by Adithi Rao
Doctor Ayya really has a way with plants, thought Basavaraj as he made his way up to the tiny front porch. With all things living, actually, and Basavaraj smiled to himself, feeling the warmth of the place touch his heart as it always did when he came to this house. He knocked on the front door and the doctor’s wife came out.
‘Yaru, Basavanna, na?’ she asked.
‘Oonamma, naane, Basavaraj,’ he replied, touching his right hand to his heart in greeting. ‘Doctor Ayya iddara?’
‘He’s resting,’ she replied, looking slightly put off. Basavaraj didn’t blame her. She must resent people interrupting the few minutes of rest her husband got in the middle of a long day’s work. The doctor was, after all, getting on in years. He must be in his mid-seventies, just four or five years younger than Basavaraj himself.
Hesitantly, Basavaraj glanced over his shoulder to where the beggar stood some distance away, mumbling vaguely to himself. The doctor’s wife followed his gaze and winced from revulsion and pity at the sight of the decrepit, bleeding man.
‘Yaru bandidare, Janaki?’ came Doctor Bhaskara’s voice from inside.
Without taking her eyes off the beggar, she called back, ‘Ri! Swalpa baruttira? There is a patient here to see you.’
The doctor came out in his half-sleeved vest and dhoti.
‘Oh, Basavaraj. It’s you, is it? What’s the matter, is it Shantamma? Is she ill?’
‘llla Doctor Ayya, she’s fine,’ replied Basavaraj. ‘It’s this man,’ and Basavaraj turned to indicate the beggar. Doctor Bhaskara looked at the beggar in silence. The man was looking about him vaguely, as if searching for something. He kept muttering to himself. The doctor nodded, as if understanding something that the others didn’t. There was something beautiful about him, a radiance and calm affection that made people feel instantly healed and hopeful in his presence.
‘Take him into the back garden,’ instructed the doctor, understanding instinctively that the beggar would be more comfortable outdoors than in. ‘I’ll get my bag and join you in a minute.’ He went back inside, followed by his wife.
Five minutes later, the beggar was seated on the washing stone, and the doctor was bent over his foot, which he cleaned, medicated and bound up securely. Through all the ministrations, the beggar seemed to notice nothing, not even the pain. He sat there, lost and muttering to himself about some player who had injured himself in the game and had to be carried off the field on a stretcher. A little distance away, Basavaraj sat on his haunches, silently watching the doctor work. He couldn’t see exactly what was going on because the doctor’s body shielded the injured foot from his view. But he felt sure that the beggar would be alright once Bhaskara was through with him. In the meantime, he looked around curiously. It had been a long time since he had come to this part of the house. Many changes had taken place in it since.
‘How lovely the garden looks! Do you still tend to it yourself, Doctor Ayya?’
‘My grandson helps me when he comes to Rudrapura in the summers,’ replied the doctor distractedly, for he was listening to the mutterings of the beggar with some attention as he worked.
‘I see you have a new mango tree. Raspuri, allva Doctor Ayya?’
‘Avi planted it last summer.’ A slight smile touched the doctor’s lips as he said this.
‘Only this past summer?’ exclaimed Basavaraj in surprise. ‘He has a green thumb too, then, just like his ajja. It looks a year old already!’
‘ThatwasacomplicatedtackleandabrilliantpassbyMoha nty!MohantytoRobertandRobertscoresRobertscores anothergoalthethirdgoalinthisgame!’ cried the beggar.
The doctor looked up quickly, his bright eyes peering keenly at the beggar from behind his dark-rimmed bifocals.
‘Will Avi baba be coming next summer as usual?’ asked Basavaraj.
The doctor didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, ‘This year he will come sooner.’ A shadow passed over his face for a fleeting moment. Basavaraj felt confused. Smiling tentatively, he said, ‘Er … that’s good, Doctor Ayya. I know how happy you are when he comes.’
The doctor turned to look at Basavaraj for a long moment. Then he nodded and turned back to the wound on the beggar’s foot. Soon after, having finished dressing it, he stood up briskly, all traces of emotion gone from his face. He beckoned to Basavaraj, and the two strolled away from the beggar to speak in private.
‘What happened? How did he hurt his foot?’
‘The village boys were teasing him. They scared him with fire crackers.’
The doctor was silent for a minute while Basavaraj watched him expectantly.
