In a tête-à-tête with the reflection in the mirror, I stood there stoically, interrogating myself whether or not was I so lean and fragile, an elite amongst the rest, that I’d get disfigured and infamous for helping someone I didn’t know?
It was a hot Sunday afternoon and I, accompanied by my mother and her two friends were returning from a religious function which had spiritually refreshed me, if not the other presentees. I was the only kid amongst those ageing ladies, bored of their not-so-meaningful womanly talks and the frantic cacophony of the bustling street; so, to parry off the gnawing boredom and my ‘keep silence’ irritation, I traversed across all the colorful things, possible within the reach of my retina, and put them in black and white at some corner of my mind. From the little, 3-4 yr old girl wearing headscarves, holding their mother’s finger and trying to match up with their mothers’ pace; the cunning chaiwallah at the nukkad, fooling his customers by his sleight of hand by selling ‘lamba paani’ (yes, that’s the Mumbaiya slang for a tasteless tea!) at a cool price; a heavy weight designer burqa clad lady adjusting herself on the bike, while creating a seismic effect in the bike’s engine and her slim husband’s bowels; to the dashing Iranian hunks ramping by my ogling self—everything seemed a lovely affair.
Owing to the extremely hot condition, with the sun scorching at his mighty best and with that thick overcoat I wore, I possibly couldn’t have been in the best of my senses but my curious nature and an innate penchant to be a good observer, just superseded all the trouble that the harsh sun rays were causing to this rather complexion conscious girl.
As we crossed the road, a strange sight caught our attention. A disheveled man, presumably a porter in his late 50’s, was trying to lay asleep on the bare, burning ground. Initially, I thought he’s one of those many drunkards who get overdosed and end up dumped in public places, sometimes in the garbage zone too, which is a very common sight in our tinsel town. Still engrossed in their ‘important’ discussions, my mother and her two gregarious friends brusquely took a few steps away from the scene but stopped before a few known girls to inquire who they were waiting for.
I being the ‘proud and arrogant’ girl used to detest exchanging words with these overly fashionable but ill mannered girls , leave alone mingling with them even if I were left alone them at a desert.
As I geared up at my level best to ignore them, I was left shocked and aghast at what one of them said—that that poor porter fell down on the ground, broke his head and is asking for help but he’s unable to get one; and that they’re waiting there to see what transpires next.
I didn’t know what to say, but probably knew what I was supposed to do. But, alas, I was a girl in hijab, amidst a bunch of long nosed, audacious, degrading so called ‘posh’ women and if I were to be his rescuer, they’d condemn and criticize me which would definitely make me face a loud music at my home by my image conscious mom. I felt feckless and damned by this self imposed infirmity but hopefully glanced around to
check if there was any human being, if not an angel but all I could see were shopkeepers peeping out and passer bys staring carelessly, with a few exceptions who stood surrounding the man and watching as if some shooting for a movie scene was going on. Every time he tried getting up, he’d fall with an equal bang, causing pain not only to himself but inflicting several severe wounds on my helpless soul. I wondered where was his family? Did he even have one or not? Why was he working so hard at this age? Will he reach out to the one who waits for him? Or will his family members come to know if something worse happens to him? I was inundated with a myriad question but went numb while answering them. I tried persuading and protesting indirectly by repeating,” Yahan koi Allah ka banda nahi?” but was forcefully dragged away with a simple excuse,” We’re women, what can we do?”
I returned home feeling dejected and miserable, like a defeated valor, more precisely, a coward—undoubtedly, my exaggerating words boasting about our spirit, humility and hospitality found in this fast paced, trendy cum raunchy city of Mumbai, with whom we’re so proud to associate ourselves with, had turned unworthy of praises and reduced to utter rubbish, all because of my action (or should I say ‘no action’??) of showing my back to someone who needed me.
---- Gulnar .F Khan
No comments:
Post a Comment