by Bipin Aurora
You stand there, my friends, you listen to me. But are you convinced? Are you really convinced? I see that your nostrils are getting big, you are not really happy. But you are considering it—I can tell, I can tell. And that is encouraging, my friends. Is it not so?
I was thinking just recently, my friends, of the ancient Hindu texts. (Stay with me, I think of many things.) In these ancient texts, the name of the author is almost never given. I think they did it on purpose. On purpose, I say! It was the deed that mattered, not the doer, or the celebration of the doer. In Sanskrit the verb “to have” does not exist. Possessions (success, fame, etc.) are bad, they ensnare you, they corrupt you. They make you mad. The sentence “I have a house” does not exist, it cannot exist. It becomes, in Sanskrit, “With me a house is.” The subject is the house, not the self; the verb is the simple verb of being. There are so many other examples in Sanskrit and in the other Indian languages—but I will not bore you with them.
No no, not that.
Your nostrils are still flaring, my friends, the blood has rushed to your head. I am not stupid. I can see, I can see. But think about the law, my friends, just think about it. The lottery, my friends, think about it. Peace is possible in our times. It is, it is! Happiness is possible as well!
You know where I live, my friends—the basement, the underground. The mouse hole (ha!). You know where to find me.
I am a simple man, a mediocre man. My hair is balding, my nose is snubbed. But you know where to find me, my friends. You know where I live. You know exactly where I live.
The Boy
It was a nice day. I was wearing my white shirt, my white pants. I was wearing a red tie, a clip in the middle.
The people in the office even made remarks about it. “You look so handsome, Pushkar,” they said. “You look so content.”
Perhaps they spoke seriously; perhaps they spoke in jest. But I took their words at face value.
Did I not do the right thing?
I came out of the office. I lit my cigarette. It was a sunny day—a nice blue sky, a light breeze. I took a puff from the cigarette and watched the smoke rise in the air.
There was a park, the green grass of the park all around. I felt in a good mood, I decided to indulge. I took off my shoes (and why not?). How nice it was to walk on the green grass. How nice to walk in my socks!
I felt tempted, I decided to take off my socks as well. I felt so light, so free.
“You are a serious man, Pushkar,” my manager had once told me. “If one is serious, sometimes one cannot be free.”
I remembered the words of my manager. I remembered the words as I now walked on the green grass—walked in my bare feet.
***
There was a tree. A boy was sitting under it. He was a poor boy, he had a shoe-polish kit with him. Every few seconds someone walked by, he called after the person. “Shoe polish, sir, shoe polish!”
As I walked on the grass, the boy called after me. The shoes were in my hand, not on my feet. I looked at them, noticed that they were indeed dirty. But there was so much dust in India, they would always get dirty. Still I felt in a good, a liberal, mood. I decided to give the boy some business.
“Come come, sir.”
I walked towards the boy.
“I will do a good job, sir.”
“I know you will.” And then: “These are nice shoes. You better do a good job,” I joked.
I arrived at the tree. I handed the shoes to the boy.
The boy took the shoes, he laid them on the grass beside him. He took one of the shoes, he laid it on top of the metal stand before him. He began to open his can of shoe polish.
He looked up at me, smiled.
“You work in the office, sir?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Your sir is good?”
“How is that?”
“Your sir, sir—the man who gives you orders—is he a good sir?”
I found his remarks amusing, but I found them impertinent as well. Who was he to speak to me in this way?
Still, I was in a good mood. I did not lose my temper. I ignored—I simply ignored his remarks.
He rubbed the shoe with his brush, rubbed it vigorously. As he rubbed, he began to hum a tune. It was a slow tune, one I did not recognize. Most poor boys sing the tunes—often crass and vulgar—from the latest film songs. But this was a different tune. Perhaps it was from some hymn; or perhaps from some folk song.
“Do you like the tune, sir?”
“How is that?”
“It is an old tune, sir, my mother taught it to me. She would go to the room inside (it is the only room we had). She would sit there, she would sing.”
“Sing?”
“It was raining outside. She would sit there huddled all night. She would sit there damp and wet. And she would sing.”
What strange words he spoke. He was sharing the words—why was he sharing them with me?
“My mother, sir, she was a good woman. She is dead now—they put her on a string cot, they took her to the Jumna River. When they took her, people were singing the tune. I had nothing better to do (it is true sir, ha ha)—I had nothing better to do. I went along, I sang the tune as well.”
They were strange words. They were odd, they were disjointed. Were they mocking words as well?
He was telling me about his mother—why was he doing it?
“You work in the office, sir. Do they have water there, do they have soap? Do they have water and soap to keep you clean?”
“Water? Soap?”
“My mother died. There was so much pain (and so much dirt). They looked for water, sir, they looked for water to make her clean.
“The old women came, they came to clean her. But they did not have water, they sent them away.
“A man came to the house, a stranger. He had soap in his left hand (it was red in color), he had a bucket in his right. They were happy to see him. ‘Come, come,’ they said, and they pressed their backs to the wall to let him pass. ‘Come, come,’ they said, ‘a nice man is here. He is here at last.’”
