DUKHI
There was a rickety paan (betel leaf) shop at a few steps away from the mouth of the station D. Dukhi, a lean, wizened man, aged over sixty, owned it. He was singular in that among a half dozen shops around him he alone sold paan. While others dealt in cosmetics, stationary items, fruits, beverages, cigarettes, Dukhi was happy with a bundle of betel leaves, two tiny jars of betel nuts and a plastic pot of cardamoms, and a squat pot of lime with a spoon half-hidden into it.
His tiny tarpaulin-covered shack was shy and almost invisible. On his left side stood a crowded tea shop. On right stood a stationary. There were benches, chairs and stools before the shops. It was a clean and open space. Passengers, exhausted with day’s dealings, detrained, drank, smoked, gossiped, got refreshed here. There was a kadam tree beside Dukhi’s shop. A cluster of birds were twittering on its boughs. A madman was chasing a hairless dog at a distance.
Hot summer afternoon.
A young gentleman, tall, fair, well-dressed, with two trolleys, stopped and ordered a cup of tea from a nearby tea stall. He thoughtfully sipped while wiping beads of sweat from his face and looked around for a smoke. His eyes suddenly fell on cigarette cases stacked at Dukhi’s sleepy shop. A glow crossed his flushed face.
“A navy cut, king size” the young man casually threw a twenty rupee note.
“It’s not a cigarette shop, sir,” excused Dukhi with a queer laugh, an expression of benign grace and gratitude. He looked a bit funny in the dying light of the sun.
“Cases stacked, and you deny me one!” the young man was confused and put on an angry face.
“Empty, sir,” politely Dukhi said, clearing his throat, and added, “you are not alone. People often mistake me, put on angry face but I don’t mind.”
“What’s their use, man? Discard them. Why do you keep those empty cases?” the young man blasted and squinted eyes.
A gust of hot wind blew and dry, brown kadam leaves rained on Dukhi’s shredded shack. The tin shade, covered with a thick layer of dry kadam leaves, looked splendid, as if freshly painted.
“It’s a long story, sir,” sighed Dukhi, and he at once changed the topic, “where are staying, sir?”
“Why? It’s my home town,” quipped the gentleman.
“I think you are a stranger and come here for some business or official tour. Sorry sir. Old age has its follies! Eyes fail too!” Dukhi coughed.
“Have you no children? It’s time for you to stay at home and enjoy your residual days with ease and grease,” the gentleman took pity on Dukhi.
“No,” drily the old man said while making a paan for a regular man waiting patiently and closely following their talks.
“Hey, grey-haired haggard! Tomorrow you’ll go to grave, and you are still cheating! Befooling strangers! Sir, he has two fine sons. One works in municipal office, another teaches in a school,” boomed Babloo, a building contractor, pot-bellied, bald, dwarf, middle aged man with paan-stained thick lips, and bloodshot eyes.
“Babloo, who calls you to ladle my dal (a split grain used in Indian cookery) ? Go out of my sight. Never come again to my sides!” roared the old man. And he carelessly wrapped the paan with a piece of paper and flung it at a safe corner of his shop. He was visibly perturbed.
He then shouted a lanky boy and ordered him to bring a cigarette.
The gentleman waited patiently. He was not in hurry. His parents had died two years back. He was an I T professional and now established in Bengaluru. Once a year he used to visit his home town. Old friends had faded. Ancestral home had been a safe nest for pigeons and spiders. The flower garden had gone dry. He had come to sell it. Once or twice he thought of selling it. But later he changed his mind. Now a rich party showed interest, and he was firm in his decision of disposing it off.
“Sir, take it, please” happily Dukhi handed over him the cigarette.
The young man was startled and scared. He was lost in thoughts. His mind was wavering. His childhood, his school days, days of afternoon boating with his parents in the river B, his parents’ last lonely days and their cremations at the bank of river B — heavily settled on him. He looked cowered, lifeless, and sad.
“Yea, oh,” he tried to wear his poise. He took it, sloppily lit it and began to soberly smoke.
A while later Dukhi’s rage subsided. He then unburdened himself thus.
“Sir, Babloo is true. We have two able sons. But they have been gobbled up by their in-laws. With money and ease they have bought my sons. And they now fear to tread our yard. We are poor. With sweat and blood we have nursed them. Now they live in flats in town’s posh area. And we (he points to an old veiled woman who is watering the front of the shop as a preparation for evening prayer) in illness and woes are destined to fend for ourselves. Are they our sons? We have no sons, sir!” Dukhi said at a stretch and gasped for breath, and his wife chided him.
“If anything happens this time, I’ll not take you to hospital. I warn you again and again not to talk of them to anybody. But who hears whom? Our sons are happy. Let them stay happy.” The old lady began to wipe her moist eyes with the end of her sari.
The young man was embarrassed. Dukhi, however, did not pay heed to his wife’s warning. He resumed.
“Sir, once I used to sell cigarettes of all brands. My stall was a household name among the smokers. From this stall we managed our rice and dal, and bore the cost of children’s education too. Now they are established and we don’t need much money. We are two sickly souls. So why do I sell harmful tobacco at this age? I keep these empty cases in fond memory of our children who in our golden days climbed my shoulders, scratched my back, and pestered their mother for balloons, trophies, toys. We see the cases and feel the pulses of our children.” Tears welled up in the eyes of the aged parents.
The gentleman felt uncomfortable. He was doubly saddened. He wanted to go home.
The sun was slowly sinking. Birds on the kadam tree were now carousing fiercely. Soon they would fell asleep.
“Uncle, getting late. Meet you again another day,” hurriedly said the young man.
“Accha baba,” Dukhi instantly nodded and called a known rickshaw puller.
Both of them knew that they would perhaps never meet again.
And the young man waved Dukhi while departing.
Dukhi waved him back, and next began to languidly make a paan for a regular like Babloo.
***
