Left from the Nameless Shop

by Adithi Rao

  The place was festive. Mango leaves and garlands of marigold were festooned on the front gate and over the main door. A beautiful rangoli had been made at the entrance by the ladies of the house. To reach the gate itself, the guests had to pass under a canopy of fragrant flowers and coconut leaves. A shamiana stretched from the front gate, all the way to the other end of the street, to provide colourful shade to the guests when they sat down at the long tables to eat the six-course lunch that would be served on banana leaves. Inside the compound, on a dais off to one side, a group of musicians made music, while Sharada and Janani stood at the entrance, accompanied by their niece Sowmya, receiving the guests. Everywhere, people were dressed in splendid silks, as a steady stream of them passed through the front door into the main house. Anthony felt dowdy and shy in his old kurta–pyjama that Tessie had skilfully mended and ironed for him for the occasion. Suddenly he wanted to leave. Who would notice if he went away, anyway? Among such a large gathering of rich and important people, what difference would one old barber make? He wished Tessie was with him. She was still so lovely (more so with the passing of years, he thought) and no matter what she wore, she always looked dignified and graceful. He suddenly felt very lonely in this crowd.

  Just as he was turning to go, Sridhara and Dhruva, grown men now, came hurrying out to greet him.

  ‘Anthony Uncle! There you are finally! Sheshi Doddappa told us to keep an eye out for you and bring you straight inside the minute you arrive. Gopal Anna has been asking for you again and again!’

  Anthony blinked back the sudden tears and beamed all over his simple face. He followed the cousins inside, and the guests made way for him as if he were a person of importance. The hollow feeling in his chest began to fill. Sridhara and Dhruva led him to the place of honour, where Sheshadri Saab, Gopala and his wife Adishree stood receiving the guests. As on Gopala’s wedding day, Anthony noticed how radiant this girl was, whom Gopal baba had married. There she stood, draped in a beautiful red sari, the happy glow of new motherhood shining in her eyes. In her serpentine braid, she wore strings of jasmine and a single red hibiscus. Close to where the group stood was an old-fashioned wooden cradle, finely carved with motifs of peacocks and flowers, a family heirloom. The cradle rocked a little as the baby inside, invisible but for its plump little legs, kicked aimlessly in the air. Gopala’s wife spoke graciously to everyone, but glanced at her baby often to make sure it was okay.

  Sheshadri greeted Anthony warmly, and Gopala hugged him, then drew his wife’s attention away from the baby, saying, ‘Adi, you remember Anthony Uncle from our wedding? He’s probably the most important person in Rudrapura! He gives the best haircuts in the world, and if it were not for him, I would have … I would have …’ he searched for the right words and then hit upon them with a laugh. ‘I would have become a film star!’

  Adishree laughed and folded her hands in greeting. Gopala’s mother joined in as she remembered those crazy, worrying days when her dominating husband and defiant son had been at constant war. Only Sheshadri Saab, who was talking to another guest nearby, abruptly stopped smiling.

  ‘Come, Anthony Uncle, meet the newest member of our family,’ said Gopala, and led the old barber to the cradle. Anthony stepped forward and peeked into the cradle with bright eyes.

  ‘A son, Gopal baba!’ he exclaimed, a smile lighting up his face. ‘My Gopal baba has a baba of his own now. And what lovely, thick hair he has!’

  Sheshadri Saab joined them and said heartily, ‘Of course he does. And you will be in charge of it, Anthony!’

  ‘Won’t I, Sheshadri Saab? Didn’t I give this child’s father his first mundan? What an honour this is! One more generation of hair for me to cut!’

  As if in response to the old barber’s words, the baby in the cradle began to kick its legs and scream.

  7

  The Beggar of Rudrapura

  The beggar appeared as if from nowhere. They found him one day, sitting on a low stone wall in the north end of the town, clutching a walking stick wrapped in rags that were as filthy as the clothes on his back. He was mumbling continuously to himself. The people of Rudrapura liked to know their neighbours’ business as thoroughly as they knew their own, and they rarely stood on formality. Over the next week, they approached the old beggar freely and interrupted his mumblings to ask him where he had come from and for what purpose.