In this way he spoke—he continued to speak. I had stopped for a shoe polish—a simple shoe polish—and these were the words that awaited me.
I was in a good mood; I did not want my mood to be spoiled. I knew that I was being vain, that I was being selfish. But this was my one day of freedom. And who was he to spoil the freedom?
“Hurry up with the shoes,” I said, my mood no longer so generous. “I am an important man (can’t you see it?). I am an important man, I have places to go.”
The boy looked at me. He grew serious, he grew quiet. Was he hurt as well?
***
Important man—ha. Was I really such an important man? Places to go—what places were they?
Sometimes I walked the streets. Sometimes I walked the alleys. Were these the important places to which I had to go?
The boy polished my shoes. Vigorously he brushed them—back and forth, back and forth.
“Finished, sir.”
He was quiet, he was formal.
The charm of the moment—charm, what charm?—had been broken.
I tried to be nice to the boy. He was silent. I tried to make a joke. He was silent. I tried to give him a tip. But actions, real actions, speak louder than words. And had not my actions spoken for themselves?
The boy took the money—the fee for the shoe polish, not a penny more. He bowed silently.
He collected his things—with such purpose he collected them. He rose, he left.
I had come to the park—come with dirty shoes. My shoes were no longer dirty. But my soul, what of that?
My soul, what of that?
***
Some time passed. I thought of the boy—I felt low. I thought of the office—the praise, the flattering words—how silly it all seemed now, how pointless.
I went to the park looking for the boy. There was no sign. I walked the streets, the alleys. No sign.
Such a small boy he
was—seven years old, perhaps eight. He wore those small shorts, brown, a small shirt that hung over the shorts. The shirt, originally white, was now covered with polish marks. He worked hard, he worked hard. He was a good boy—how could he not be?
Days passed, weeks. Weeks passed, months. I had forgotten the boy (or had I?); I had moved on to other things.
One day I saw the boy—I saw him again.
There was a long and narrow alley. There were open drains on both sides. Children played in the alley. They were poor children. Some of them wore clothes, some of them were half-naked, their genitals exposed. All of them were covered with dust.
The girls jumped rope. Some of the boys played with a ball. It was a pink rubber ball. One of the boys threw the ball, the other missed. The ball went over the other’s head; it went into the open drain.
There was some shouting—some curse words were exchanged. The open drain was dirty, the ball would be dirty. No one wanted to go to the drain, to pick up the ball.
And there he was—the shoe-polish boy. He must have been standing in the corner (or perhaps in the shadows). He must have seen it all.
He came to the front. He walked—quietly, simply—to the open drain. He picked up the ball—picked it up between his thumb and his forefinger. He carried the ball—the water dripping from it—carried it this way for a few feet. Then he squatted on the ground. He took the ball, he rubbed it in the dirt. He rubbed it, he rubbed it—he did this almost for a minute.
The others looked at him—looked in awe. They were afraid. He was a brave boy. He was not afraid.
“Well done! Well done!” one of them said at last.
“Yes yes, well done!” said another.
Now all the others joined in as well.
A boy came from the far end of the alley. He was pushing a bicycle tire—pushing the inner rim of the tire with a stick. He pushed the rim with such interest—with such concentration.
But when he saw the boy with the ball, he paused. He held the rim with one hand. He seemed to be filled with admiration—even he.
The boy—the shoe-polish boy—was not quite done. He reached into his kit, he took out a small towel (it was torn, it was green). He rubbed the ball with that now, rubbed it vigorously.
Back and forth; back and forth.
“It is clean now,” he said at last. “The ball is clean.”
A cheer—another cheer—rose from the children.
One of the children came running. He went to the ball, grabbed it. He held the ball in the air.
“Time for pithoo!” he said (a popular game).
The other children watched him, they cheered as well.
“Time for pithoo!” they said.
The boy ran with the ball—ran into the distance.
The other children went running after him.
***
The scene was forgotten, the children had moved on. And there he stood, the shoe-polish boy (the “hero”). He stood by himself.
I emerged from the shadows, I walked towards him.
He saw me—did he recognize me? Some seconds passed.
“I will clean the towel, sir,” he said at last. He was referring to the towel he had used to clean the ball. “I will not use it for shoe polish. I will clean it, sir—I will, I will.”
“I will, I will.” Was I some kind of policeman, some inspector? Did he have to justify his actions to me?
“My mother was a good woman, sir.”
“I know.”
“She loved me.”
“She did.”
“She said that it was important—important to be clean.”
In this way the boy spoke—simply, calmly. Was it with passion as well?
His face was small and black. His eyes were small and black. He looked at me—directly he looked.
“Do you have a mother, sir?”
“A mother?”
“Is she good?”
“Good?”
“Does she tell you, sir, tell you to be clean?”
In this way he spoke. On and on he spoke. They were strange words. But he believed in his words. He believed in them, he believed! And was that not the key?
“The ball was dirty, sir—I cleaned it.”
“I know.”
