I had decided to blog about topics which, according to me, are socially relevant under the title Incredible India way back in June 2012. But the only two posts under this tab were A Boy Called Irfan and Aam Aadmi Boards a Train. A third had been playing inside my mind for more than an year but it never came out as words. But today, something happened that made me realize that the post was long overdue. So, here it is.
Today, I was on my back from Haripad after attending my friend's wedding. It was a blazing afternoon and I was tired. Tired because of two reasons. For one, I had barely slept the previous day, courtesy of Chelsea's loss to Atletico Madrid in UEFA Champions League Semi Finals. Add to that the heavy intake of Payasams and Boli at the wedding feast. No amount of achchaars and buttermilk could tone down my tiredness and sleepiness. All I wanted to do was catch a KSRTC to Thrissur and doze off for 5 hours.
My wish was answered after waiting in the hot sun for 15 minutes. I got an direct bus to Thrissur. As it happens with all the long distance buses stopping at intermediate bus stations, there was a good amount of commotion to get inside it. After a good deal of tugging and pulling, I managed to get inside the bus and get the window seat in a two-seater row. But the seat would be facing the sun throughout the journey. I had no other go but to settle for what I got.
Soon enough, an old woman came and sat next to me. She was probably in her 60s or 70s and hailed from the lower middle class strata of the society. But I hadn't noticed all this until later in the noon. I didn't even know till where she had taken a ticket. Once the bus started, I slipped into a deep sleep. This was something I don't do when travelling alone. But today, I was too tired and sleepy to care.
After about 45 minutes, the bus pulled into Alapuzha (Alleppy for you non-Keralites) bus station. By then, I had woken up from one of my numerous bouts of sleep and was sweating profusely. The sun was beating down on the side of my face and I could feel my skin burning. But I didn't dare to pull down the window shutters because I knew that it would make me suffocate and sweat even more.
Men, women and children pleading for financial aid is a common site in this part of the country. The modus operandi is simple - they enter the bus through the front door, make a heart wrenching presentation of their plight from the front side of the bus, and then go about collecting their "earnings" and leave by the back door. I see a lot of this drama every day on my way to work and I never bother to look their way. I'm of the mindset that if they are healthy enough to roam around the bus station every day, from morning to evening, doing this same drill over and over again, then they are fit enough to earn their own livings! And because of the same reason, I never give them any money.
Today too, a middle aged man with some "problem" entered the bus. As usual, he did his thing and started going from seat to seat, collecting money. Soon, he came to my seat and my co-passenger gave him a coin. It was probably 2 or 5 rupees. It was then that I first noticed her. I gave him nothing and he moved on. Now that the bus was on a stand still, I was sweating even more. And I was longing for something cold to drink. As if reading my thoughts, a man came by the side of the bus, selling chilled mineral water bottles. As soon as I saw him, I bought one. It was then that I saw a sight. The man who had come begging for alms was standing a few feet away, at a small shop, smoking a filter cigarette and someone else was counting his "collection" and giving him currency notes in exchange for the coins.
I wasn't the only one who saw him at that moment. The lady next to me saw it too. She leaned forward and stared at him for a long, long time. What she figured would be a part of his lunch money was going up in the air as thin, blue fumes! She was obviously angry at the man. I smiled at myself, opened my bottle of chilled water and drank it to my heart's content. It felt like bliss! As I screwed the cap on the bottle, I heard her speak for the first time.
"Ithinu ethreya koduthe?" (How much did you pay for this bottle of water?), she wanted to know.
"Irupathu roopa." (Twenty rupees), I replied. It was then I saw that the price mentioned on the bottle was fifteen rupees only. The smirk on my face vanished. But I knew I'd have paid even fifty rupees for such a bottle at the time. It didn't bother me much.
"Ayyo." (Oh my!)
"Kurachu velam veno kudikaan?" (Do you want some water to drink?), I asked her. Even now, I'm not sure why I asked that.
"Venda" (No)
After a moment, she asked me, "Mon evideya irangunne?" (Son, where are you getting down at?).
"Aluva", I said. I had already changed my destination from Thrissur to Aluva due to some other reason.
"Enna mon irangumbo baaki undenkil enikku thanna mathi" (In that case, you can give me the bottle of water when you get down if there is still left some water left in it.)
I felt a flushing of a cocktail of emotions in my throat. I offered her the water one more time but she declined. Soon, the bus started and I slipped into another set of broken sleeps.
Now to the incident that made me want to write on mineral water bottles more than an year back.
I've a good friend who worked in the same place as my previous posting. She hailed from a typical middle class family, was married, and had two small kids. Once, during one of our long chats about nothings, she told me about what had happened that day. The reason why she told me it was that her kids were fighting in the background over a bottle of water.
Her house was 2 kilometers walk from the bus stop. That day, her older child and she were walking back home after running some errands in the town. Her son had agreed to walk the whole distance to home and not crib about it and ask her to carry him on the condition that she would buy him a bottle of mineral water! And of course, he was to share it with his younger sister when they got home which, he apparently had some issues with, and hence the fight in the background.
What bothered me then was the fact that while shifting from our house (there were three of us) of two years in Aluva, we had a hard time disposing off the empty bottles of mineral water which we had drank. Finally, when we could find someone, it amounted to three sacks of 50 kg size each and that was after crushing every single bottle!!! We never switched on the refrigerator since we didn't want to waste electricity over a couple of bottles of water. (Yes, we were energy conscious!). Instead, we bought bottles of chilled water and ended up creating a huge piles of empty bottles in the kitchen.
Hailing from a state where many a water struggles were staged in Plachimada and surrounding areas over potable drinking water, I felt so guilty at that moment. It felt as if I was taking away a huge chunk from the kids' future. Today, the lady in the bus reminded me of those two kids and their fight over a bottle of water. For someone who was ready to dig deep into her pockets to help a fellow human being, she found the bottle of water too expensive! What was a luxury to two small kids was merely a routine for us!
FootNote: As I was getting ready to get down at Aluva, I offered the bottle of water to the lady. It was still half full. She was hesitant for a moment but took it when I insisted. I didn't look at her face to see her reaction as she took it. I didn't want to. I just gave it to her and moved towards the door. Now, I've no face to remember her by. I didn't want that either.
ToeNote: I made it three posts in the month of April. That would be a new record on this blog since its inception. The new year starts on a new hope. For those of you who are wondering if I'd gone berserk, for us bankers, the year starts in the month of April! And in all probability, it has got something to do with the 1st being April Fool's day!
NailNote: The past week and month have been full of surprises and twists, most part of which were pleasant. Here's wishing myself that the rest of the year follows on a similar high note! Good night.
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