A FRAIL OLD MAN IN THE WOODEN CABIN

The man and the small wooden cabin appeared to be made for each other. The cabin has been placed close to the wall of a government bungalow that was originally planned for the residence of a senior official but now houses a government office. The man is of frail physique and one could , when he was not wearing either a vest or a shirt, count a few ribs behind his modest skinny chest. The cabin is barely twenty feet square and the man slips into it for rest at night. I see him, early in the morning, crawling out through a tiny door, holding a yellow plastic mug, with a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste and a metal tongue cleaner. He stands erect for a few minutes after emerging from the tiny cabin that would soon turn into his work- station and he would sell biscuits, toffee, pan, pan masala, small cakes of soap, toothbrush, toothpaste etc. Before his business hours start he needs to get ready. He walks down to the telephone office - a large public building, marginally used, where, I guess, he makes use of one of the many washrooms which are put to authorised use only after the office goers arrive, around ten in the morning. I would not hazard a guess if he avails of this service of a clean toilet and bathroom free. But going by the prevalent practice in this part of the world , where even entitlements are, in many cases, available only after greasing the palms of the relevant persons, I would think this frail man, surely, would be spending some amount on some people for availing this morning service. Occasionally I love to talk to him. He loves to complain about his small business and smaller income. His sons are engaged elsewhere. The cabin is entirely his and he makes most use of it, both day and night.
For a few days I have been noticing a red coloured Maruti Van parked close to his cabin, along the wall. Yesterday, I asked him about the owner of this ancient vehicle that surely did not look well maintained. The car, he said, belonged to a primary school teacher who had inherited it from his father and he was in no mood to sell it. His explanation didn't sound convincing. I left the talk halfway as my friend arrived and we moved on.

This morning I didn't see the frail man but an unknown well built person was washing the car. I broke the silence and he looked up. I found him cultured and reverential; he answered my questions with a smile. He owned the car. He works as a primary school teacher in a school somewhere in our city and he would soon superannuate . He confirmed having inherited the car from his father. He sounded somewhat emotional while talking about his father. I was curious, I wanted to know more about his father. The man responded well. His father loved cars and he had three of them. These cars soon brought in financial ruin to him and he shifted from Raj Kanika to Bhubaneswar in search of a job. He got engaged in an automobile workshop. By then the cars had been sold, but he could buy this van after toiling in the workshop, twenty three years ago. 

"What would you do with this van?" I asked. He did not know, he said. "Oh! You would like to keep it in memory of your father !" I asked. The man stopped cleaning the windscreen and looked straight into my eyes . His eyes had moistened, he whispered the word " memory" and said " yes". " Not many sons are anxious to do such a thing, you make me happy", I said and wished him well. He bowed his head in reverence. I moved on with my friend to the temple garden. 

(August 1, 2017)

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