He would sit there, next to the window, his back bent, hunched against the oppressive load of time, of having shouldered generations,his hands warming beneath his thighs, clad in a transparent dhoti,his bald pate shining in the morning sun.
At every sound of the wrought iron gates clanging open, he would half -turn, squinting at the new arrival.
Two years had passed. He had lost his spouse, to cancer and old age , and all those ailments that catch up with you when you have neglected them long enough . Now , his memory dimming, he could no longer differentiate between what was and what is. The past and the present. Living in the past most of the time, the line blurred between the two.
Now , he was a strapping lad of twenty, applying for his first gun- licence , to the bad-tempered and foul-mouthed, british resident.
Again, he would recount how his brave bride saved their only son from being crushed underneath boulders of plaster falling from the roof , in a devastating earthquake. He could recount the scene blow by blow, as if it was happening right in front of his eyes.
At other times, he would be stuck in the coal town of Jharia, when the earth cracked open and swallowed an entire sleeping town, so many years ago. How an undergarment manufacturer refused to abandon his factory cum home building, and went down with his home, a legend in his own. How the old man, then a young thirtiesh man, clung to the edge of a cracked road, and had a cliffhanger's view of death and destruction from close quarters.
Naturally, it completely escaped him , that his spouse , his companion, partner, alter-ego , was no more. He would pretend, nay, believe, that she has gone to the village , to oversee some field-work, and that she will be back by the evening. When dusk would fall, and no one returned, he would be heartbroken, and resolve to go bring her back, personally, the first thing , tomorrow morning.
Next day, he would be up and about at dawn, and brushing aside , all entreaties and explanation, would hail a rickshaw, and go about hunting a person long departed. It moving and comical , plus dangerous at the same time. Luckily, the rickshaw-wallah was a neighbour too. A dependable guy called Gafoor.( Once, when stuck during communal riots curfew, with no access to green vegetables or fresh milk, Gafoor would smuggle in bags of gourd from his kitchen garden, and jarfuls of fresh, frothy, goats'milk of his own goat. We can never thank Gafoor enough. Goes to prove that goodness of heart is not dictated by religion / size of your pocket)
The wild goose-chase would end at noon , when driven by thirst, hunger and frustration, the duo would reappear; the old man in a state of resigned silence, and Gafoor grinning like the cheshire cat.A hot cup of tea, and very minimal wages later (he insisted on not being paid -never heard of any other rickshaw-wallah do that) Gafoor would depart and Dadu would be taken to be bathed, where hot water would be waiting for him.
At every sound of the wrought iron gates clanging open, he would half -turn, squinting at the new arrival.
Two years had passed. He had lost his spouse, to cancer and old age , and all those ailments that catch up with you when you have neglected them long enough . Now , his memory dimming, he could no longer differentiate between what was and what is. The past and the present. Living in the past most of the time, the line blurred between the two.
Now , he was a strapping lad of twenty, applying for his first gun- licence , to the bad-tempered and foul-mouthed, british resident.
Again, he would recount how his brave bride saved their only son from being crushed underneath boulders of plaster falling from the roof , in a devastating earthquake. He could recount the scene blow by blow, as if it was happening right in front of his eyes.
At other times, he would be stuck in the coal town of Jharia, when the earth cracked open and swallowed an entire sleeping town, so many years ago. How an undergarment manufacturer refused to abandon his factory cum home building, and went down with his home, a legend in his own. How the old man, then a young thirtiesh man, clung to the edge of a cracked road, and had a cliffhanger's view of death and destruction from close quarters.
Naturally, it completely escaped him , that his spouse , his companion, partner, alter-ego , was no more. He would pretend, nay, believe, that she has gone to the village , to oversee some field-work, and that she will be back by the evening. When dusk would fall, and no one returned, he would be heartbroken, and resolve to go bring her back, personally, the first thing , tomorrow morning.
Next day, he would be up and about at dawn, and brushing aside , all entreaties and explanation, would hail a rickshaw, and go about hunting a person long departed. It moving and comical , plus dangerous at the same time. Luckily, the rickshaw-wallah was a neighbour too. A dependable guy called Gafoor.( Once, when stuck during communal riots curfew, with no access to green vegetables or fresh milk, Gafoor would smuggle in bags of gourd from his kitchen garden, and jarfuls of fresh, frothy, goats'milk of his own goat. We can never thank Gafoor enough. Goes to prove that goodness of heart is not dictated by religion / size of your pocket)
The wild goose-chase would end at noon , when driven by thirst, hunger and frustration, the duo would reappear; the old man in a state of resigned silence, and Gafoor grinning like the cheshire cat.A hot cup of tea, and very minimal wages later (he insisted on not being paid -never heard of any other rickshaw-wallah do that) Gafoor would depart and Dadu would be taken to be bathed, where hot water would be waiting for him.
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