The Thirst

A warm sunny day. A “hot” sunny day would be a more appropriate word.

I was already very thirsty from the 80km bus journey in that half city half village land in some remote location in Karnataka. What we call as interiors of Karnataka. But the topic isn’t about my thirst. It cant be at all. Coz the experience of being thirsty is practically a myth for us living in cities. We are a generation who either have a water bottle always tucked into our bags or always have the privilege to quench our thirst for 15 to 20 bucks. So easy.

This story is about something which I saw, observed and then it made an impact on me. Not that reading the same story would make an impact on everyone. But then we never know what creates an impact on our lives. However small or however big.. If it makes you think, makes you feel, its impactful.

So there I was, after my 80km bus journey. The bus had just dropped me near the busiest junction of that dreadful town from where I was expecting another pick up on bike from my associate. I was on a trip to understand details to be used in making a corporate film for one of my client. The bus which had just dropped me, simply zoomed past into the dusty cloud created by its own karma.

When the cloud settled, I could visualize the panoramic site of the place from where I was standing. To my one side, there was a bus station. To my other side there were rows of shops selling all sorts of things. The road besides me was bustling with auto rickshaw and people. And the people were poor.

Though being poor is not at all demeaning in  any sense. Its neither a crime nor is it infectious. But still the way a rich looks at poor, the whole idea of being poor becomes so unwanted. I have met poor people. I have lived with poor people. But never once it occurred to me that they are any less happy than their richer counterparts. Richness cannot assure you happiness. There is no proof of richness guaranteeing peace of mind. But still when the Poor looks upto a rich person, there creeps in a feeling of being ashamed. Ashamed of being poor.

So the poor ashamed people whom I was looking at where busy in their own routine world. World oblivion to my gaze. And in that moment, my eyes focused on a family. A family of Four. Had just alighted from a shared auto rickshaw. The father, a fragile man with worn out shirt and pants to call as cloths was struggling to count the coins which he had to give to the autoriskshaw driver. May be he was resisting within himself to part ways with the money he had. There was a young wife with a newly born child in her arms. Struggle from tiredness from handling the newly born was clearly visible on her face. And still she was trying desperately to shield the baby from the sun rays with the help of her saree’s loose end. The baby lay peacefully in loving caressing arms of his mother, oblivious to the classification of rich and poor which he has to face for this life ahead.

And the fourth member of the nuclear family was a young girl, around 5 years old. A tiny frock on her body which was probably so over used that she had outgrown it long back. But still it was being used for obvious reasons. The bottom end of the frock was barely reaching her thighs and the poor girl had got used to this. The girl was without footwear. Now on a hot sunny day, when the tar road was hot enough to make people walking on it break a sweat or two, the sight of a 5 year old girl walking barefoot on that road made me sick. Emotionally.

The father, who till now had done away with the rickshaw fare, guided the family to a nearest footpath. And immediately left the family in the scorching sun to get something. The wife was with the task of sheltering her new born, who was by then getting restless due to the heat. The heat and the struggle of the new born which will make him so resilient in years to come. Or rather years of struggle to come. And that’s what makes our maximum population so resilient. But the rich never understands. They still wonder, why the population does not protest. Why they do not raise their voice. The rich, who are used to crying as a child even when they don’t get their favorite icecream flavor, how can the same rich understand the deep rooted cause of being resilient of the poor who as a child were not even able to manage a shade in the sun, let alone the distant dream of an ice cream.

The little girl also stood close to her mother. Trying to hold on to her saree as if that was the only solace left for her in this world. And indeed it was. No toys, no chips, no games, the saree was the solace of that 5 year old.

After about 10 min of waiting, I began to imagine whether the father had deserted them to find their own destiny. I was becoming impatient. The site of those three lives, still standing on that footpath with nowhere to go, under that 12 o clock sun, was something I can never forget.

And then the father appeared, with 2 coconuts, each in his each hand. One for the wife. One for the daughter. Even in that apathy, his sense of realization of his families thirst was paramount of human love. Of family bond. 

I smiled. My own thirst was somewhat quenched at that very moment.