‘They will continue to do that. They’re children, after all. Can’t stop them. Basavaraj, this man needs a place to stay where he will be taken care of. He’s very ill. His overall condition is poor due to malnutrition. I’m sure he hardly eats at all. Do you know how he got to this state, where he came from?’
‘No, Doctor Ayya. He just showed up at the street corner a few weeks ago. Every time we ask him where he has come from, he points in some direction, each time a different one.’
Doctor Bhaskara turned his head to look thoughtfully at the beggar sitting on the washing stone. From time to time, the beggar patted the area around him vaguely, as if searching for something that wasn’t there.
‘His walking stick!’ remembered Basavaraj suddenly. ‘Where did we leave it?’ But the doctor was speaking again, and Basavaraj quickly brought his attention back to the conversation.
‘Take him to Brother Abranches? He looks after the old age home and might be willing to take this man in.’
‘That’s a good idea, Doctor Ayya! I’ll speak to him.’
‘If he agrees, tell him that I will take care of this man’s medical needs for free.’
Doctor Bhaskara moved to stand beside the beggar again. ‘Your foot will heal very soon. You will be fine,’ he told him gently.
The beggar raised his head. Something shifted in his vacant eyes as he gazed up at the doctor.
‘I’m a star,’ he said quietly.
There was clarity there, and desperation, as if he badly wanted to convince. From behind the doctor, Basavaraj chuckled. But Doctor Bhaskara looked into the beggar’s eyes and nodded.
‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘I know.’
The beggar’s shoulders sagged a little then. Slowly he leaned forward and rested his forehead against the doctor, seeking, for the first time that Basavaraj could remember, physical contact with another human being.
Brother Abranches was away on school business. They were adding a new wing to Christos Convent – a hostel for underprivileged boys – and Basavaraj was told that he had gone to Bangalore to select tiles and fittings for the interiors. He would be back the following day. Reluctantly, the old mechanic took the beggar back to the stone wall, left him there with his walking stick, and went home. It was almost time to give his wife her lunch and she would be waiting for him. He would return the next day to take the beggar to Christos Home for the Aged. He felt sure that when Brother Abranches saw the poor fellow’s condition, he would not refuse him shelter.
On the way, he swung by the garage and was told that Suresh had gone to the Nameless Shop for coffee and thindi. He had repaired the coconut scraper and left it with one of the apprentices. Basavaraj was exhausted from the long walk, and decided to join Suresh for a coffee. He looked up at the sky and gauged from the position of the sun that even with this detour, he’d make it back home in time for Shanta’s lunch.
At the Nameless Shop, he was greeted warmly. He slipped into a bench beside Suresh, and Narayanamma quickly brought him piping hot coffee, guessing from the look of him that he was tired.
‘Why do you wander about in this hot sun? Where is your turban?’ she demanded. Basavaraj smiled, enjoying her bullying. He had no children of his own, and in so many ways these simple, affectionate people had become his – Suresh, Narayanamma, Raghuvir, the apprentices … He didn’t answer because it was too long a story to recount. But as
it happened, he had walked in on a discussion about the very same person he had spent the morning with.
‘Basavaraj Thatha will be able to tell us something,’ said Ranganath, and the others turned to the old man with expectant faces.
‘Tell you what?’ asked Basavaraj, sipping his coffee through the froth on the top.
‘Where the beggar came from,’ said Ranganath. ‘We figured you’d have found out by now.’
‘I have no more idea than the rest of you.’
A new consignment of provisions had just arrived, and Narayanamma was dusting the items and stacking them on the shelves of the Nameless Shop, keeping one ear on the conversation.
‘But he talks to you a lot, Thatha,’ persisted Ranganath, looking disappointed at being deprived of gossip. ‘Surely he must have told you something? He seems to have taken a great liking to you.’
Suresh chuckled, and Narayanamma shook her head. Basavaraj, amused, replied, ‘I have taken a liking to him, Ranga. That’s why I sit with him. He doesn’t talk to me. He just talks and I listen, that’s all. When I’ve had enough, I get up and go, and he continues talking. And it is definitely not for the quality of his conversation that I listen to him, because I don’t understand much of what he says.’
‘But where has he come from? And why Rudrapura of all places?’ asked Gaurish, the shop assistant at Navagruha Seere Angadi, Rudrapura’s most popular sari shop.
