People read newspapers for getting the latest news and updates. I read them for turning myself on. Not sexually, but as an intellectual stimulation. When it has been weeks that I touched my books or read anything substantial, I pick up the latest newspaper and read it. I come from a background where English has never been a mainstay, and it has been these newspapers which have improved my grip on the language. In an odd sense it gave me a sense of belonging to the larger, fairer community for which I was once an outsider. I never discard a newspaper until I have read it. Even if I do it after months, until I have skimmed through it I won't let anybody keep it in the attic. Back in college, I used to dress up in my finest sports outfit, put on my Dad's jacket and walk three kilometers to pick up the latest copy of The Hindu (I eventually switched to The Indian Express) from the near by vendor. It gave me such a sense of satisfaction, as if I had almost earned the right to read N. Ram and Shekhar Gupta talk about what is wrong with the our country.
Eventually the Vanmali library was opened next door. Vinay uncle, being a close acquaintance and a literary enthusiast himself, booked the newspapers for me. It did break my daily routine, but with everything coming up I had no real reason to complain. The vendor would deliver the newspaper and the security guard would deliver it to our place every morning, without fail.
Initially I had numerous run ins with the security guard. He was adamant on keeping us kids off the library premises and we were equally adamant to make sure he had a tough job doing that. Like all the old people I have seen or met in my life, I haven't seen him change him a single bit during all these years. He has had the same toothless smile, the same ragged uniform and the same comprehending looks all along. He stood on his territory and I always thought I made valid arguments. Whatever it was we argued about, the fresh copy of my newspaper would be delivered at my doorstep every morning by him. Day in and day out. It seems like an eternity since our morning tea has been accompanied by his hoarse voice. "paper".
But then times change. My run ins with him disappeared. While he stood taking care of the library and delivering my newspapers, I attended college and got a job. Now it is just in time as I am leaving for work, he comes with the paper. I greet him with a polite thank you, and he responds with a toothless grin. There are days when I don't even get a chance to open it, but I still keep it in my backpack, just for the old man's sake.
There was a minor break in this routine a couple of weeks back. Nobody saw or heard from him, and with everything on my plate I had no real reason to be bothered. Yesterday just as I was about to leave, he came in and said, "paper". His face was ashen, and his head shaved bald. He did try to flash a smile, but his eyes said something completely different. I was dumbstruck. I had no idea what to say. The pause, the silence was deafening. All I could muster was a feeble sit down. He took to a spot on the ground.
"Baba saheb, my daughter passed away."
And he choked. I stood rooted to the spot. Somewhere in the background a clock was ticking, and Dad said I better hurry up. I couldn't have cared less.
I mumbled some consolation. He wiped away his tears. He looked worse than before.
"She had pneumonia. Her husband was away and she was all alone. By the time we got a wind, it was too late."
"I went to my maalik, the owner of our security agency. He kept me waiting for no less than three hours. All I asked him was for a couple of months of advance payment. When I told him why, he shooed me away, as I were a street mongrel. As I were filth, a vermin who just came out of a gutter. And then he asked another guard like me to throw me out. How dare I pollute his office while the sootak was still going on."
"Baba saheb, tell me one thing. Is a poor man's misery his own fault? I stand on my feet, days after days for him. I wear this ragged uniform and yet he shoos me away. But here I am again, standing for him, his agency wearing this uniform."
"Then how did you... " I trailed away.
"Some people from locality came up, his husband had some cash too. We managed it somehow."
"You read this newspapers. I have seen you reading all these years. One day you'll grow up to become a seth like my maalik. But don't you ever do something like this to a fellow human being. We too are made of the same flesh and bone." And in one swift motion he picked himself up and started walking away.
"But then why didn't you come to us?"
"No baba saheb, I didn't want to take help from somebody whom I won't have been able to repay. And then if I borrowed anything from you, how could I come to you everyday empty handed, with just a newspaper."
I went numb. I half-wished to stop him, and half wished that I had something better to say. A wave of guilt swelled me, with that newspaper in my hand. By the time I gained my senses, he was already halfway back to the library. Yesterday I missed my bus. I hope someday I don't miss the bigger picture.
Amen.
