To Chetna, coz we don't turn eighteen everyday
THE FARE-COLLECTOR
Christmas Eve was a peaceful affair. In some well-lit homes,
a nativity scene or two had been put up and some vestiges of Christmas were
lingering around. In my part of the world, Christmas is often a silent
business. Indian folk love Christmas no doubt, but my experience says they
treat Christmas like a Sunday, to take a break, have a look around and partake
their share of entertainment.
For me, Christmas is holy. It pleases me to sit alone on festive days like these, and ponder over the world. That’s my thing, thinking about the system, criticising it, appreciating it, wondering at it. It is joyful for us; this day, we exchange gifts and sweets and cookies and hugs and smiles, but for my neighbours- those who live in shabby gullible houses, with nothing but a thin tin layering between them and the sky- Christmas doesn’t exist. If they sell their farm produce, it’s Christmas for them, if they can’t, even Diwali is spent without the bliss and colours. It doesn’t matter to them if Jesus Christ was born in a manger; all they care about is how to sell their onions and potatoes.
Me, I am part of a family that earns a modest living, and has just more than sufficient- sufficient enough to know that there were three wise men from the East who came with gifts for baby Jesus. I study in a good school, wear clean clothes, eat healthy food, and I have no grudge against life.
I don’t know why but, on Christmas day this year, I consciously thanked each one responsible for me one by one. Mentally, I loaded them with as much gratitude as I could muster, firmly establishing that my mathematics tutor was indeed the best in the whole world and I was blessed to have someone like him in my life. This thanksgiving lasted a short while when the wall clock chimed.
It was time for the get-together. My friends had arranged one near Panitanki More to celebrate Christmas. I decided I would continue my musings during the bus ride to Panitanki.
I hopped on to a bus from Thana More and occupied a seat beside the window. A lady hurriedly came and sat down beside me, unloading all the bags she had been carrying.
The bus was full of passengers. It rumbled on towards my destination. I watched the figures- buildings and lamp-posts and shops and people and traffic- flit past the window.
The lady beside me was managing to grab my attention more than I liked, she couldn’t quite settle herself. Her bags around her feet were always rolling about and she was occupied in her frantic struggle to keep them all from running amok.
The fare-collector came down the bus collecting the money in his dirty yellow pouch. He was a queer figure. The first thing I noticed about him was that he was blind. He wore dark spectacles and was constantly looking at the roof of the bus. He felt his way about and managed not to stumble on anyone. He had grown a shabby beard and had a lean body. His fingers deftly went in and out of the pouch collecting the four rupees that was the fare from Thana More to Panitanki.
That triggered a train of thoughts in my mind. What was he, a blind man, doing on a city bus as a fare-collector? Didn’t this prove the depths of degradation man as a social animal had fallen to? I was reminded of Arun Kolatkar’s poem, The Old Woman, where the old woman went about begging the tourists. She had no other alternative. I felt this poor blind man was in a similar state, with no alternative, doing something he’d be far gladder to give up on the first chance. Pity seized my senses but I made no move.
Presently, the fare-collector came up close. I could see his face clearly. He was muttering something under his breath. He was too soft to be audible. I tried to read his lips and realised that he was repeating some numbers. In fact, it was the same number- three hundred something- he was repeating, I couldn’t catch it clearly. The way he thrust all the coins he received from the travellers into his pouch, anyone would think that he was afraid someone would snatch it from him if he kept it in his hand too long. Was money all that mattered in this world? The three wise men from the East made a mistake, then. They should have gifted baby Jesus money, in huge quantities, in all currencies, so that he could distribute it among the poor and do some good to the society. Yet, it was not so.
Here we are, I thought, celebrating Christmas while these poor men toil for money. It grieved my heart, the idea that there were people who didn’t have the luxury of a Christmas cake. We are blind to their needs, just like the fare-collector. I felt the poor man was an embodiment of human society, one individual that stood for the mentality and the attitude of the whole earth. The fare-collector was an apt reflection of us humans, blindly groping and shuffling money and thrusting it into our pouches. That’s all we do, by the looks of it.
The fare-collector was asking the lady beside me for her fare. “Four rupees,” he asked gruffly. The lady made a titanic effort to find her purse in the knee-deep clutter around her feet. I waited while she had fished out her purse for it was impossible for me to fish out my wallet while she was fishing for hers in that four feet of space we were sharing.
