Goodness buried under the weight of daily-dusting humanity

 

Me and my brother decide to take a shared Eco van from Agra to Fatehpur Sikri. It’s a well-worn, thoroughly used vehicle. The owner driver is named Lehri Singh Faujdar, a dark man with pan-gutka-painted red teeth. He flashes them with great effect with a smile. ‘I usually take 14 passengers,’ he forestalls any logical protest as me and my brother find ourselves bundled in the front sheet. ‘There are no more passengers today, otherwise I would have put one by your side,’ he informs me. The gear shaft between my thighs, tightly squeezed between him and my brother, I watch in dismay as he pulls the gear, pushing and prodding almost in my groins.

I start praying that let there be no more passengers on the way. My prayers are heard. He sees an old woman waiting by the road. Obviously she can’t be stuffed by our side in the front seat. She protests that there is no space in the vehicle and she will take some other convenience. Her protests fall on deaf ears. He has to have one more passenger to make up for having one less on the main middle seat. I thank god for sending this old woman as a passenger. The six passengers on the two side seats at the back moan with agony. He puts her heavy sack on the roof. The load lands with a thump and the roof bulges down a bit in the middle. He secures the load using tight ropes with expert hands. Then the six passengers at the back are pushed and shoved and the old woman is dumped among them. The back door is forced shut. It’s for them to adjust the old woman in any cubic meter of space available. They won’t fall. With jolts their bodies will acquire the most feasible shape to fill the space, settling down more comfortably.

The main middle seat is not cumbered much with human weight. A patient is lying here, his legs folded, nose taped and a nasal pipe still in it. He probably got discharged from hospital. He is seriously ill. The patient is accompanied by a man and a lady in burqa. Sitting at both ends of the long middle seat, they are holding the patient between them.

I take the van owner to be any other passenger-hunting transporter. He cracks his point—beyond which you can’t say much—flashes his red teeth with a challenging smile. ‘How many times you ply between Agra and Sikri in a day?’ I ask. I think that he is so passenger hungry that he must be relentlessly plying on the route till night. ‘I do just two rounds in a day,’ he says. Then he naughtily slaps his palm on the battered dashboard and says, ‘Irrespective of how many rounds I make up in a day, she will give survival crumbs only. More rounds won’t mean a big mansion. So just two for me. Two, four, six or eight will give just enough to see through the month. So why torture oneself?’ he again flashes his red teeth and gums.

By the turn outside Sikri he stops by another rental shared van, opens the sliding middle door and helps the sick man to be transferred to the other vehicle for the onward journey. I can see that it’s not just about fare. The fare would mean just stopping there, leaving the sick man’s wards to take care of the transfer.

I feel big respect for this man. We talk to him and then as promised he takes us nearest to the fort’s gate, gives us instructions regarding the return journey, warns us to stay cautious about tout guides who act as middlemen for the chador and flower sellers and cajole people into buying high-priced items to get their commission later. We have talked to him like friends and he reciprocates as a well-wisher. It has been a good experience with him. A good man, soiled under the dust of daily survival. You have to give a friendly swipe at the dust to see goodness in someone.

We have reached Fatehpur Sikri through a very decent mode—a good man under rough outer bearing due to the tough battle for survival on a daily basis. Before entering its grand courts, complexes and step wells another piece of kind welcome awaits us—the omelet served by the Muslim woman. The court complex is primarily in red sandstone—trabeated construction; designs evincing composite culture under the Mughals. It’s an open and airy luxury involving many arched facades (multiple-arch deep) and bulbous domes crowned by lotus petals and kalash finials. The imposing masonry walls, huge pillared halls, coquettish archways, sensuously carved pillars with inlaid designs, arched prayer chambers, the king’s tower (jhorakha darshan), sturdy battlements, geometric symmetry and aesthetic frame take you to ancient times. It’s redolent with multiple layers of history.

It’s advisable to visit the monuments of past—belonging to any dynasty, be it Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian or Buddhist—with an open mind and restful heart. It helps us to learn, to grow, to understand things better. I just look around, when I’m at such places, with a sense of wonder carried by a little student.