a cylinder like little container with a lid, and started to fill her glasses again. We said we didn’t want any more. She looked at all four of us in surprise, and asked if we didn’t want any more why did I give her that extra money. I told her to buy some rice and vegetable with that extra money and have a good dinner that day with her son. Now, you must have seen her face ! When she realized that it was a sort of charity, she felt humiliated, and protested that she wasn’t prepared to accept anything more than what she deserved, and pulled out her purse to return it to me ! I felt thoroughly embarrassed. I didn’t know how to react. Then my wife assured her that we were returning by the same train two or three days later, and she could make us drink as much buttermilk as she wanted. It was not charity, but a kind of advance payment. She wasn’t convinced until she made us promise profusely that we would keep our words.
After she left, I picked up a newspaper lying by my side. Someone had bought it, and left it there. I turned the pages to suppress a lump rising in my throat. It was filled with stories of high-placed people swindling the country of thousands of crores ! I threw the paper away through the window in disgust.
B.K.misra
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