  The beggar didn’t answer questions. He couldn’t. He didn’t seem to realize that he was being spoken to. He mumbled incessantly about some cricket match; at least that’s what the townspeople thought until he leaped joyously into the air one day, shouting, ‘Goal!’ For the rest of the day, the town speculated about whether it was football or hockey he had been going on about. But since nothing more coherent followed that one exclamation, they lost interest and left him to his own devices. It was more entertaining to talk about him than to him, and he became the favourite topic of conversation when they met for coffee and maddur vadas at the Nameless Shop.

  Only old man Basavaraj continued to visit the beggar. He liked him somehow, and the more he listened, the more he was convinced that the fellow was lucid in his own way. He rarely bothered him with questions, preferring to listen closely to catch his words. Over time, it became apparent that the beggar was giving a commentary on some match. It was always the same match, and he was clearly witnessing it in his mind. His concentration was focused on the game that only he could see, and he reported every moment of it faithfully.

  One day, Basavaraj was on his way to Rudrapura Only Mechanics where he had worked for thirty-odd years as head mechanic until he retired. He had with him a coconut scraper whose metal edge had broken off, and he wanted Suresh – his erstwhile apprentice and current head mechanic – to weld it back for him. To that end, he gave his invalid wife Shantamma her breakfast early and set out for Five Points on foot. He made a left at the Nameless Shop and walked on until he came upon the familiar sight of cars (all two of them) and motorcycles parked outside the rusty old gate of the mechanic’s garage. There were three lorries parked out in the lane, and Devendrappa was hard at work painting one of them with splendid flower motifs and the words ‘Shree Durga Parameshwari Prasanna’.

  Basavaraj stopped to admire the intricate work. Really, Devendrappa had elevated painting trucks into an art form. The rear portion looked like a splendidly embroidered garment. Not wanting to disturb the lorry-and-sign-board painter’s concentration, Basavaraj quietly slipped away.

  Inside the garage, the motorbikes were in various states of repair and disrepair. Suresh and his two assistants were hard at work, but when they saw Basavaraj, they put down their tools at once and wiped their greasy hands on rags. He had trained these boys, and they loved him. They often called on him for advice regarding particularly complicated bits of machinery, and Basavaraj chuckled about it to Narayanamma.

  ‘They want me to feel important, like I still count for something. Let them, poor things, Narayani. They are good boys, these boys of mine!’ And Narayanamma scoffed at his notion and told him in her no-nonsense way, ‘You just don’t know your own worth, that’s all. But luckily for the ancient vehicles and gadgets of Rudrapura, Suresh and his mechanics do, or else what would become of them all?’

  At this, Basavaraj would laugh till tears came to his eyes. But somewhere in his old heart he believed her a little and felt happy. That day, Basavaraj dropped off the coconut scraper, chatted briefly with Suresh and the others, and then set out for home. As he passed the low stone wall, he came upon the beggar.

  ‘Goaleewatchingwatchingcarefullynottakingeyesof fballforonesecond!TwoboystackleSriramSriramlook saroundlooksaround!Whotopasstowhattodo?Thenfrom nowherecomesGujar!Aah!Gujarshouts:“Srirammeme passtome!”’

  The old beggar seemed excited. Basavaraj decided to spend a few minutes with him. He seated himself next to him on the low stone wall. After listening to him gabble on for a while, Basavaraj thought he would try asking a question or two in the hope that the beggar would answe
r.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ he asked gently.

  ‘RobertseesthatopponentBaruahapproachingfromSri ramlefttointerceptthe—’

  ‘Where have you come from?’ Basavaraj tried again, touching the beggar’s arm to draw his attention.

  ‘—ballsohecomerunninguptryingto … unh?’ he grunted, shaken out of his musings by Basavaraj’s insistent hand. He turned his faraway blue-grey eyes towards Basavaraj.

  ‘Where-you-come-from?’ Basavaraj tried in broken English, abandoning his native tongue on the hunch that the beggar might not be from these parts.

  The beggar waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the north.

  ‘Chithalli? Shivamogga?’ probed Basavaraj hopefully.

  ‘Unh?’ grunted the beggar again.

