He was defeated. Of that he was sure.
On the wrong side of thirty, the man was lean, short and wiry,like the rest of his ilk. Clad in shorts and a torn tee, his 'working' clothes, he was a 'paati', as daily wage labourers are so realistically called, in Mumbai. The paati was the outsized cane basket, he carried on his head. His work place were the markets of Mumbai, where he stood waiting for hire. The paltry ten and twenty Rs. that he earned for each time he was hired amounted to two hundred when he was very lucky, which most days he was not. Ironic that those who could afford to buy sack fulls of grain and produce, could not carry them, and vice versa.
He was an illegal migrant, from Bangladesh, uprooted by massive floods, who had wended his way to Mumbai with his son, the only surviving member of his family. The twelve year old, wide eyed and scared, tagged along with his father on his daily grind. They survived like countless others, abandoned by humanity, living from day to day, bereft of basic neccessties, dignity even. Until...
The rains in Mumbai are merciless. Undiscriminating and relentless, they sweep before them every vestige of life, specially of those who are homeless. Holding plastic sheets above his head to protect the goods he carried, while being soaked to the skin himself, the 'paati' still persevered.
That day his son had woken up burning with fever. Someone suggested he should take him to the public hospital. Carrying the inert child in his arms, he waited his turn as the teeming Que before him inched ahead in the OPD. Anguished, he tended to him until finally the overworked doctor examined him and pronounced " Malaria". The next week had rushed by in a haze, as he exhausted his reserves, the child hardly showing signs of improvement. The doctor gave him a list of medicines which the hospital would not provide. But after working night and day, and surviving on tea he only reached the point of exhaustion, still unable to earn the sum of two thousand he needed for the child. The resident cynic suggested he take him to the Dargah at Haji Ali. Maybe Allah would do what Doctors couldn't. Maybe a miracle would save him.
It rained hard and heavy that night. The gloom in his heavy heart was matched in full measure by the weather outside. The father and his child lay outside the Dargah, in the sheltering confines of the bus stop. It was dawn before, his tormented heart allowed him to sleep. The hand on his shoulder shook him awake. Bounding up in fright, he saw before him a brawny youth, who was holding out a wad of notes. Disbelieving, he stared, as three others emerged from behind, waking up all the others who lay around him, handing each one the same amounts. " Bhai ka birthday, hai. Dua dena " the polished voice commanded. They turned around to see the heart throb star of many films, sitting in his Jeep smiling at them.
The star with a heart. The miracl had been wrought. Jis ka koi nahi, uska Khuda hai yaaro, he had sung in a film. Those who have no one have God on their side. Indeed.
On the wrong side of thirty, the man was lean, short and wiry,like the rest of his ilk. Clad in shorts and a torn tee, his 'working' clothes, he was a 'paati', as daily wage labourers are so realistically called, in Mumbai. The paati was the outsized cane basket, he carried on his head. His work place were the markets of Mumbai, where he stood waiting for hire. The paltry ten and twenty Rs. that he earned for each time he was hired amounted to two hundred when he was very lucky, which most days he was not. Ironic that those who could afford to buy sack fulls of grain and produce, could not carry them, and vice versa.
He was an illegal migrant, from Bangladesh, uprooted by massive floods, who had wended his way to Mumbai with his son, the only surviving member of his family. The twelve year old, wide eyed and scared, tagged along with his father on his daily grind. They survived like countless others, abandoned by humanity, living from day to day, bereft of basic neccessties, dignity even. Until...
The rains in Mumbai are merciless. Undiscriminating and relentless, they sweep before them every vestige of life, specially of those who are homeless. Holding plastic sheets above his head to protect the goods he carried, while being soaked to the skin himself, the 'paati' still persevered.
That day his son had woken up burning with fever. Someone suggested he should take him to the public hospital. Carrying the inert child in his arms, he waited his turn as the teeming Que before him inched ahead in the OPD. Anguished, he tended to him until finally the overworked doctor examined him and pronounced " Malaria". The next week had rushed by in a haze, as he exhausted his reserves, the child hardly showing signs of improvement. The doctor gave him a list of medicines which the hospital would not provide. But after working night and day, and surviving on tea he only reached the point of exhaustion, still unable to earn the sum of two thousand he needed for the child. The resident cynic suggested he take him to the Dargah at Haji Ali. Maybe Allah would do what Doctors couldn't. Maybe a miracle would save him.
It rained hard and heavy that night. The gloom in his heavy heart was matched in full measure by the weather outside. The father and his child lay outside the Dargah, in the sheltering confines of the bus stop. It was dawn before, his tormented heart allowed him to sleep. The hand on his shoulder shook him awake. Bounding up in fright, he saw before him a brawny youth, who was holding out a wad of notes. Disbelieving, he stared, as three others emerged from behind, waking up all the others who lay around him, handing each one the same amounts. " Bhai ka birthday, hai. Dua dena " the polished voice commanded. They turned around to see the heart throb star of many films, sitting in his Jeep smiling at them.
The star with a heart. The miracl had been wrought. Jis ka koi nahi, uska Khuda hai yaaro, he had sung in a film. Those who have no one have God on their side. Indeed.
good way to combine the Haji Ali fact to the story..like it..
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