The Shirt
Do you feel cold and lost in desperation
You build up hope but failure’s all you’ve known
Remember all the sadness and frustration
And let it go, let it go.- Linkin Park (A Thousand Suns)
It was a late August evening. Sarita stood outside the metro station, waiting in anticipation. The monsoon had been really good this year, and each day the skies were overcast with dark grey, water-laden clouds. Rain showers were the only thing constant in this otherwise ever-changing, ever-challenging city; yet, she stood drenched. Her clothes soaked with water, made her feel like a piece of sponge. But the rain would not stop. Piercing her clothes like 0.22 rounds, it kept coming at her.
A sudden cold breeze made her shiver.
“Why did my foolish self not bring an umbrella along?” she asked herself in exasperation.
An occasional car passed by, making her restlessness exponential. Even the Uber services were down.
‘Customer shoots Uber driver due to fare discrepancy’ the newspaper headline had said, in bold, this morning.
All the drivers had gone on a strike, demanding better safety measures for themselves. In the age of customer first, where corporates focus only on the revenue and the consumer, the service provider always struggles. And when the provider demands for a basic necessity to be met, the service receiver struggles. Sarita played the role of the receiver here, in this vicious circle of capitalism. Yet, she didn’t give up. Trying to keep her hopes high, she logged into the application once again.
‘NO CABS AVAILABLE!’ exclaimed the screen brightly.
“Uff… how do I get home?” she asked herself, almost in tears now. Her imagination had started running wild, reminding her of the state of safety in the city she lived in. Her fears made her pray.
God listened; and along came by an old and fragile rickshaw-vaalah. By the looks of it, he seemed to be in his late 60s or early 70s. All he wore was a pair of torn trousers, riding his rikshaw in this downpour — bare-chested.
“BHAIYYAAAA…!” shouted Sarita at the top of her voice.
The rickshaw-vaalah looked around, startled, searching for the scream’s source. His eyes fixated at her.
“Bhaiya, will you go to Pushpak Vihar, Sector-2?” asked Sarita, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. She’ll go home, finally.
“Beti, I can’t. It is raining hard. I need to find shelter, else, I’ll fall ill. The streets are also flooded everywhere. It would be very difficult for me to wade the rickshaw through those rushing streams.” He said in denial.
“Please don’t say no Chacha.” She said, addressing the rickshaw-vaalah as her paternal uncle. “I’ve been stranded here for an hour. You’re my only hope.”
“Beti, I really can’t…” started the rickshaw-vaalah.
“You call me beti, your daughter. Would you leave your daughter marooned on a night like this, that too in this city?” Sarita questioned, unable to hide the discomfort she faced.
Memories rushed back, ones that he wasn’t fond of. Quickly disposing them off, he tried to focus on the moment of truth. Standing right in front of Imtiaz was this young woman, who had put him in a state of dilemma. Here she was, asking him to drop her home, with an argument that couldn’t be debated; and on the other hand was his grandson Abdul, who would be waiting for his return. But could he leave her in the state she was in at the moment? Chivalry said no!
“Chacha, the regular fare is 50 Rupees, but given the circumstances, I’ll give you a 100.” Sarita continued in desperation, trying to convince him.
“Fine, I’ll take you.” Imtiaz gave in, “But money isn’t what I want.”
He took an uncomfortable pause, then continued…
“You see, my shirt is completely drenched, thanks to this downpour. If you could give me a dry shirt to wear, I’d be extremely grateful.” he said.
‘A shirt…? Where do I get one from?’ Sarita thought.
‘Ahh… there is a pile of old shirts that Suresh doesn’t wear anymore. I can definitely spare a couple for this old man.’ She quickly decided.
“Done Chacha, I shall give you a shirt. Please take me home now!” she stated, thus sealing the deal.
And like a fearless sailor, Imtiaz sailed through rivers and streams, the rickshaw being his ship- his Black Pearl. After what felt like 15 years in the open seas, the rickshaw reached its destination.
“Just give me a couple of minutes Chacha; I’ll be right back with the shirt.” Sarita said as she got off the rickshaw.
“I’ll give him two shirts instead, he’ll be on cloud 9” she said to herself, as she quickly climbed the stairs to her apartment.
