The day I came to know that I had been transferred to another place, both my wife and I got busy packing our belongings, bundling them up, arranging for our children’s school transfer certificates, and settling bills with the milkman, newspaper vendor, and others. This was my fourth transfer in fifteen years of service. Most likely, this was the place where I had stayed for around ten years; otherwise, I had never stayed for more than two years or so at other places. Despite putting in my best effort at work, the bureaucracy was such that transfers were unavoidable. I had made several attempts to delay or get the transfer canceled for some time, but with no success.
I was relieved from the office a few days back and had my farewell party in “Lalbagh.” Today was the day I would be leaving the city. Our children had been ready since morning. My wife had informed them well in advance that we had to go to another place, and now they would continue their studies there only.
All our belongings were packed. I told my wife that I would go out and take a rickshaw, and until then, she should say goodbye to the landlord, his wife, aunt, and others.
The heat was scorching. I saw that there was no rickshaw-puller available at the nearby ‘Delhi-Gate’ circle. One of them was demanding a high fare to go to the bus stand. I proceeded ahead, hoping to find a rickshaw near “Sundar Vilas.” During my ten-year service, I often encountered rickshaw pullers under the shade of trees there. I moved towards “Sundar Vilas,” and with that, my memory went down the memory lane:
When I came to this temple-city, situated in the heart of Mewar (Rajasthan), it seemed like a beautiful and serene place to me. It had grown significantly over the past ten years and expanded its boundaries in all directions. This town had its own religious significance. When I arrived in this city ten years ago, there were no rickshaws here. Tongas were used to transport passengers to and from the bus stand.
As soon as I recapitulated the name “Sundar Vilas,” I thought that maybe I had left “Sundar Vilas” behind. I turned back, and a rickshaw puller came towards me.
“Will you go to the bus stand?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell me the fare.”
“How many passengers?”
“Well, me, my wife, two young children, and some luggage.”
“It will cost ten rupees.”
“Oh, ten is too much. Five is fine.”
“No Sir, even a single paisa will not be less than ten. Can’t you see how hot and humid it is today?”
The heat was indeed unbearable. I thought it was not appropriate to search for another rickshaw anymore. I had to catch the four o’clock bus. I had already booked the bulky luggage by train in the morning. We had only one suitcase and a small bed with us. Sitting in the rickshaw, I said to the rickshaw puller, “Alright brother, I will give you ten-rupees. But help a little in lifting the luggage.”
The rickshaw started moving. While on the way, the rickshaw puller asked, “Where do I have to pick up the other passengers from?”
“Brother, at the next turn, near the Tehsil, from ‘Soni Bungalow,” I replied.
As soon as I mentioned the name of ‘Soni Bungalow,’ I instantly went back to the past. Initially, I had to stay in a ‘Dharamshala’ for four or five days until I found a house on rent. My office colleagues had told me that there were no good houses in this town. Look at us, we are living in run-down houses. Even if there are a few, the officers have occupied them. But, yes, there is a bungalow near the Tehsil owned by one Mr. Soni. If you want, you can try there. It is heard that the owner of the bungalow does not rent it to anyone.”
I went straight to ‘Soni Bungalow’ that day after leaving the office. I met an elderly person at the bungalow whom I and my entire family addressed as ‘Ba-Saab’ for the next ten years. The owner of the bungalow, Ba-Saab at the very outset asked me a question, “You don’t seem to be from around here?”
“Yes, I am from outside. I have come here in connection with my employment,” I replied.
“What about your family, children?” Ba-Saab asked.
“If I find a house, I will bring them as well. We got married this year only,” I answered.
“Do you eat or drink?” I understood that the question was related to the consumption of meat and alcohol. I immediately responded, “No, sir, not at all.”
“Alright, come tomorrow evening, I will think about your request,” Ba-Saab said.
The next day, when I went to meet him in the evening, I found out that Ba-Saab had made a decision in my favor. Currently, one room, a kitchen, and later two more rooms. This news was conveyed to me by Ba-Saab’s wife Ma-Saab, who covered her face while saying so.
Ba-Saab must have been quite a hardworking, dedicated, and generous person during his younger days; that’s what I could gather from his words. Ba-Saab’s profession was related to making of silver jewelry, especially enameling work. He used to do his work at home and had employed five or six craftsmen for it. Ba-Saab had everything, three or four houses, land, and respect in society. He also dealt with money lending. However, if there was anything missing in his life, it was the lack of an issue/child. Ba-Saab had concealed this lack deep within himself. He wanted to ensure that this lack was not revealed to anyone, yet the agony in his eyes would occasionally betray the turmoil within. One day, when I returned home from the office, I saw Ba-Saab playing cricket in the courtyard with a ball in his hand. My little daughter Anjali was fielding, and son Ashish was at the batsman’s end ready to face the ball. Holding his Dhoti in one hand, Ba-Saab was about to throw the ball in a cricketer’s style.
Time passed by, and the relationship between the landlord and me had become more intimate, replacing a formal relationship with a respected one. It became a relationship where financial aspects became secondary, and human aspects became stronger. In fact, building such a relationship also required the significant role of my wife and me because strong relationships are not one-sided. Their foundation is based on mutual trust and sacrifice. Over the past eight to ten years, this relationship had become natural and intimate.
One day, Ba-Saab was in a mood. I had just asked, “Ba-Saab, when I first came to you regarding the house, you gave it to me without any introduction or acquaintance. How did you decide to rent it out to me?”
Ba-Saab had replied: “You were not from here, that’s why I gave you the house. I felt that you genuinely needed a house, and that impressed me. I have never rented out my house to anyone until now, but I gave it to you. I gave it to you because there was a longing, an appeal in your request that touched me. Babu Sahab, acquaintances are made by interacting; no one is already acquainted with each other before that.”
Ba-Saab was no longer in this world now. Last year, during a fatal heart attack, his heartbeats suddenly stopped. In my lap, he had breathed his last.
“Soni Bangla has arrived, sir,” the rickshaw puller’s words awakened me as if from a deep slumber. I looked around and saw my wife, both the children, Ba-Saab’s wife Ma-Saab etc. standing at the gate of the bungalow. Mr. Menaria, the neighbor, bank manager Mr. Sharmali, and the Sharma couple from next door were also present. The atmosphere was emotional, as it usually is during farewells. Tears welled up in everyone’s eyes, with the exception of the children who stood in their feet watching us innocently. Despite the emotional atmosphere, I made a conscious effort to restrain my own tears. It was evident that Ma-Saab had something important to convey to me. Summoning the courage, I drew closer to her. In the midst of sobs, Ma-Saab uttered, “Always remember me, my son! Hold onto the memory that Ba-Sab peacefully embarked on his journey to heaven while cradled in your arms. “Obtaining approval from Ma-Saab and ensuring consent from all, I boarded the rickshaw.
The depth, appeal and enduring nature of timeless human connections beyond borders began to occupy my thoughts.
Writer is former Fellow, IIAS, Shimla (HP). He can be mailed at skraina123@gmail.com