  ‘You from Chithalli?’ Basavaraj pointed to the north.

  The beggar waved his hand to the east this time and took up his commentary again. Laughing, Basavaraj gave up and got up to leave. He would try again tomorrow. This was a question he wanted to know the answer to, for the beggar looked ill and underfed. He was a tall man but very gaunt, and it had been a while since he had eaten properly. Basavaraj brought him food from home sometimes, but always found it untouched when he returned the next day. The fellow needed care. If he had a home or some family out there, it was worth knowing. For, even though the people of Rudrapura referred to him as a beggar, the man had never yet been seen begging for anything. Not food, not money, nothing. He just lived in his own world, a world in which players passed, dodged and tackled each other, and scored a goal occasionally.

  If there was one thing the beggar loved, it was his walking stick. He guarded it jealously whenever anybody was about, as if afraid it would be stolen. If someone so much as passed that way, he would reach out and pull the stick towards himself until the person had disappeared down the road. Soon, the village kids began to lay bets on which of them would be able to filch it. They found it most entertaining to watch the beggar yelling and running after them if ever one of them managed to sneak up and make off with it when he was not looking.

  But the beggar could certainly give chase when he wanted to, and was surprisingly quick. Not that the culprit ever waited around to get caught. When it looked like the beggar was closing in on him, the boy usually flung the stick aside and kept running in the opposite direction, so that the beggar instantly changed track and dived after his possession, forgetting all about the little thief. It was not revenge that he sought. Just his walking stick.

  Basavaraj was the only person around whom the beggar let his guard down. After the first few weeks, something in his disoriented brain seemed to decide that this person could be trusted. He would allow the stick to remain where it was even when the old man came to sit beside him. On his part, Basavaraj made it a point never to look at or touch the stick. If he came along and found it occupying the space on the wall where he himself would have sat, he remained standing. He didn’t want the poor fellow to feel threatened in any way.

  ‘Why you come Rudrapura?’ asked Basavaraj, trying a new track the next day.

  The beggar continued to mumble to himself. ‘Penaltypenaltyforfoulhecommittedfoulthatwasfouldeclaredumpire.ThisumpireUnnikrishnanalwaysalwaysfairnever— unh?’ he grunted, looking down vaguely at Basavaraj’s hand on his knee trying to draw his attention again.

  ‘Why Rudrapura? Why you come Rudrapura?’

  ‘Treesaregreen,’ replied the beggar and then cried joyfully, ‘Boscoconvertthepenaltyandcrowdsgoingmad withjoynowBombayhaschancetowin!’

  ‘You came because trees are green in Rudrapura?’ asked Basavaraj, in amused disbelief.

  At these words, the beggar looked up sharply, his eyes focusing on Basavaraj’s face as if seeing him clearly for the first time. He was frowning in concentration as he stared at the old man intently. He nodded, then leaned slightly towards Basavaraj, as if waiting for him to say something further. Basavaraj was taken aback by this first sign of lucidity he had encountered in the beggar. Forced to lean away a little because of the stale smell emanating from the beggar’s person, Basavaraj replied, ‘Er … yes, yes. Er … trees are green in Rudrapura.’

  Something shifted in the beggar’s blurred eyes, a look of recognition. And then a loud sound exploded directly behind them, making both men leap up in fright. Four of the village truants had sneaked up from behind the low stone wall and stealthily tied a tin can to the back of the beggar’s kurta. In it, they had put a string of chilly bombs (left over from their Diwali quota, no doubt) and lit it. Then they had retreated a safe distance away to watch the fun.

  Old man Basavaraj pulled himself together quickly when he realized what the source of the noise was. But the beggar went berserk with fear. He screamed and ran barefoot on the hot tar road to escape from the terrible sound, jumping up and down and trying to beat it away, cutting his hands on the tin in the process and causing his already cracked and damaged heels to split open and bleed.

