Licensed for Joy

 

Even though heavily burdened with faith and prayers for redemption, the pilgrimage town of Rishikesh still maintains a fresh, vibrant spirit. It’s a little world containing sinewy stories of individual pain, suffering, ecstasy, death and births.

It’s the main little boulevard along the holy river flanked by the bathing ghats on one side and shops, ashrams and lodges on the other. Completing this little picture in his still smaller way, he is a poor invalid carrying the huge burden of congenital catastrophe on his frail figure. His limbs withered by polio, he is like a wingless bird. Each step is a struggle.

With his thin crooked arms swaying to maintain balance on his twisted legs, without any external aid—not even that of a stick—he gives you a lesson that even with a deformed body it’s possible to move on the path of life with stoutness of spirit. And he has a part to play in the happening street by the Ganges. His step towards goodness is more laboured than most of us.

It’s early morning. ‘I’ll just open my stall and give you a glass,’ the juice vendor offers and seems in a hurry to accomplish what he has just said.

The tea-seller also shouts his charity offer. It’s beyond charity, however. There is a human connection. They really love and like him. He, but, isn’t concerned. Keeping his balance against a fall, with a fresh samosa in his hand, he moves, or rather totters, to a cow. The holy stray animal gladly gobbles down the spicy delicacy. The people around laugh and clap. It’s good to see such acts of offering with a humorous touch.

He struggles to his bag and bundle placed by a wall. These are his coordinates in the world which define his sense of belonging and identity. He approaches his part of earth, as of now since his provisions are placed there, and sits against the wall. The street is getting busier by degrees, just like the sun is getting hotter with the passage of minutes. A sadhu puts a steel glass full of piping hot tea in front of him.

The positivity and smile on that narrow, weather-beaten, soiled, dark face arrests my attention. My legs refuse to leave the scene. He is truly magnetic in his own way. Well, all of us are repelling also in our own ways.

The boyish man is around twenty. He is very frail but in his eyes there is a light which defies the congenital darkness.

Even the deserts have their oasis. He has his voice. The nature is rarely completely heartless. He preens in a melodious happy tone. It’s like the sweet, mellow and calculated words of a parrot trained to speak the human language.

His face is inclined to smile at every instance. There is no bitterness. There is a sweetness that strikes you somehow and makes you feel better. No wonder, he is a darling of the mendicant friars who stay in the open street in front of the ashrams.

‘He is very sweet,’ I say to the sadhu who has fetched him tea. He agrees vociferously.

The star of the street dwellers’ eyes is eager to show all he has with him. He takes out a worn-out cheap purse and opens it to show a photo. It’s him in sunglasses with some attitude.

‘Got it clicked at Haridwar,’ he sweetly preens.

‘You look like Shah Rukh Khan,’ I tell him.

He laughs. Others also laugh with merriment.

‘I have been to Delhi. No one bothers me in trains and buses,’ he informs proudly.

‘Yes off and on, he vanishes for months and travels to different places,’ a sadhu agrees.

Vaishno Devi is his dream destination.

‘He says the people will give him so many coins there that he will buy a house for all of us,’ an old woman says with affection.

There is more laughter. He adds to it with his innocent chuckles.

He is innocent. His simple mind isn’t infected with malice and selfishness.

‘God stays in him,’ I point out.

Everybody seems to be in a very strong agreement.

He wants me to take his picture on my mobile. He just loves getting clicked. I ask a passing tourist to take a picture on my mobile. I go to him, sit by his side, put my hand on his shoulder, he puts his on mine. The moment gets captured in a photo. I can feel the magnetic humanistic touch in his soiled frail fingers. I am sure my cleaner hands soiled with bland worldly pursuits and callused with ambition must have hardly left any mark upon him.