Time! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die
-Lord Byron
This weekend, as is the case with any other weekend, I was cooling my heels at home. Words can be misleading for Chennai is essentially a hot cauldron for the first few months of the year. It would be rather apt to say “I was burning my heels at home”. Unmindful of the sweltering heat, I chose to sit down and from the heap of books strewn across, picked one and was immersed in it. My reverie was rather abruptly broken by a familiar voice in the streets. Why would I not recognize it? After all it’s been the same distinct loud voice, which I have heard for ages and which mouths the same two lines over and over again.
Paper, Old paper...
Unmindful of my observations, my mother called out to the owner of the voice. She asked him to come over. This was my cue. Over the years I have dedicated myself to making sure that my mother is not made to work hard for every little thing in house. This makes her feel happy and most of the times it is her smile and her silent acknowledgment that matters. I ran over to the other room and immediately began stacking the old pile of newspapers in a jute bag. The door bell rung and I was ready. The man looked at me. The glint in his eyes suggested a trace of faint recognition. A small smile ensued then in his lips. I acknowledged it and we both were into the act of shifting papers in his weighing machine. Just when a little stack remained, he looked at me, and asked me, “Son, what do you do now?”. In a low tone I told him I work. Me naming the company, which most of the educated urban lower, middle and upper class would instantly recognize would not bring the same sense of recognition in his mind. I spared him the name and tried to keep the conversation going on. I asked him how things are going on for him. He looked at me and said, “Son, it’s all the same, I do the same old work, collect papers and try to eke out a living. That has been my life for almost 20 years now”. My heart went out to him. I could not reply back. The words might have stung me. Here I was in my home making rapid strides in my life moving step by step to a place of higher recognition, whereas there was a fellow human being, who in all fairness has struggled more than me but life never has changed for him.
He gave me two soiled fifty rupee notes for the newspapers. I gave back one fifty rupees to him saying he could use it to buy something cool and drink. I guess he was overwhelmed with surprise for there were tears in his eyes. He thanked me profusely, blessed me and carried on with his work. I sat down again with my books. My mom, used to my ways asked me to keep the fifty rupee note. She was apparently happy for the house looked cleaner without the strewn newspapers around. My mind was rather engrossed in the inequalities of our lives. How many times in our lives would we hear elders asking us to work hard, for the fruits of hard work are sweet. Wasn’t that man doing the same thing? Every day he had to shout till his voice grew hoarse. The fury of the Sun will not stop him from venturing out for the pangs of his hunger are a much bigger driving force in his life. Time is a deceptive illusion I realized. For me it was the measuring factor of my achievements and age, whereas for him it was all about counting yet another grey hair while his life always remained the same. I suddenly realized I was sweating and switched on the fan. A cool wave of air spread through the room giving me temporary relief from the Sun’s fury. The voice outside became fainter. I realized he would soon move on to the next street. I wondered if I would see him ten years from now, would he still be the same. I wished he would go to places. I wished somebody would give him Redemption for the hard work he has done all these years. But these I realized were Utopian thoughts of a mind which has some solitude and loneliness. For that man though “Time will always stand still”.
