If Only...

His image will trouble me for days to come; a senior citizen, well above the age of sixty, selling children’s toys - rather whistles, blowing one continuously, without rest, wandering in the busy streets of Connaught place on a sultry April evening. I cannot forget his face, the high-powered spectacles accentuating the despair in his eyes, as he moved from street to street, persistently playing the whistles, as much as his laboured breathing would allow.

His attire seemed to me of the kind that employees in government service have worn for ages - khaki trousers, a checked formal shirt, plain black shoes; maybe testaments of a retired job.

His right knee seemed to have a problem – he sort of limped pronouncedly each step he took. From the moment I saw him, while waiting for a friend at the exit of the metro station, my heart went out to him. I could not (and still cannot) fathom the reason why, a citizen at that age, needed to work at all, (let alone so hard) that too selling trivialities on the streets, drifting from person to person, in the hope of success.

Pausing in front of parents with children, trying to woo their attention with the incessant shrill sounds emanating from the efforts of his wearied lungs - I wonder if he sold any that evening. He was in my sight for barely a minute, as he crossed the road, limping as he was, yet proudly continuing to advertise his ware. However, the sight affected me profoundly to subdue my spirits that evening.

As my friend arrived and we walked along the Connaught place verandah, my mind whirled with helplessness and pity; consciously my eyes searched for the old man. Soon we crossed him again; he was kneeling against a pillar, still playing the whistle, probably resting his exhausted body.

I am not the kind of person who can easily be charitable to strangers; maybe others in my place and state of mind would have definitely approached the tired elderly figure and alleviated his misery in some way – by offering him money or buying his whistles or something else. I did not. I have never done it, I do not know how to - maybe I am very self-conscious. Now I console myself, that had I been alone, I would have approached him. The consolation gives some respite, yet the fact remains that I did not do anything at all. Regret and a tinge of guilt prick me sometimes.

Maybe there was a valid reason he was doing what he was doing, maybe it was for that single evening, maybe he was working instead of his son for that day, maybe… maybe… at this point of time, I can only assume, and console myself.

Unfortunately, the fact remains – people of that age still do need to work in India. This particular instance hit me more, maybe because of the environment where it occurred - a busy crowded cosmopolitan street in the country’s capital. He did not come across as one who had been doing this for a long time; his look spoke more of a quiet desk job at an office, if not at a big post, at least at a post good enough to justify his formal attire. He looked like someone who had spent long years in quiet government service, to retire, if not very comfortably, but enough to go by. And yet there he was – working listlessly, nowhere near the vicinity of comfortable.

Questions hit me - what desperation could lead to such a tiring situation at such an age?

Isn’t there a family who should be looking after him; a son, daughter, niece or nephew?

What desperate situation has he come across?

Why is the system oblivious of his state?

The entire evening, these questions and those few glimpses of him hovered in my head; I could not enjoy the evening guiltlessly.

As we sat to have dinner at this Chinese restaurant, I could not help but feel the elevated air of indulgences; around me, prosperity thrived. A group of colleagues had come in to celebrate a birthday, a family and acquaintances had this big celebration, drinks were flowing, and people were relaxed, some after a hard day of work in front of a computer maybe, some elsewhere. However, would it even compare with the depth of labour that the elderly man was going through every evening, for a long time perhaps?

Life seemed unfair, unjustified in the discrimination there was amongst the populace. Where two to three thousand rupees was just another dinner at a restaurant, it could easily be a week’s earnings for a vendor on the street, a month’s salary for a factory worker, a year’s fees for a child going to school; so much more than a starter, the main course and dessert.

We rarely think of that when we furnish our credit card to settle the bill. When I say we, I mean the new generation of corporate professionals, engineers, managers, amongst others.

I know that most of us do not always splurge so much on expensive restaurants but our standard of living itself has transformed so much, that we tend to spend more. From school times, when the pocket money of fifty rupees per month was enough for chocolates and ice-creams, to college times, when the monthly thousand was sufficient for the spicy roadside chaat and the canteen paranthas (all the more relished because of their being the substitute for the tasteless hostel food) – our tastes have so changed.

