Beauty lies in everything; in each thing that bears an
honest intention. A delusion is beautiful too, if it’s not veiled under a mask proclaiming
it to be true. By the way, her smile was not a deception, or something which
you can comment of being delusive in order to earn something. She had a lovely
smile; a smile not assayed with intentions. It was of a kind which can easily
start to flow in ocean of your sub-consciousness. But this smile was not to
live forever. I am talking of an old lady whom I used to see each day on my way
to office. She indeed had a beautiful smile. She was of age not less than
sixty.
She had grown too weak to walk. A slightly bent stick
accompanied her wherever she tried to go. With each footstep she took her stick
made one step more, making her difficult to walk. I often found her sitting
among the crowd near temple and sometimes around the local masjid too. While
sitting she painfully kept her right hand forward, while rest of her body
trembled to balance her. Her trembling hands begged before the passersby, who I
am sure never walked passed without giving her something if they saw her smile.
I happened to be one among such people who gave away bits from the pocket to
her. She was happy to accept everything, even if someone walked away giving
nothing.
The most interesting thing about this locality where the lady lived is that it has a temple to one side and masjid at the other, and in between them there is a roundabout, called chowk in the local language here, where stands a giant statue of Tagore. The name of this chowk is Kutumbakam Chowk. The meaning this name holds is truly signified with the ambience here, but with a difference.
What was this old lady’s name,
from where did she come, if she had a home or not; none among us knew enough
about her to answer these questions. What we knew about her is that she was a
beggar. She could be spotted around the chowk
easily, either with some of your footsteps extra towards the temple or may be
with some footsteps less around the masjid. But why would someone lookout for a
beggar?
***
One day while I was returning from office, I stopped at Rajju’s shop. The taste of betel that he prepares savors inside mouth till eternity. He is the best paanwala in this locality.
While Rajju was preparing my paan, a typical Banarsi
betel with some of his secret spices, a conversation advancing in a group of
middle aged gentlemen caught my attention. Feasting paan in their mouths, each one of them passed on their opinions,
one after another. With some little patience and focus on their words, I
figured out partially what was the burning topic about. I am still new to this place, and my Bengali has not improved much. So I
thought of getting it confirmed from Rajju. With a grin Rajju confirmed that I
figured out the topic right. They were discussing from which side of chowk the old lady belonged.
“But why are they keen to know this Rajju? Do they even know
her name?” I questioned Rajju.
Rajju grinned again.
“If they knew her name, then why this discussion would have
popped up? They don’t know anything. But it seems they will figure out
everything tonight.” Asserted Rajju.
“Heat... See the heat the discussion has gone into. She is
from the other side dada.” Replied Rajju. His hands gestured that she was not
from our side. With ours, he meant his side where I happened to be too.
“Arey moshai, tumi dekhe chilen? Oi haathe naam ta?” One of
the gentleman shouted bringing some evidence into play. He said that he had
seen a name etched on her arm, and it was in Farsi. So she must be from the
other side, everyone concluded.
Rajju noticed that I was riveted in the discussion. Offering
me my paan he said, “I have seen her
around temple most of the times. She even wears a laal dhaga on her left
hand. So intermittently my instinct says she is not from that side. She is from
ours.”
I took the paan,
and preferred not to utter anything.
Rajju questioned me, “Which side do you think she belongs to
dada bhai?”
Crunching the ingredients in paan inside my mouth, I smiled and replied, “I really don’t know
Rajju, neither I am interested to know.”
As I strolled down towards my
home, I kept thinking why people were so keen to know about her. There were so
many beggars in this area. My keenness strengthened towards the lady too. Not
to know from which side she belonged, but to know why would out of sudden
people would want to discuss about her.
***
Saleem’s dhaba is
known for the Chicken Badshahi that
he cooks. The dhaba is center for
partying for bachelors like me, who have limited earning. Within one hundred
rupees you can have a grand meal here, and a glass of buttermilk. Last Sunday I
went there for dinner. I was surprised to see people were discussing about the
same lady there too.
“She says she is saving money for a journey. I really don’t
know where she wants to go.” One of the guy claimed.
“May be she is saving money for going someplace where she
has her relatives, or may be her son lives there.” Some other guy replied.
“Don’t make this more dramatic. Moreover what kind of saving
is this, saving money by begging?” The first guy replied back.
“These are just her tactics dada, you don’t know beggars?
They weave stories so that you offer them money.” Saleem interrupted them while serving food on
their table.
“Saleem da!” I called him to order my food.
After he took the order, I politely asked, “Saleem da, why
everyone is discussing about that old lady?”
“Don’t you know dada? That old lady has saved a lot of
money, just by begging. We are seeing her here for years now. She says she
needs money for her journey, and begs in front of all people.”
“What journey?” I asked.
“No one knows what journey she talks about. She herself
never answers this question. She just smiles, and says you have enough time to
know. But she must hurry… Umm yes, something like that.” Replied Saleem recollecting
the answers from the old lady that he remembered.