Meanwhile, sitting in the rickshaw, Imtiaz was in his own reverie. He couldn’t believe his luck. He was about to get a new shirt. It would be an old, worn out shirt, but nonetheless new for him. ‘I’ll give this shirt to Abdul. He’ll be very happy. If only his parents were alive, they would’ve gotten him a nice present for his birthday, like those rich kids.’
Unfortunately, all Imtiaz could give him was an oversized, put down shirt. The memories flooded his brain again, and he was unable to put them away this time. A tear rolled down his cheek, but the rain made it its own.
Back at the apartment, Sarita’s mother-in-law opened the door.
“Namaste Mummyji!” greeted Sarita.
“Namaste beta! Where have you been? What took you so long? All of us have been so worried. Nor is your phone number reachable!” replied Mummyji, half relieved, half upset.
Sarita quickly narrated the incident.
“… and thus I need to give him the promised shirt. Where have you kept those old shirts that Suresh doesn’t wear anymore? I’ll give him two of those, not one. He has been very helpful, would make him happy, and I’ll sleep well.” finished Sarita enthusiastically.
But the enthusiasm was short lived. She noticed the shock on her mother-in-law’s face.
“What happened Mummyji?”
“The kabadivaalah had come today. As I was taking out the old newspapers, he told me how business had been slack and daily commodities were becoming too expensive. All his resources were being directed towards groceries, let alone educating his children, a new shirt not even in the thoughts. He had been wearing the same shirt for the last two weeks, without changing it even once.” said Mummyji, her voice cracking.
“I took pity on him, and gave him all the shirts.”
Mummyji’s words dropped like bombs on Sarita’s ears.
“So we don’t have a single shirt to spare for the rickshaw-vaalah, do we?” asked Sarita in vain, enthusiasm light years away from her voice.
Mummyji shook her head. Neither could they give him a new shirt, as inflation had taken a hard toll on them, just like any other middle class, budget oriented family.
Sarita collapsed on a chair, broken. “What do I say to him Mummyji? He’ll be furious. He’ll feel cheated!”
“Beta I am so sorry, I didn’t have the slightest idea.” replied the elder of the two. “Give him Three Hundred Rupees. He’ll be able to buy one for himself at the Budh Bazaar tomorrow. That is the best we can do at this hour.”
Unconvinced, yet option-less, Sarita conceded. With a heavy heart, she stepped down the stairs.
Imtiaz looked at the silhouette, appearing towards him, in anticipation. He eyed the hands of the young woman, trying to catch a glimpse of his award. He would finally get a gift for Abdul. His happiness knew no bounds.
“Chacha…” began Sarita in a voice that lacked energy. “Chacha… actually… the shirt… actually we gave it… I mean Mummyji gave it to the kabadivaalah, so, you know… like … I don’t have any to give right now.” she stuttered.
“WHAT?” cried Imtiaz in shock.
“But, I can give you Three Hundred Rupees Chacha, you can buy one for yourself at the Budh Bazaar tomorrow. I am so sorry, Chacha, I didn’t know. Please forgive me!” sobbed the woman, as she tried to make a case for herself.
The world hadn’t been very kind to him, but what he was witnessing was betrayal of the highest order. All his dreams of a birthday present for Abdul lay shattered. Tears rolled down his cheeks, the rain unable to camouflage them this time.
“But you had promised…”
“I’m really very sorry. I hadn’t anticipated.” she cried in vain.
Silence.
Silence, that couldn’t be broken.
Silence, that stretched the moment to eternity.
“Very well then, give me the money.” said Imtiaz, almost in a whisper, his heart an anchor. He took his earnings, and went his way.
As Sarita climbed the stairs back to her apartment, an inner battle was being fought. This entire incident had made her lose her peace of mind, and she couldn’t stop blaming herself for all that had happened. A poor, yet kind old man was cheated, and she was the culprit. All doors to hell were open for her. She deserved punishment.
Nevertheless, able to convince herself that she did the best she could, Sarita sighed a breath of relief.
“Oh Three Hundred Rupees is good enough! He’ll definitely be able to get a shirt for himself tomorrow.” Her mind had reached its state of calm.
And she slept soundly that night, relieved that she had reached home, safe and sound.
In an unknown corner of the city, a young boy awaited his grandfather’s return.
Till eternity?
