Obeisance of a different kind
THE retired Colonel living next to my house is well past 80 but still fit as a fiddle. He is known for his stingy habits, a keen sense of humour and love for Urdu poetry. Once, I cheekily asked him why he was so frugal despite being affluent. Instead of being offended, he replied with a mischievous wink, ‘I have to save for my old age, shouldn’t I?’ I wondered when his old age would set in!
With his six-foot, lean physique, squarely unstylish haircut and puckered eyes, he resembles the ageing Tom Hanks in A Man Called Otto. He is as cynical, fussy and fastidious as Otto but not as grumpy as him. On the contrary, he is cordial to a fault and a deeply religious soul. A daily visit to Kali Bari Temple in the morning is one of his unfailing rituals. I often accompany him to relish his anecdotes sprinkled with Urdu couplets.
Last week, while passing through the Mall Road on our way to the temple, we saw a little girl sitting on the steps of Town Hall, crying silently. She had a charming, dimpled face that glistened with tears. She was wearing a school uniform which was slightly shabby. The Colonel sat beside her and, putting an arm consolingly around her shoulders, asked why she was distressed. Still sobbing, the girl related her tale of woe between gasps. She was the daughter of a poor widow working as a housemaid, whose sole ambition was to provide her only child with the best possible education. The woman saved money from her meagre earnings and secured the girl’s admission to a good public school. However, she was not left with enough money to buy a new uniform for her. The girl was asked to manage with a second-hand one received from the house where her mother worked. Today was her first day at school, but she was not allowed to attend classes as her uniform was not up to the school standard. She was apprehensive about facing her mother on returning home without attending school.
The Colonel burst out laughing and said, ‘Oh, this is a small matter, my dear child! You need not smear your beautiful face with tears over such a trivial thing. Get up, we shall get you a new uniform.’ We took her to a nearby shop and bought her the school uniform and matching sneakers. The Colonel paid with his credit card and declined my offer to share the expense. The girl was smiling now and there was a spring in her step when she departed with the shopping bag. After seeing her disappearing at the turn of the road, the ex-serviceman said, ‘We are already late, we should go back. We need not go to the temple now.’ Noticing a quizzical look in my eyes, he smiled and recited a couplet by Nida Fazli: ‘Ghar se masjid hai bahut door chalo yun kar lein, kisi rotey hue bachche ko hansaya jaaye.’ (The mosque is too far from our home, let us make a crying child laugh instead.)
He was right. Our obeisance had been paid, and we could go home with a sense of fulfilment.
