The old man’s bag of gems
IT was an autumn morning. Roused by the hurly-burly on the street, I peeped out through the window of my study. I saw an old man being pestered by a group of teenaged boys. They were pulling a long-strapped leather bag slung across his shoulders. He was frothing at the mouth and choking while trying to shout at the top of his voice. His arms and legs were trembling and his lips were quivering. I went out and shooed away his tormentors.
Later, I came to know that the man used to get livid if anybody tried to touch his bag. I guessed that it contained something precious. A sweetmeat seller said the bag had deeds and records of immovable property the man had possessed.
A few months after the incident, preparations began for Saraswati Puja. Our local club erected a marvellous pandal and decorated it with dazzling lights and colourful drapery, as usual. Everything was fine, except the loudspeaker was blaring out film songs. I was forced to close the doors and windows to prevent the din from disturbing my peace of mind.
In the early afternoon, to my utter astonishment, I noted that those film songs were no longer being played. Instead, I heard someone reciting short poems one after another in a mellifluous voice. I opened the doors and windows to listen to the words clearly. At times, the performer was describing the subject matter of the poems before the recitation. I was impressed by his poems, which were predominantly on nature, and nonsense rhymes for children.
My inquisitiveness knew no bounds; I wanted to have a close look at that person and so I went to the club pandal. I was astonished when I found that the poet was none other than the old man who had been hurling abuse at kids a few months ago. My eagerness to know more about the man intensified, and I spoke with him — he told me he was a retired teacher of Bengali literature in a village school and was reciting poems he had composed.
Having got angry at the boys in the past, he was now determined not to lose his temper on Saraswati Puja. Therefore, before the boys started troubling him, he emptied the bag and showed them its contents — it contained only manuscripts of his poems. He then started reciting them as the loudspeaker operator went away for a break. I was overwhelmed with joy when I found that the same boys were now helping him — installing the microphone, holding his bag that had been the apple of discord. Indeed, the bag did contain precious gems.
