The beggar and the destitute
I was an unemployed bachelor, caught in the currents of life. It seemed like an irony of fate, that a beggar had approached a destitute. I tried to look the other way. I didn't know who wanted to laugh at my miseries at this juncture.
THE INCIDENT happened at Koria Pul – an old bridge that connects Kashmiri Gate and Chandni Chowk. The night had suddenly grown colder and I was feeling alone in this heartless city.
I was an unemployed bachelor, adrift, caught in the currents of life. I had to walk down from Panja Shareef to Ballimaran as the last pennies of my pockets stopped ringing. Someone had promised me to meet and a job could have been a possible outcome of that encounter. Nothing materialised and the next reality was the procurement of evening meals, a requirement I needed to survive.
From that side of Kasmhiri Gate, every step at the access of the bridge was heavier than the previous one. In this frightening loneliness, I was trying to lose my thoughts in the howling whistles of passing trains. I still had my muffler and overall to protect me from the cold winds.
“I am unlucky and unwanted. There seems to be no great reason to vouchsafe this world with my existence. This problems-infested world could do better without me.” Those were the thoughts that haunted me as I minced my steps and looked up at the cloudless sky seeking some answers. I still believed that every dark night has a dawn and darker clouds lead to a brighter silver lining - optimism became the last refuge of my hapless soul.
There were scant any passenger across the bridge and I was the knight of the bridge at the moment. Then from nowhere, a tattered lady approached in a circuitous move and pulled the corner of my dress. “Babu ji, I’m hungry. Give me some money to eat. I shall pray for you and my baby will pray for you.”
It seemed like an irony of fate, that a beggar had approached a destitute. I tried to look the other way. I didn’t know who wanted to laugh at my miseries at this juncture. Sometimes, the sense of humour sparks at the worst of the moments. I said,“I have a hundred rupee note. Do you have the change ?”
“No, I don’t have. Please babu help me.” She replied and persisted.
“Why do you beg? Why can’t you find some work, instead of roaming the streets in this cold winter?” I tried to reason with her without realiding that there was a mirror put in front of my face by this bedraggled, unkempt mother.
“The baby is too small. If I go for work who would take care of her ?”
That was her problem but, a logical man can’t accept begging as a worthwhile occupation to survive upon this planet, which was so full of bubbling opportunities. The child lay quiet, without moaning, as the mother began to unfold her thin torn shawl by gentle degree, looking down with anxious solitude at that concealed object - a miniature of suffering humanity. The baby stretched her puny hand.
Looking at me with imploring pity she again accosted , this time with more assurance and boldness.
She again asked,“De na babu Allah tera bhala karega.”
I saw her walking ahead of me with a kind of poise which if difficult to define in words. After a few steps, she stopped and looked back, waited for me. She said,“Down the bridge you can get the change. I come with you. Give me something babu, I have to feed the baby.”
Under the light of lamp post I could see the exposed face of the baby. It was infinitely more touching - a beauty in the pathos of sleep. I could also see the shivering woman with her exposed body from the chinks of her torn dress. We had already reached the descending side, abutting Chandni Chowk. I removed my muffler with a flick and threw it at her. “Bibi, I was lying”, I said. I have had nothing - no hundred rupee note, not even a one rupee note. Take my muffler and protect yourself from the blistering cold weather and let me go.” She hesitated to accept the offer but, I moved on.
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