Pandemic, Blind Man and a Blurred Truth

The pandemic pushed a man of modest earnings to penury. Amita weaves a story about him and his daughter. An exclusive for Different Truths.

He used to come twice a month since the onset of the pandemic. Lamenting his misfortune, he would strike his cane on the ground punctuating the monotone, which rent the air. He neither looked like a beggar nor asked for any help.

My window opened out to a miniature world outside. I could see him in white pyjamas and kurta probing for a suitable place with the cane to sit down. The place he chose was next to the main gate of our housing complex under the shade of a tree.

I could get a clear view of his activities from my domain. Resting his cane against the concrete gate he took out a newspaper from the sling bag.  Unfolding it he placed the paper on the ground to sit upon. Surprisingly enough he carried a white mask, which he also pulled out from his bag. And there it was perched on his aquiline nose and mouth! No, he didn’t have a begging bowl.

The moment he settled down the high-pitched narrative of his misfortune died down. From a distance it was mostly unintelligible. He sat there mute and uncomplaining like a stoic for the next couple of hours. His demeanour intrigued me as I observed him bemused.

The passers-by were also amazed to find an elderly man in spotless white lounging by the street.  Some stopped by probably to enquire whether he required any help.  A generous few taking him to be a blind beggar offered him money.

He accepted and carefully passed them into his bag. He also carried a bottle of water in his bag which he occasionally took out to wet his parched throat. The scorching heat of summer was not a deterrent to his visits.

He would usually arrive at 10 a.m. and quit exactly at 12 noon. I was at a loss to understand how he could have an amazing sense of time. Did he come to know the time from the passers-by? I however succumbed to the mythical belief that blind people were endowed by a sixth sense.

The pandemic had thrown life out of gear. I tried to figure out what could have compelled him to beg. He certainly didn’t look like a beggar. But then the contagion had many stories to tell which were at once devastating and unthinkable.

The panorama viewed from my window had subtly mutated. The moving rush of people and vehicles was absent. The merry chirp of children in uniforms striding down the street gradually became a thing of the past. The look was strangely barren, and an eerie silence prevailed specially during the lockdown.

With people keeping indoors, my world outside shrunk to a slice of life negotiated through the open frame.  Only Nature followed its natural course to bloom and proliferate. The air would stink less of sulphur. The mornings were pleasantly soothing with a medley of rapturous twitters.

The blind man was a bimonthly visitor to our locality. Even after the Amphan, which wreaked havoc the poor soul could be seen. Trudging down the street he came and reposed in the self-assigned spot. He left after the scheduled couple of hours. My curiosity to know about him became so compelling that I resolved to speak to him one day.

***

The day was bright and pleasant. I could hear the elegiac monotony of   high-pitched voices heralding his arrival. I quietly stepped into my shoes. Gearing myself with a mask, head cover I ambled towards our Housing’s gate. I waited for him to settle down and relax before appearing at the spot.

Observing him from close range, I found that he was meticulously rigorous in his manners. I saw him take out the old newspaper from his sling bag.  He dusted it before placing it on the ground to sit down. He took two sips of water from the bottle without spilling a drop despite his trembling fingers. Then he reclined the cane against the gate taking care that it wouldn’t topple off.

Once he had settled down, his deportment and pensive poise spoke of his inherent refinement.

Slowly I approached him. He spoke in fragmented sentences, but his words were distinct enough. I also noticed that he was gasping for breath at intervals. What I gathered from Mohan Pal, his good name, was that he lived in Tollygunge. The distance was about four kilometres away from our house. He had worked as a senior welder in a factory and lived happily with his wife and only daughter.

About a year before the onset of the pandemic, fate had dealt a tragic blow while at work. His vision was irreversibly damaged in an accident. But he was retained on payroll on a meagre salary as he had served the factory for many years.  The pandemic eventually drove the last nail in the coffin and his service was terminated.

“But didn’t you get a lump sum amount for your long service?” I asked.

He continued after a brief pause, “I was ruined but tried to come to terms with my plight. The little money that I got, I saved for my daughter’s marriage.”

 “What is your daughter doing?”

“My daughter will appear for her B. A. final semester examination. She was doing well fending for herself with a couple of private tuitions. But she lost her tuition during the pandemic. I need to procure her examination fees as she is my only hope. I wish her to continue her studies too.”

I tried to put together the strands of our conversation. It was sheer misfortune, which had urged him to take this step. He was stuck in the dilemma of begging for survival and pride of once being in a respectable job. He just sat there and accepted help from generous passers-by who believed in his story. He visited different fixed localities and welcomed help from people who did it voluntarily.

I was deeply moved by his grim story. Some vibes speak of honesty, and one yields to a suspension of disbelief. Without any hesitation I rummaged through my bag. I found some hundred rupee notes and notes of smaller denomination.

“What a wonder! This should go for his daughter’s education,” I mused. I handed him the money which he humbly accepted muttering a thousand thanks.

“Bring your daughter one day. I stay in Block B, first floor of this housing. You can visit me any day with your daughter Mohan Babu”.

Gratefully he nodded his head.

 “I will after her exams.”

***

Days rolled into months. Mohan Pal would pay his ritualistic visits, while I observed him from confinement.

Again, there was a surge in the spread of Covid throughout the country. The social restrictions which had been a bit slackened were put on hold. People swung back to the rigorous life of the new normal. I didn’t see Mohan Pal for about two months which made me apprehensive. At the same time unwarranted doubts crept in my mind.

One afternoon my doorbell rang. I was surprised to find a young girl in a mask at my door. Introducing herself as Mohan Pal’s daughter Pratima Pal, she said shyly, “May I come in, Madam?”

Taken aback a bit I stammered, “Why not? Do come in.”

She sat down and placed the box of sweets she carried on the table. I noticed she was a replica of her father.

“Your exams must be over.” I tried to pick up a conversation.

“Yes, and the results are out too. I am a graduate now and this is for you.” She offered me the box of sweets.

Accepting it I said, “Thank you but there was no need for this. How is your father? Why didn’t your father come along?”

She hung her head for some time and then slowly said, “He is no more. We lost him to Covid last month. He told me everything about you and wanted me to visit you.”

Her face was suffused with pain. She looked up at me with gratitude in her eyes.

I was deeply shocked and stared at her face speechless for some time.

The hard-hitting truth blurred any speck of misgiving I had in my mind. I breathed a silent prayer that his soul rest might in peace.

Visuals by Different Truths