People like them...

Have you ever given a second thought to those beggars sitting by the roads asking for the cheapest coin you can find in your pocket? Where do they sleep? Were they always the way they are? I for one never did. I mean, whenever some one asked me for money, I turned him down, reassuring myself that even if I give him some money, he will 1) run straight to the liquor shop, 2) never stop begging, and 3) only ask for more. But the following experience of mine made me ask strange questions to myself. And now I can assure you that some beggars were not always beggars.

My father, being a government servant, was used to transfers. In 22 years of his job he was transferred 17 times. And the one of which I talk about here took us from Gwalior to Raipur. Even after a week of stay in the new city, life was still not on track. I had still not joined the school and a feeling of torpor prevailed after the tedious job of shifting places. On one such evening, after rising from an afternoon siesta, I went to the drawing room to find mom talking to a middle aged Oriya woman. She was a short, dark complexioned Chhattisgarhi-speaking woman. After bargaining deftly for a few minutes, mom was able to convince her to work for Rs.150 a month. She would work in the household in two shifts. Mornings 8 to 10 and evenings 4 to 5 pm. This done she went happily and took up her job from the next day onwards.

Devki was a diligent and efficient worker. She hardly absented herself from her duties and mother was quite satisfied with her. All that matters. My parents wedding anniversary was arriving and a party were to be thrown. This being a grand affair, mom informed Devki a week in advance that she was supposed to stay up late that evening to assist her in dinner, to which she had readily agreed. When the dinner was over, the hour being late, my father ordered me to drop Devki to her house in the car. I was glad to have another chance to drive the Maruti Omni. Her house was a little shack covered on the top with black poly-ethene to protect the dwellers from rain. When we reached there I found the family waiting outside the house. The husband appeared to be older than I had expected. Two daughters and a little son completed the family. As I reversed the van I heard the couple yelling at each other. Harsh words were being exchanged. Relations between the couple, it appeared to me, were not well at ease. I drove on without giving a second thought.

A month had passed. We were busy with our lives and preoccupied in our routines when one day on returning from school I found Devki speaking to mom in the drawing room. It surprised me that she was at home at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, far before when she was expected. But what shocked me more was that she had a swollen eye, a red face and was sobbing implacably. Between her sobs, she would raise her head and say a word or two to mom in Chhattisgarhi, of which mom couldn't understand much. I went in without listening too much, to feed myself with lunch. When father came home from office that evening, mom apprised him of Devki's problems. "He drinks a lot," said my mom, "and beats her. He takes away all her money to spend on liquor. She was in such a bad shape today". "Why doesn't she go to the police?" questioned my father. I agreed with him. No decent family involves itself in family disputes of household maids. The subject was closed.

Later I gathered from another servant of the household, that the two daughters were from the man's ex-wife. Devki had only the son, who, the servant informed me, was the apple of her eye. He also told me that the man didn't work at all, and lived on his wife and daughter's earnings. The daughters too worked as household maids.

Even in these odds, Devki persevered to keep her work on. For the sake of her son, I assumed. It was only after a month or two that she absented herself from work, consequently for a week. When she finally appeared she informed mother of what she had went through the last week. Her husband went away from home and also took along their son with him to some place she could never think of. The two daughters were living with the families they worked for. And for last one week, she was alone in her shack, searching for her son in the days and waiting for him in the nights. She resumed her work in a hope that her husband will eventually return with her son. She could not think of a better alternative, I guess. All these days she was a sorry figure, a hapless mother waiting for her son. "Mor turaa laa sut aat he baai" she would say to mom. Meaning "I really miss my son, ma'am".

This continued for a week or two when she finally stopped coming for work. Other servants started sharing her job between them. Our lives were quite unchanged when one evening I went outside to find a woman sitting at the gate of the house. She was a haggard. Her hair uncombed. Her face swollen. Her eyes bloodshot. "Who's that?" I asked. At this Devki appeared to be deeply moved. "You don't recognize me, chhote baba?" she yelled "how many years have I worked for you". I recognized her and yelled for mom. On seeing mom, Devki started wailing loudly. "oo mor tura laa le gayees baai" she lamented "moka wapas dila deo baai". We were both disconcerted. Mom fruitlessly tried to appease her. After saying this and crying for a while she stood up and started walking away. "She's gone mad" mom said sadly. And she was right. Devki was now a lunatic. From this day on, and perhaps forever afterwards, I had this very special place for Devki in my heart. I always felt bad and my heart sank when I thought of this luckless mother. But I never happened to hear or see of her again. I took it that they might have taken her away to some lunatic asylum.

A year later, I Iost my father. On the 13th day, as per a family tradition, my brother and I were supposed to give away food and money to beggars outside Shri Ram temple. There were two lines of beggars. I started giving food from one end and my brother from the other. Just reaching for the fifth beggar, my brother called for me. As I walked towards him, he said, "Look at the woman. Is she Devki?" As he lived in Indore for his engineering, he could hardly recognize an ex-maid turned beggar. I bent over to look at her and replied, "Yes, she is." She didn't recognize either of us. Instead she was busy playing with a doll. Her son's perhaps. I gave her lots of food. "For your evening meal." I said softly. She still didn't recognize me, and joined her hands and moved her head as if to say "thank you." With a heavy heart we drove back home.

As I write this I wonder where she is now. Or is she still alive? But one thing I know of her is that Devki was not always a beggar. No sir. She was an honest, sincere worker who had a purpose of life, a reason to work hard: to feed her son. Somebody took her purpose away from her, and she had nothing left in the world. And now whenever I look at a beggar by the road I ask myself "what kind of a wretched person it might have been, who took away his purpose of life from him?"

Kinshu