  Basavaraj tried to calm him down, to get him to stop for a moment so he could untie the can, but the beggar was beyond reason or words. It was not possible to physically hold him down, he being a full head taller than Basavaraj – definitely not when he was leaping around, flailing his arms in that manner. The truants, of course, were rolling about in helpless mirth. Enraged, Basavaraj caught hold of the walking stick and gave one of the boys a resounding thwack before the children beat a hasty retreat. Basavaraj threw down the stick and tried to stop the beggar from hurting himself any further. It was easier once the chilly bombs had burned themselves out and fallen silent. It took the beggar a while to realize that the noise had abated. When he did, he too stopped running. Seizing the opportunity, Basavaraj swiftly took his hand and led him back to the low stone wall. The beggar kept trying to look behind him, while Basavaraj tugged at his arm insistently to prevent him from seeing the offending can and crackers. Finally, the beggar relented. He sat down while Basavaraj remained standing before him. He placed his hands on the beggar’s shoulders, speaking reassuringly, soothingly to him till he calmed down. Then Basavaraj went around, squatted behind him, quickly unhooked the tin can, and threw it into the bushes.

  ‘Ba nanna joteyalli. You come,’ he said, miming his words to make himself understood. But the beggar was staring unseeingly at the black tar road, unaware that his hands were cut and his left foot bleeding. In desperation, Basavaraj tried another tack, again in broken English.

  ‘Trees. I take you where trees are green. You wanting, you come with me.’

  The beggar looked up quickly. Without a word, he followed Basavaraj. And in his eagerness to find, at last, what he had come to Rudrapura looking for, he left behind something else that was terribly important to him…

  The beggar didn’t limp or flinch once, but walked on stoically. Only Basavaraj saw the large drops of blood stain the road with every step he took, and cringed for his friend. The road was burning hot at this time of day and the foot was so badly injured that the combination must have been excruciating. But the beggar, his mind on the trees he yearned for, walked on determinedly, putting his full weight on his left foot as if it were a healthy one. Basavaraj’s slippers wouldn’t fit the beggar, so the old man made him stop, unwound the turban from his own head, and bound the beggar’s foot tightly with it, hoping that doing so would slow down the bleeding and protect the wounds from the burning tar beneath.

  While it is ill-advised to return to the scene of a crime, one of the four truants did, in fact, do just that. While running away from Basavaraj’s wrath earlier, he had turned to look over his shoulder and seen the blood stains on the road. When the four friends reached the crossroads of Thatcher Mine and Karpagambal Street, the other three were still laughing, so Shanmugam Vel pretended to join in, for he didn’t want them to think him a spoilsport. But after they parted ways, heading off to their respective homes, Shanmugam quietly retraced his steps to the abandoned pipes from where he could observe the low stone wall without being spotted himse
lf. He ducked behind a pipe and then peeked out cautiously from around it. The stone wall was deserted.

  Shanmugam frowned. Where was the beggar? Was he ill? Oh god, had he died of fright?

  Now the boy began to feel terrible. He crept out of his hiding place and slowly made his way over to the old stone wall. He sat down where the beggar usually sat and thought about things for a while. The beggar couldn’t have died! Nobody died from the sound of firecrackers … did they? No, impossible. Basavaraj Thatha must have taken him to his house. Shanmugam felt frightened and remorseful, but he didn’t like these feelings. They were bothersome.

  Suddenly, something in the bushes by the side of the road caught his eye – a strip of ragged, dirty cloth. He got up to examine it. It was the beggar’s walking stick. The root cause of all the problems!

  If only he didn’t carry this stupid thing everywhere, we would never have teased him! It’s all this stick’s fault, stupid thing! thought Shanmugam angrily. Leave it here in the bushes only! Serves it right! Kicking it further into the undergrowth, he walked away. He had reached the pipes when suddenly he stopped, ran back to the bushes and fished out the walking stick. Dusting off the dried leaves and grains of sand, he carried it back to the low stone wall and laid it down on it. It looked as if it were sleeping. Shanmugam went away home.

  It was a long walk to Doctor Bhaskara’s house. It was mid-afternoon, and the elderly doctor would be taking a nap. Basavaraj felt bad about disturbing him, but there was no choice. The white turban wound around the beggar’s foot was reddening with alarming rapidity. When they reached the little brown cottage, Basavaraj made the beggar wait in the front garden. It was a riot of colours: the flowers were in full bloom and the place was lush with plants and fruit trees of every kind.