She flipped open her purse and two coins rolled out. There was one two-rupee coin and one one-rupee coin. She looked into her purse for more but found it empty. The easy manner in which she announced “Take these four rupees” and handed only three to the blind fare-collector struck me as the zenith of human decadence. The poor collector thrust the two coins into his pouch. Transaction closed.
Something overcame me, and it made me pay for the lady’s share of greed. I paid six rupees in three two-rupee coins to the fare-collector. The Indian one-rupee and two-rupee coins have not much uncommon between them. Though the five-rupee coin is thicker and can be recognised on being touched, it is nearly impossible to tell the difference between a one-rupee and a two-rupee coin.
In the same easy manner as the lady, I announced “Take these four rupees” and stretched my arm to give him the six.
The collector quickly slid two of the coins into his pouch and held out the third coin for me to take back. I hesitated. In this moment of hesitation, I sensed something pass the collector’s lips. They twitched.
He knows.
I silently took my third coin back and put it into my shirt’s pocket. The collector passed our row and went on his way.
I was dumbstruck. The lady beside me seemed not to have noticed the little drama. It struck me that it was horribly wrong on the part of the fare-collector to quietly accept a rupee less from the lady when he knew that he was being cheated. Any sane human being in the world would not do so. This was absurd. This was out of the ordinary. This was not, so to say, human in nature. This bewilderment accompanied me the rest of my journey.
At Panitanki, I waited patiently while the other passengers got off. I didn’t want to be a part of the scuffle to get down. As I was about to descend, the blind fare-collector accosted me.
“Yes?” I asked him, my heart thumping in my chest. The person had a different aura about him.
“Three hundred and thirty-six. Three hundred and thirty-six. Three hundred and thirty-six.” He said it thrice. It was mystifying, as if he was trying to hypnotize me.
“What of that number?”
“I have been collecting fares for seventeen years now. Three hundred and thirty-six people have cheated me. You were the first one who deliberately tried to give me more. Thank you.” He said, turned away and walked off.
I stood there, absolutely perplexed.
The bus had started to move slowly. I jumped off on to the street in my trance. I watched the bus till it rounded the corner. The blind fare-collector had given me a new train of thought. Money wasn’t everything. How to act like a human being was.
I silently began my walk. The streets were suddenly very quiet.
In my part of the world, Christmas is a silent affair.
For me, Christmas is holy. It pleases me to sit alone on festive days like these, and ponder over the world. That’s my thing, thinking about the system, criticising it, appreciating it, wondering at it. It is joyful for us; this day, we exchange gifts and sweets and cookies and hugs and smiles, but for my neighbours- those who live in shabby gullible houses, with nothing but a thin tin layering between them and the sky- Christmas doesn’t exist. If they sell their farm produce, it’s Christmas for them, if they can’t, even Diwali is spent without the bliss and colours. It doesn’t matter to them if Jesus Christ was born in a manger; all they care about is how to sell their onions and potatoes.
Me, I am part of a family that earns a modest living, and has just more than sufficient- sufficient enough to know that there were three wise men from the East who came with gifts for baby Jesus. I study in a good school, wear clean clothes, eat healthy food, and I have no grudge against life.
I don’t know why but, on Christmas day this year, I consciously thanked each one responsible for me one by one. Mentally, I loaded them with as much gratitude as I could muster, firmly establishing that my mathematics tutor was indeed the best in the whole world and I was blessed to have someone like him in my life. This thanksgiving lasted a short while when the wall clock chimed.
It was time for the get-together. My friends had arranged one near Panitanki More to celebrate Christmas. I decided I would continue my musings during the bus ride to Panitanki.
I hopped on to a bus from Thana More and occupied a seat beside the window. A lady hurriedly came and sat down beside me, unloading all the bags she had been carrying.
The bus was full of passengers. It rumbled on towards my destination. I watched the figures- buildings and lamp-posts and shops and people and traffic- flit past the window.
The lady beside me was managing to grab my attention more than I liked, she couldn’t quite settle herself. Her bags around her feet were always rolling about and she was occupied in her frantic struggle to keep them all from running amok.
