The Common Story of a Common Man

Jaipal is around 45 but looks an old man of 60. Hair beaten by all types of winds; teeth gone in munching the stones that life has to offer; facial features roughed off like furious desert storms hitting against a lifeless rock face for years. Life has very little to offer to this daily wage earner from my neighbouring village. Still he gives best to the society around. Makes this darkening world a little brighter with his self-motivated commitment for the labour tasks at hand.

His friends call him 'Tihadi', i.e., the one who has been to the notorious jail in Delhi. But as you watch this bony figure heaving massive pulls at the conscience-lorn rope, you can find no justification for the title. Well, the famed Indian justice system mostly catches the smallest fish and allows the whales a safe passage. He was caught ticketless in a local passenger train to Delhi. Fine was to the tune of 500 rupees. 'But my whole being is not even worth that much!' he pleased. So he landed up in Tihar jail to earn the nickname. Babus made him do a hard labour to earn his roti and dal. There was no encashment for his fruitless work, of course. Unconcerned, he stretches out every sinew of his frail body to make my world better at the construction site.

For the marriage of his eldest daughter he had pooled almost his life-long earnings, and put them in his hovel. There was a fire and his 60,000 rupees turned to ashes. But then sometimes people get senty, so many came forward with a hand of charity. Money and gifts were collected by the villagers. This single good-countering-bad stroke of destiny has, may be, kept the thread of honesty tied to his being.

He has not even the bicycle. I ask him the reason. 'There is no space to put it at my place,' he says. I look for signs of a joke on his decimated face. But he is damn serious. His fellow labourers bear witness to this fact. His only possession is a tiny 10×15 depilated room. So where is the room for poor man's merc, i.e., bicycle? I think it does not need more emphasis to decide that he is amongst the poorest of the poor in the country. There is this scheme of BPL card in rural India. The card-holder enjoys many benefits like subsidized wheat, rice and kerosene from the public distribution system. If one can arrange some patronage and blessings from the mighty village strongmen and pradhan, one can get 25,000 rupees for house construction as well. But for such big benefits you must in a position to pay back many times more in many forms. He does not fit anywhere in this give–take equation. So despite many rounds for a BPL card he is found the least eligible for it.

The world may not care about him. The economic breeze blowing coolly in India may not kiss to vapourize the sweat beads on his hardened, bowing back. Swanky cars may glut the roads while he does not even get his bicycle. Scamesters may swindle public money to the tune of laks of crores and go scot free, while he spends 10 hardworking and insulting nights in Tihar jail. He may stay in a tiny hovel while he helps construct swanky apartments for others. He, but, has got his reward. The reward of goodness. Despite countless promptings to the contrary, his basics have not changed. He is true to himself. And this truth to the self is the fuel that is pulling the cart of this big, bad and still worsening world. It will collapse when the last of his type will say bye to this world.