That Moment Was All

Muflisi ki khalish ka

Iqrar hi kya hai

Rehbar ki sohbat

Chashm-e-bahar hi kya hai

Tamannao ke qile to

Aqsar toot jate hain

Fir supurd-e-khaak me

Khuld-e-nisaar hi kya hai!

A stale foggy winter morning.

Coolness has something to do with it. It makes you breathe stale air and feel fresh. Exactly!There's something to that foggy morning. It's stale. It's fresh - your perspective. Fog and smog bring down the visibility to almost zero. Your next step, might be another good one to lead yourself to where you want to be ; or you might step into an unattended open manhole , you drown while no one's there to help ;just one step in fog. And then what do you do? You try seeing things. Things tend to become clear. You realize. You assume. Your experience helps, and you keep moving on.

A foggy winter morning it is. At times, they call it life too.

Back then, it was a winter morning too. I was a 13 year old kid, dreading to wake up early (well, for tempting winter mornings, 8.00 am was early for me). Sunday, it was. As a kid, I feared Sundays (savoring them is obviously implicit, though). It was because my father had an off that day. This meant that I had to wake up ‘early’ and help my parents with the daily chores. My mom affectionately allowed me to embrace my laziness but my father found it to be his utmost priority to make his ‘now-a-teenager’ son realize, that life isn’t all about lying on your bed.

But that day was different. It was a Sunday morning and I didn’t feel like lying on my cot for long. There was something special about it. My father had promised me to buy me a new bicycle. In life, it’s good to have some gifts. Some surprises. Some rewards. The dilapidated drum of aging life keeps on rejuvenating by little charms.

The eager and impatient kid that I was, it was difficult for me to swallow the breakfast as I feared that my father would again be occupied with some work and will forget about the cycle (irrespective of the fact that I had already reminded him of the bicycle thrice since morning.)

And then, with my hair all oiled and neatly combed (just like my dad ever wanted his son to look all the more sophisticated) , I headed with my father to the cycle shop. There wasn’t much to be taken care of at the shop, since it was my father’s friend’s shop and much to my surprise, my father had already told him about the bicycle, and he had chosen one for me.

A beautiful amalgamation of yellow and blue – a Foster’s bicycle it was. I liked it. A comfortable leather seat. Chrome colored shiny rim. Sporty look. That’s all I wanted. That’s all it was. I was happy.

My uncle asked us to sit till the worker fixed the cycle parts for us to take it home. My father and uncle giggled over tea, while I munched the biscuits and noticed how the workers, their hands blackened with grease, the blackness seeping down their skin, their eyes, their soul , worked hard amidst the blackness of their lives to cater happiness to some fortunate ones like me.

The dilapidated drum of my mind struck again.

A hoarse voice broke my chain of thoughts. My inquisitive eyes searched for the owner of the voice. The owner of the voice was a young lad, of my age, I guess. He had come there to bring some tea for the workers of the cycle shop who had taken a break to freshen by a cup of tea. A winter morning, it was.

Chotu, he was called. There is something about this word – Chotu. No matter who you are. Ram. Ramesh. Asif. Xyzq. Anyone. If you’re a child labourer , you’re no more than a Chotu. Then this word isn’t used for a person, but a commodity. Someone, or something rather, which can be used, the way you want. To sell tea. Make Pakodas. Polish Boots. Anything.

Chotu, such small a name, such vast a legacy.

I read his eyes. His eyes mapped every nook and corner of my bicycle which stood proudly in a corner and waited for its new owner to ride it. He kept his canister of tea on the ground, leaned over the wall and gazed at the bicycle. There was this temptation, this urge in him to touch it. To ride it. To taste what it feels like to sit on something as luxurious as an expensive bicycle. Yes, a bicycle, can be a luxury for some.

Life, in itself, is an irony.

I don’t know what provoked me but I stood up and went up to him. I asked him if he wanted to ride it.

His eyes, much mature of his age, spoke a lot. Amazed. Shocked. Tempted. His eyes spoke for him. He didn’t utter a word. He just blinked with innocence.

I turned back and asked my father if I could take the bicycle for a round to see if the seat was adjusted in accordance to the comfort of my height. He agreed.

I took the bicycle with me. I held the handle and carried it with me. I didn’t sit on it I asked Chotu to follow me. Once we crossed the bicycle shop and were in the next lane, I asked him to ride it. This time he spoke.

He denied riding it and started walking back. His feet. His body gesture. His eyes. They wanted to embrace it. But his mouth denied it. Reluctance was obvious.

It isn’t about wanting something. At times, there is this subtle, invisible wall, which might not obstruct us, but in deed commands our mind to obviate the need to have it.

I reaffirmed that no one would say anything to him. He can ride it for a round at least. I stood there as he touched it. Much to my amazement, it wasn’t just a bicycle for him. It was something precious. Some worth craving for. A luxury in its ownself.

And when he came back from the round, he got down shook hands with me. The moist imprints of his warm hands had a lot to say. It was not just his hands which were moist. His eyes too. He thanked me. I asked him about how it felt when he rode it. His reply touched me. Moved me.

He said that it wasn’t the first time that he rode a bicycle. He had done that before too. To bring sugar and tea leaves for the shop owner where he worked. But it was different. The time when he rode his owner’s bicycle, he was a servant back then, sent on a ‘voyage’ to bring everything his master wanted. But today, the ride was different. It wasn’t heavy with the sugar bags, tea leaves or anything which signified subordination. Those 120 seconds of this day were his.

He felt light. His talks made me feel heavy. By then, we reached the shop, he thanked me once again, picked up the tea canister and left.

I was not the first one to ride my new bicycle. Chotu rode it first. And I was happy about it. I knew it was pure now. Pious for me to ride it. I think that was the moment which made me realize how much we, as humans, have been missing on what we have, in this urge of wanting something better. There are so many people, wanting to live the life we’re living today, while we the supposedly fortunate ones are busy cursing and cribbing for more.

At the end of the story, I’m just reminded of this couplet by Nida Fazli Sa’ab :

“Zindagi wo kehte hain

Jaadu ka khilauna hai

Jo mil Jaye to mitti hai

Jo kho jaye to Sona hai”

(Life, they say, is like a magical toy.

It’s nothing, when you have it

It’s everything , once you lose it)

Jayant Bharadwaj

2014-19