“I cleaned it, I cleaned it. Did I not do the right thing?”
Clean, clean, how he insisted on that. I tried to explain to the boy—explain about that day. But how far away it seemed. I tried to apologize to him. But how silly it seemed. He knew about the world, he knew what was important—or did he? Did he have time for such things?
“There are good people in the world, sir.”
“Good people?”
“There are bad people in the world, sir.”
“Bad people?”
“My mother was a good person. The sir is an important man. Is he a good person as well?”
“There are wise people in the world, sir.”
“Wise people?”
“My mother was a wise person. The sir is an important man. Is he a wise person as well?”
In this way he spoke. On and on he spoke. He spoke with pride. He spoke with feeling. Was it with insolence as well?
It was twilight now, the sun was beginning to set. Soon it would get dark (but did the boy care?). There was a reason for his words (what reason?). There was a meaning to his words (what meaning?).
“My mother was a wise person. The sir is an im portant man. Is he a wise person as well?”
In this way he spoke. On and on he spoke. The minutes passed. Perhaps, at last, the boy grew tired. Perhaps, at last, he had exhausted himself. He looked at me, he smiled. He looked at me, he stared. Then he bowed. He picked up his things—his shoe-polish kit, his old green towel. With such purpose he picked them up, with such concentration. And he continued on his way.
Ahmed
Ahmed was a short dark man and he went to work. Others made fun of the work (they said it was simple, low-class), but let them say what they would. It was his job, he did it. He went to work.
It was a simple store in a shopping mall—a 5 and 10. The work was hard, the pay not much: two dollars an hour. But it kept him busy. It gave him something to do. It helped him pay the bills.
Some people drove to work. Some people took the bus. He rode on his bicycle. It was an old bicycle with a basket in the front (he kept his lunch there in the brown bag). There was a silver bell. He liked the bell especially. He liked to tinkle the bell.
“Where are you from?”
“From Yemen, sir.”
“You will work hard?”
“I will.”
“Your father?”
“Nasser is a bad man, sir. He killed my father—many years ago he did it. I have no respect for Nasser. But other men I respect. I will work hard, sir. I promise. I will work hard.”
The manager was Mister Mundy. He did not know who Nasser was, did not really care. But Ahmed seemed like a nice man. His face was dark—perhaps too dark. But his black hair was short and not like that of those crazy hippies. He was dressed in clean clothes, he wore a grey sleeveless sweater on top. Should he not give him a chance?
Ahmed went to work. They told him to work in the stockroom—he worked there. They told him to sweep the floors—he swept the floors. They told him to help the cashiers with the bagging—he helped the cashiers with the bagging.
The customers were many, the lines long. The customers’ demands were endless. Should not the lines be kept down, the demands met?
A child came to the store and threw up. There was vomit and vomit all up and down the aisle. They called Ahmed and asked him to clean it. He took a mop and a bucket, he cleaned it.
It took one hour to do it. Then he spent another hour trying all kinds of ways to take away the smell. They asked him to go to the electric store and buy a fan (it came out of petty cash). He turned on the fan and he kept it on for hours. At Mister Box’s direction—he was the Assistant Manager—he even left the fan on at night when they
went home.
This was Ahmed’s job, he did it. He did it and he did not complain.
***
Ahmed was a simple man, a Muslim. Sometimes he went to the mosque and he prayed to his Lord, to Allah. The people at work did not know who Allah was and they did not care. They were too busy with their own lives. To them Ahmed was an outsider, a strange man. And sometimes they were intrigued—just that.
“What is your name?” they said.
“Ahmed,” he said.
“Why don’t you change your name?”
“Change it?”
“Change it to something simple. Something American. Change it to Al.”
Ahmed liked his name but perhaps there was truth to what they said.
Ahmed did not eat pork.
“Pork is good,” they said. “Bacon. Ham. You should try it sometime.”
The national elections were going on, he was fascinated by the elections. In Yemen Nasser had been in charge and the elections had been a farce. Yes, the elections were going on in America—sometimes he talked about them. But to the others they were of little interest. “Nixon, Humphrey, Wallace—who cares?” they said. “It is the same. It is all the same.”
Ahmed went to work. There was a woman there, Helen Bender by name. She was in charge of payroll. On Thursdays she paid you cash placed in a small brown envelope. Ahmed counted his money and then he bent down and put the envelope inside his shoe—sometimes even inside his socks. When work ended it would be night and he would have to ride his bicycle home in the dark. He did not want anyone to steal the cash.
Helen Bender was a strict woman. She was fifty years old, maybe fifty-five, and she had grey hair. She was short, no more than five feet. She wore thick stockings and thick round glasses. There was a wooden booth in the middle of the store—there were two steps and you climbed the steps—and she worked inside the booth.
There was a lock on the inside of the booth. If you wanted to talk to her, you had to knock on the door. There was a sliding window there and she pushed on the sliding window a bit. “Who is it?” she said. You introduced yourself. If she recognized you, she opened the window some more. If she did not recognize you, she continued to ask questions.
