FULL CIRCLE

I think it was on a weekday. I’d just got down from my office building waiting for a rickshaw. I stood there for a few minutes speaking on my mobile until a vacant one halted in front of me. Without hanging up the phone I told the driver where I wanted to go. He nodded. I asked him if he had change for a hundred coz I knew it cost fifteen rupees to get to my home from my office and I’d already scanned through my pockets for it in vain.

He said “No need to worry. You can get it changed from any shop after you get down. If you don’t get change then don’t pay. I won’t mind.”

I boarded the rickshaw without paying much heed to what he meant by that. I continued talking on the phone for five minutes or so. We were nearly halfway through to house when I hung up.

As soon as I did, the driver said “Aaj bahut tension mein hu. Subah se.”

I enquired what had happened and he replied again in vernacular.

“My wife fell down at home. She’s eight months pregnant.”

I felt bad.

“So much of blood lost. I’ve been at the hospital since three in the morning.”

I asked him which hospital she’d been taken to and he named one which I’d heard about nearly a month ago.

“I’ve never been in so much of tension my entire life Sirji”, He continued. “I just can’t get over the incident.”

He silenced himself as he took a sharp turn to get into the gully that led to the area where I lived and then went on.

“Fifteen days of hard work all gone with the wind. . . . . . .

In the morning when I left the house, I had two thousand rupees in my front pocket. Can you guess how much I’ve got left with me now?”

I asked “How much?”

He put a hand inside his front pocket and fetched out two coins.

“Just three goddamn rupees.”

I kept quiet as his jittery speech worsened.

“I’ve paid everything that I have to the doctors and now they want me to purchase medicines. Do you know how much those medicines cost sir?”

“How much?”

“Sirf dhai sao rupaye (two hundred and fifty only)”

I put my hands inside my pocket. Another turn and my building was seconds away.

“I was going home to ask my neighbours if they are ready to give me the money. I know it’s a shame but what can I do. I can’t earn so much within two hours. I will have to borrow it.”

“But what if no one is there at this time at their home! Who will help me?”

I removed my wallet from my pocket and took out a hundred rupee note from the stack of hundred rupee notes that I had with me.

“Will you help me sir?”

I told him to stop near my building gate.

“Meri madat karo sahib (Please help me sir)”

I got down from the rick as he told me silently “Sir if you don’t get change then please give the note to me.”

I went into the shop in front of me, a friend’s, got the change, went to the driver, took a good look at his grief striken face, laden with heavy tears, and finally gave him the money.

No, no. Not the hundred . . . . .  only fifteen. Then I put back my wallet inside my pocket, turned my back towards him and went home humming a tune that I’d recently heard.

You think I was cruel?

Do you feel that I’m a heartless creature who is inhumane enough to turn his back on a fellow human being who is in peril?

Ha-fucking-Ha.

Let me continue my little episode.

I reached home, kept my bag on the table and went into the kitchen where I knew my dad would be sitting, having tea as usual.

I took the seat besides him and snorted loudly.

He asked me what had happened and I narrated everything to him.

After hearing me out he said with a straight face, “Why didn’t you slap that bastard?”

At this point of time, I’m sure you must be feeling that how can I not be cruel when cruelty and rudeness are embedded deep inside my blood, right?

Now let me jump back a month or so.

It was Sunday evening and I was alone at home. The bell rang. Mum and dad had returned from their weekend outing. Mum was furious and she was shouting at dad about something. As always he remained patient and said nothing.

I waited for the mood to calm down and then enquired what the matter was all about.

It goes like this:

They had caught a rickshaw from station to home. Almost halfway through, pops noticed that the driver was sobbing silently.

“What happened?”

“Sirji, my daughter is ill. She is only twelve years old.”

My dad felt bad.

“Such a high fever. Doctors’ diagnosis is that she has jaundice. I’ve been at the hospital since three in the morning.”

My dad asked him which hospital she’d been taken to and he gave the name.

“I’ve never been in so much of tension my entire life Sirji”, He continued. “I just can’t get over it. Fifteen days of hard work all gone with the wind. . . . . . . In the morning when I left the house, I had two thousand rupees in my front pocket. Can you guess how much I’ve got left with me now?”

“How much?”

 “Just three goddamn rupees.” Tears.

 “I’ve paid everything that I have to the doctors and now they want me to purchase medicines. Do you know how much those medicines cost sir?”

“How much?”

“Do sau Pachaas rupaye” More tears.

“I was going home to ask my neighbour if they can lend me the amount. It will be honourless. But I can’t earn so much in two hours. I can’t think of any other way either. . . . and what if no one is there at this time at their home! Who will help me?”

Tears, tears and more tears. . .

“Will you help me sir?”

The rickshaw halted at the gate of my building,

“Saab meri madat karo”

My dad took out three hundred bucks from his pocket and gave it to the completely drenched man, then put a hand on his shoulder and told him not to worry and that everything would be fine. And all that time, my mum kept shouting at dad for letting other people dupe him of money.

After listening to his narration of the entire incident I told mum that what my father had done was right and I would’ve done the same had I been in his shoes.  

Finally accepting her defeat, she said, “I have only one question to ask. You have given him the money. But will you ever come to know whether he was telling the truth or not?”

My dad replied, “Don’t worry honey, life goes full circle.”

Coming back to the time when dad asked me why I didn’t slap that bastard, I thought about it again.

Was I not angry on him?

He’d fooled my father off honest earnings and was probably sitting in some bar with his wretched mouth savoring his favorite brand of country liquor an hour after that.

Sure I was angry. (I still remember my hands shivering as the fool was carrying out his weep-show.)

Was I not capable enough to beat the shit out of that skinny little sheep skinned wolf?

I was. . . . . . I still am.

But it wasn’t a question of getting angry or being capable.

It was a question of willingness.

So I sat there with my dad as he asked me, “Why didn’t you slap that bastard?”

And I replied coolly, “Why do I need to push someone who’s already falling?”