“I see…” This was all that I could say.
“Just wait for a moment dada, I will be back with your
food.” Saleem replied.
“Ah. Just wait. How do you know she has saved a lot of
money?” I quickly questioned him.
“Everyone says that. It’s said that she has been saving money
in a trust for last one year.”
“Saleem! Oh Saleem!” Someone called Saleem at the counter
for billing.
“Aschi dada, ektu darao.” Saleem hurried towards the
counter.
Things started to shape in my mind. So it was about
money. It became clear to me that people were focused about the money she had
saved. And as she did all of this by begging, it was pricking their eyes.
I started to talk to myself. Yes begging is not good, but what else could that old lady do? She was not even able to stand properly. She might have been left alone in this world, no one to look after her, and in this condition what would a person resort to for living? Her begging for living was justified before me. I did not care about what she was saving for. Everyone saves money. Even I save money from my salary. Is that weird?
***
On Monday morning when I reached the chowk, I looked for the old lady. I spotted her quickly. She was
there, at the stairs of the temple. Her left hand was open forward, and her
head was facing up towards the passersby. I came to her, leaned closer and gave
her a ten rupees note. Her wrinkled face carried a sober smile. Just before I
was to leave, my eyes fixated at her feet. Her feet wore black rubber shoes
with several holes on them. I felt very bad. I leaned back,
took out a hundred rupees note from my purse and offered on her palm. Her smile
stayed the same.
While returning from office that day, I stopped at Rajju’s.
I was amazed to find that there were no wise men around the shop. This was very
unlikely to what I had been seeing here for several weeks. I observed that Rajju
was himself very silent that night.
“What happened, I don’t find any heating discussion going on
around your shop tonight. That’s very strange Rajju.”
“She died dada bhai.” Said Rajju ruefully.
“Who?”
“Kakima died. She died today. She was here just few feet
beside my shop. She was standing here, but then suddenly collapsed. Hemorrhage
may be…”
“That old lady?” I questioned.
“Yes” Rajju replied.
It was for the first time that I heard someone calling her
‘Kakima’. You call your aunt as Kakima here. I didn’t know what to speak then. I
stayed silent before Rajju, with my mood for paan almost spoiled.
“We don’t know what happened to her next. How her funeral
was performed; was she buried, or was she burnt. People from a trust company
came and took her body away with them.”
Rajju leaned forward at the counter to hand over the paan to me, and just then he saw that
his shoes on the ground were disheveled over one another.
“Shit” Rajju uttered and came down from the shop counter to put
them properly.
“Why, what happened Rajju. They are just shoes.” I asked.
“This is a bad omen dada. Shoes must not stay disheveled and
tossed over one another. It brings unintended journey for you. I am a poor guy.
I don’t want any of this.”
“I know you will not believe in these superstitions. But
sometimes they turn out to be true. Then why take a risk of not following
them.” Rajju added.
“Hmm…” I sighed.
“Well Rajju, do you know the address of that trust you were
talking about. That one which took Kakima with them?” I questioned Rajju.
“Oh yes I know.”
I took the address from Rajju.
It was not very far from our locality. I decided of going there the next day. The
impact on me on having heard the demise of Kakima was huge. That lady was of an
age close to that of my grandmother’s. But like everyone said, I also began to
recall her as Kakima. It felt so natural to address her as Kakima. The old lady
got a name, but only after she was no more. But this name was not enough to unveil
that to which side of the Kutumbakam
Chowk she belonged.
***
I went to the charitable trust the other day. I tried to
inquire about Kakima there. In mid of all events that were happening one after
another around me, somewhere I also became
keen like Rajju to know how her funeral was performed. People at the Trust were
very strict with their principles. They completely declined on sharing any
information on Kakima. However, they told me that she had already made
provisions for herself in her life, and she had been granting money to this
trust for the same. I was told that I must not worry about what happened to her
after her death. Everything was performed as she had wanted. They even warned
me that if I tried to sneak more information on this from them then they own the
right to call legal actions against me. They politely took me out from their
office.
Just before I was to step out from main gates, my eyes
caught hold of a pair of shoes, tossed over one another on a shoe rack. I
stopped there, my eyes fixated on those shoes. Those shoes belonged to Kakima.
These were her black rubber shoes with several holes on them. Having witnessed
those disheveled and tossed shoes I recalled what Rajju had said to me the
previous night. He had said that shoes must not stay like this. It is a bad
omen. It brings unintended journey for you.
Kakima had died. She indeed left for a journey. But she
intended this journey, and even planned everything for it. At once her smile on
her wrinkled face came in front of my eyes. I realized that I must not know how
her funeral was performed. No one should know how her funeral was performed. We
must not know to which side of the Kutumbakam
Chowk she belonged. What we must know is that she had left for the journey…
the journey for which she had been begging and saving. Each one of us is bound
to go on this journey one day, despite of the fact that from which side of the chowk we belong.
