The Blueprint of a Common Man’s Truth

 

Carpenter, vendor, construction labourer, hawker, electrician and much more, he has been through the rough and tumble of many professions at various points in his life. Now he seems contended to serve as a night watchman at a construction material godown. Here he just has to sleep and say ‘Who is this?’ from his room if he hears any noise at night, thus indicating the property is well guarded and under observation.

He is ready to take up more, some new assignment to add to his pocket’s weight. So during the day, he is the municipal committee’s official keeper of the ill-kept, stinking toilet booth. He loiters around in the dusty, noisy chaos that most of our cities are. Most of those who pulverize the property with their sprouts and defecations are his acquaintances, the wage labourers well known to him from the area. They would cajole him to give him a tea party instead of giving him a rupee they owe for their misdeed. So he is scouting for any chance visitor who is under the compulsion to enter the stinking box. The torture over and just as the poor person comes out dazed and swooning under the attack of stinking smell and disturbing sight, he attacks and demands the charges. To the strangers he is very authoritative.

Take as many avenues to earn a bit more, it’s never sufficient for a poor man. However, with a rich haul of experience, this 75 years old man looks content, like a battle weary soldier, happy in the knowledge that he has successfully fought at many fronts. A lifetime of grit and grind is barely sufficient to make a little story of few lines. Like meshing whole containers of mud, you get a gram of gold particles. It may not be sufficient but those decades of engagement as a faceless entity give rewards that are felt within if not acknowledged by others. It’s always worthy to have fought in a sub-world where you dig a well for a day, only to start digging another for a new dawn. There was hardly any destination above the one and only ‘seeing through a day’. A tough process but it’s all-consuming, it absorbs you completely.

Six decades ago, he arrived at the district town at the age of 15 from a small village in the countryside of the same district. During these six decades, he saw the district town changing from a big village to a proper city as it’s today, witnessed its changing colours, in the professional sense, and learnt to adapt to the swiftly changing circumstances and times.

His life-long dedication to the cause of setting up a family has entitled him to ‘a bit bigger than a slum hut’ kind of house in a poor locality. He had three sons. One of them died before marriage. The other one died, followed by his wife, after marriage. He left two kids. One he keeps, most probably a son. The other one, most probably a girl, is under the custody of her maternal grandparents. The third son plies an auto in the city and whom he sometimes sees and raises his hand to acknowledge their relationship. The son however keeps his eyes reserved for more passengers in his auto.

Though staying within the same city, the old man doesn’t visit his house more than twice a week. His wife stays with the son. On being asked why he doesn’t stay with the family, he says that it’s just to be independent and free. Possibly his daughter-in-law is a tyrant. He however doesn’t admit it openly.

He tells that one’s eyes should have patience and respect for a person at whom you look at. The other person will surely reciprocate. He will get into a pause and will listen to you at least. ‘Eyes, eyes!’ he emphasizes.

To kill time he has plenty of decades from the past to bask in their nostalgia. He doesn’t find even a single moment in which the present scores over the past.

‘It gets just worse from bad,’ he appears missing his youth.

And he still wants a new job.