The salaries which initially seemed exorbitant and much more than what we could possibly spend in a month, we now consider as paltry; the expenses touching the roof, and the savings touching the floor. This is the power of changing lifestyles; the pair of shoes that I wore for the better part of four Allahabad winters was not Reebok or Adidas (I do not ever remember if there was a brand attached to it), it felt just fine to my hurrying feet. Now, buying shoes implies rounds of all the shopping malls, entering every footwear shop, and trials of endless variations of the same shoes, just with supposed better quality, a big brand name and at least an extra fifteen hundred rupees price. Ironically, now there are lesser opportunities to run, let alone hurry (what with a car), but of course, the shoes have to be branded. My parents flinched when I told them the ticket prices of that movie we watched at PVR the other weekend; after having saved and managed for so many years to provide us the best, spending a thousand rupees on just a movie show was unimaginable to them. We do not think twice. Probably, that attitude is a natural consequence of a comparatively higher salary.

Guilt lingers in my mind, my inaction has troubled my conscience; but that single old man is not the only image

pricking my mind..

The world is unequal; where India is supposed to be a fast growing economy, ragged children beg on traffic signals, whether contrived by heinous individuals selling poverty, or actual despair, is a question, but the result is still the same. Children are begging. Emaciated rickshaw pullers are still cycling in the sweltering temperatures for a daily meal, people are still living without roofs over their heads, people still die of heat stroke or cold, children still work in factories, (it is better than starving to death); it is a tough existence. Yet, for the upcoming Commonwealth games, millions are being spent on ‘modernizing the capital’. The metro rail, no doubt a boon, but how does that assist the thousands not getting a single meal a day? The IPL, no doubt earning billions for the few multimillionaires in India, but how does that help the ten-year old child serving tea at the roadside dhaba? Spending crores on stadiums and other facilities for an international event is justified, but only after the basic human issues like hunger, poverty, illiteracy have been resolved, if not totally, at least to an extent.

Due to the Commonwealth games, the entire city seems to be in a permanent sort of construction frenzy; all around Delhi, the beatification is happening at an unbelievable speed. Handcrafted signposts along entire streets, landscaped gardens, proper direction boards everywhere – they are good developments, but what about the kids who stay in the tents nearby these under-construction streets (offspring of the workers)? Don’t they deserve a better childhood, learning in school and three healthy meals a day? Don’t the workers have a right to decent quarters to stay? Aren’t these issues more relevant than beautifying the streets, or constructing a stadium?

I am not very much into politics, but I do know it is a corrupt system out there. I cannot even begin to imagine the numbers, when I think about the corruption and the profits that so many people have made, courtesy the Commonwealth Games. From a general perspective, we are all part of a corrupt system; rules are for everyone else. You are caught talking on the phone, while driving - you rather pay a bribe to the traffic police officer rather than get a proper legal ticket. You are waiting in a line outside a crowded temple, which opens for only fifteen minutes each morning, noon and evening, you prefer to pay a bribe to go by the backdoor and throng among similar sinners, for a darshan. You board a train without a reservation, then pay the train official extra money (translate to bribe) for a berth (no receipt received mind you). Your pension is not being processed in time, you pay a bribe to the proper government officer and all your papers (which previously seemed to have been incomplete), now magically become complete and the pension is finally received.

Then we complain that this system is corrupt - it is all an endless vicious cycle. No doubt, the government is to blame for this endless give and take, but we too have fostered it by agreeing to abide by the illegal system. Unfortunately, corruption is so deeply ingrained in all the services that a common man’s life becomes a struggle, if one refuses to bribe. In the everyday stream of life, we do not think twice before paying a traffic official a few hundred rupees to avoid a larger penalty or impoundment. Government incomes being so famously low, one might not even consider the act as illegal; some might even liken it to forced charity.

Except, actions do have consequences - every action does. Who knows? Because of that single apparently innocent crime, something wrong is happening to someone who does not deserve it - someone who worked (and still has to work) hard for his daily living - an honest living, still cannot seem to make ends meet. His current life is a hollow existence, limping across streets, even though the worn out body can hardly support it, attempting to sell tiny toys to children (rather their parents).

To this day, I ponder about the old man and the whistles, I wonder if his wandering hopelessly and desperately paid off at all…

I hope to God it did - knowing it for a certainty would help rid me of that subconscious feeling of culpability.

But, I will never know. Perhaps, that is the price I pay for my passiveness.