The traffic followed its own brisk pace as the vehicles on one section of the road began speeding up to make it across the zebra crossing on time. Their horns blowing persistently, their drivers attempting to outdo one another, the vehicles had formed a long cue of the hurried. They seemed bent on disregarding the mandatory traffic halt and seemed to care little for the lives of the countless pedestrians who were crossing the road at that moment. This contest of speeds was taken so seriously that the drivers seemed willing to risk pedestrian lives in the process of ‘racing’ one another.
I was on my way to the bus stop that morning, and it was a day like every other. Every day, I walked 20 minutes to the same station to catch a bus to work. As the buses had been racing in a bid to outdo each other, I’d been thinking of all the work that still needed to be done at the office. I was quite surprised when the sounds of the traffic and those in my own head were distorted by another. A voice, weak and quivering, struck me, and I saw a beggar by the roadside. He was pleading for money as he extended his empty cup towards me, his armed stretched, an uncharacteristic smile upon his pale face.
I normally do not care for beggars. They are a kind who do not shy away from irritating pedestrians with their continuous pestering, and there is such an abundance of them that being generous or kind to all of them is nigh impossible. So I don’t really know why I was somewhat affected by this voice. As I took a close look at the man whose tremulous voice had drawn my attention, I was left completely numb. Both his feet had been amputated and his limbs ended abruptly at his knees. I felt bad about his situation, and gave him a five-rupee-note out of my wallet.
“Thank you, sir. This is my first earning today. May god bless you,” the man said, with a little gleam in his face as he took the five-rupee-note. I did not say a word but nodded in return. His plight had left me unsettled, and while I continued to walk towards the bus station, the encounter remained with me. As I was about to cross the road, I looked back and saw the man staring at me, his smile still intact. This time, I smiled back at him before hopping onto my bus.
The image of the old man with his amputated legs, his stretched arms and his persistent smile did not leave me, coming back in flashes all day. I longed for the clock to move faster, for my day at the office to somehow get over earlier than it always does. When the clock finally struck five, I looked forward to getting on the first public bus that would take me back home. As I got off the vehicle, my eyes scanned the road for the same figure I’d seen in the morning and had thought about all day. My eyes were alert to the spot where I’d seen the derelict man only eight hours ago, but they did not find him there. Surprised and confused I continued looking around, hoping to see his figure, but couldn’t spot it anywhere.
Still thinking about him, and where he possibly might be, I began my long walk back home. I must have been behaving a bit strangely for my wife soon figured out something was wrong. My restlessness worried her even as I tried to convince her that her qualms were unnecessary.
“It’s simply a headache, nothing else,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as I was trying to placate her.
Sleep was elusive that night. I tossed and turned in bed with thoughts of the old man refusing to get out of my head. Was it his voice, or his optimistic smile that had had such an effect on me? After all, as someone who commutes through Kathmandu everyday, I have seen my fair share of beggars and they have never impacted me in the manner the man did that day.
Morning came with some relief as I woke up and prepared myself for work. I was soon out and walking along the same pavement I take each day. I was glad when I saw the old man sitting in the same spot as the day before. I walked towards him, and gave him a five-rupee-note again. He, for his part, smiled his impeccable smile once again.
This time, I smiled back and left immediately.
A camaraderie of sorts soon developed between us. Every morning I would walk towards him, and hand him a five-rupee-note. I looked forward to our daily exchange, and felt like the old man anticipated my arrival each day.
It was surprising and somewhat disappointing when—a month or so since our first exchange—I couldn’t find the old man one morning. I wondered where he might have gone, and felt quite apprehensive when I did not see him the next two days as well.
I continued to search through that familiar stretch of pavement though until one day I saw a young boy, probably in his early teens, sitting on the same spot the old man used to sit in. With curiosity bubbling inside me, I approached the new boy and asked him if he knew the old man he had displaced. “The man you are asking about was my father. He died in a road accident a few days ago,” he gloomily murmured.
I was in a state of disbelief and did not know how to digest the information. Later, when I had the time to mull on it, I realised that I had read of an incident in which a derelict beggar had been hit by a speeding car only a few days ago.
“I have an ailing mother who needs medical attention, and I’m the family’s bread winner now,” the boy continued. I was stung by what I’d just seen and just heard. This little child did not even have the time to mourn his father’s death…
I did the only thing I could; handed a five-rupee-note to the young boy, and went my own way.
As I was about to cross the road, I turned back to the little kid and saw that he was sheepishly smiling at me. His grin reminded me of his father, and that impeccable smile he always wore.
- Kumar Sharma
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