The fare-collector came down the bus collecting the money in his dirty yellow pouch. He was a queer figure. The first thing I noticed about him was that he was blind. He wore dark spectacles and was constantly looking at the roof of the bus. He felt his way about and managed not to stumble on anyone. He had grown a shabby beard and had a lean body. His fingers deftly went in and out of the pouch collecting the four rupees that was the fare from Thana More to Panitanki.
That triggered a train of thoughts in my mind. What was he, a blind man, doing on a city bus as a fare-collector? Didn’t this prove the depths of degradation man as a social animal had fallen to? I was reminded of Arun Kolatkar’s poem, The Old Woman, where the old woman went about begging the tourists. She had no other alternative. I felt this poor blind man was in a similar state, with no alternative, doing something he’d be far gladder to give up on the first chance. Pity seized my senses but I made no move.
Presently, the fare-collector came up close. I could see his face clearly. He was muttering something under his breath. He was too soft to be audible. I tried to read his lips and realised that he was repeating some numbers. In fact, it was the same number- three hundred something- he was repeating, I couldn’t catch it clearly. The way he thrust all the coins he received from the travellers into his pouch, anyone would think that he was afraid someone would snatch it from him if he kept it in his hand too long. Was money all that mattered in this world? The three wise men from the East made a mistake, then. They should have gifted baby Jesus money, in huge quantities, in all currencies, so that he could distribute it among the poor and do some good to the society. Yet, it was not so.
Here we are, I thought, celebrating Christmas while these poor men toil for money. It grieved my heart, the idea that there were people who didn’t have the luxury of a Christmas cake. We are blind to their needs, just like the fare-collector. I felt the poor man was an embodiment of human society, one individual that stood for the mentality and the attitude of the whole earth. The fare-collector was an apt reflection of us humans, blindly groping and shuffling money and thrusting it into our pouches. That’s all we do, by the looks of it.
The fare-collector was asking the lady beside me for her fare. “Four rupees,” he asked gruffly. The lady made a titanic effort to find her purse in the knee-deep clutter around her feet. I waited while she had fished out her purse for it was impossible for me to fish out my wallet while she was fishing for hers in that four feet of space we were sharing.
She flipped open her purse and two coins rolled out. There was one two-rupee coin and one one-rupee coin. She looked into her purse for more but found it empty. The easy manner in which she announced “Take these four rupees” and handed only three to the blind fare-collector struck me as the zenith of human decadence. The poor collector thrust the two coins into his pouch. Transaction closed.
Something overcame me, and it made me pay for the lady’s share of greed. I paid six rupees in three two-rupee coins to the fare-collector. The Indian one-rupee and two-rupee coins have not much uncommon between them. Though the five-rupee coin is thicker and can be recognised on being touched, it is nearly impossible to tell the difference between a one-rupee and a two-rupee coin.
In the same easy manner as the lady, I announced “Take these four rupees” and stretched my arm to give him the six.
The collector quickly slid two of the coins into his pouch and held out the third coin for me to take back. I hesitated. In this moment of hesitation, I sensed something pass the collector’s lips. They twitched.
He knows.
I silently took my third coin back and put it into my shirt’s pocket. The collector passed our row and went on his way.
I was dumbstruck. The lady beside me seemed not to have noticed the little drama. It struck me that it was horribly wrong on the part of the fare-collector to quietly accept a rupee less from the lady when he knew that he was being cheated. Any sane human being in the world would not do so. This was absurd. This was out of the ordinary. This was not, so to say, human in nature. This bewilderment accompanied me the rest of my journey.
At Panitanki, I waited patiently while the other passengers got off. I didn’t want to be a part of the scuffle to get down. As I was about to descend, the blind fare-collector accosted me.
“Yes?” I asked him, my heart thumping in my chest. The person had a different aura about him.
“Three hundred and thirty-six. Three hundred and thirty-six. Three hundred and thirty-six.” He said it thrice. It was mystifying, as if he was trying to hypnotize me.
“What of that number?”
“I have been collecting fares for seventeen years now. Three hundred and thirty-six people have cheated me. You were the first one who deliberately tried to give me more. Thank you.” He said, turned away and walked off.
I stood there, absolutely perplexed.
The bus had started to move slowly. I jumped off on to the street in my trance. I watched the bus till it rounded the corner. The blind fare-collector had given me a new train of thought. Money wasn’t everything. How to act like a human being was.
I silently began my walk. The streets were suddenly very quiet.
In my part of the world, Christmas is a silent affair.
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