‘I don’t know where he’s come from, but he always speaks in English. No Kannada. I asked him why he came to Rudrapura and he said it was because the trees are green here.’
The others were surprised. ‘A nature lover, then!’ laughed Suresh approvingly.
‘It appears he was in some sort of hospital before this. One day he rambled about that place, but he only spoke about it that one time. Mostly it’s some game he gives commentary about,’ said Basavaraj, draining the last of his coffee. ‘Football, I think.’
‘Hospital, my foot!’ exclaimed Ranganath. ‘Mental asylum more likely! He must have run away from there. Surely there are people from the loony bin looking for this fellow.’
Suresh shot Ranganath a quick sideways glance and said nothing. But Narayanamma spoke. ‘What makes you think you are sane, Ranga? In my opinion, you’d fit into a mental asylum quite well yourself. And I’m sure you think the same about me.’
Her words were calm and devoid of malice. The others nodded in agreement, and Ranganath looked shame-faced.
‘True Narayani,’ said Basavaraj placidly. ‘I must be mad myself because I get along well with a crazy man. Somehow in his ramblings he makes more sense to me than so many others do.’
‘Why, Thatha?’ asked Suresh.
Basavaraj considered his answer for a moment. ‘Maybe because he genuinely believes life is one big football game. And he takes the trouble to give updates on it. He’s honest to what he believes in.’
‘Honestly crazy, as opposed to the rest of us who are dishonestly crazy?’ laughed Narayanamma.
Basavaraj smiled. Suresh pushed aside his empty tumbler and stood up: ‘I must get back to the garage. The assistants must be undoing all the work I did this morning on Venkaiah’s scooter.’
‘How are those boys working out? Are they learning well?’ asked Basavaraj.
‘Well enough. Maniraj joined later, but seems to catch on to things faster than the older fellow. Of course, they are not as good as Kumar and I were. But then we had a better teacher; so it’s not fair to compare!’ replied Suresh with a twinkle in his eye as he paid for his coffee and walked away.
Laughing at the irrepressible Suresh, Basavaraj withdrew a coin from his shirt pocket and left it on the table, because he knew that if he tried to hand it to Narayanamma, she would refuse to take his money.
‘Ayyo devare! It’s such a warm day,’ he said as he wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve and set out for home.
Later that day, a boy of twelve, still dressed in his Christos Convent school uniform and with his belt askew, approached the beggar at the stone wall. He stopped a few feet away and stared in fascination. It was the first time he had seen the beggar because he was always either in school or busy helping his mother at the store. Since they had begun making and selling ice creams, things had become very busy, and his mother was always in need of the extra pair of hands.
The beggar didn’t look up as he continued to score goals and make passes in his head. He didn’t miss a beat in his incessant commentating. His only acknowledgement of the boy’s presence was to reach for his walking stick and pull it closer. Srikanth held out the cup of vanilla ice-cream to the beggar. The old man looked up slowly and stared at the boy without seeing him. Unnerved by the unblinking blue-grey eyes, Srikanth hastily took a step back, stretching his arm out as far as it would go to offer the ice cream to the beggar from a distance.
‘Ice cream, idu, ice cream,’ he said. ‘Tagoli. My amma sent it for you.’
The beggar’s gaze wandered to the cup. It didn’t seem like he was all there. The boy waggled the ice cream cup in front of him, wordlessly urging him to take it. The beggar shook his head firmly and turned away, mumbling, ‘Not allowed for players. Not good. Bad for training.’
Srikanth looked at the fellow oddly, unsure of what to do next. Then, with characteristic boyish nonchalance, he shrugged and began eating the ice cream himself as he strolled away towards his home.
The next day, Basavaraj promised the beggar that he would take him to a place where the trees were green, thereby ensuring the beggar’s cooperation in allowing Basavaraj to walk him to Brother Abranches’s home for the aged. The good priest had just finished his duties at the school and returned to the home to oversee things there before evening prayers, when Basavaraj came up the tree-lined driveway followed by a tall, gaunt man whose foot was wrapped in a bandage.
Brother Abranches paused on the veranda, sure that here was another soul Jesus had sent to him to be looked after. Even from a distance, the priest could tell that this fellow was badly in need of care. Quickly, he ran over in his mind which bed could be made up for him. But he said nothing of it as he nodded in response to Basavaraj’s greeting and listened to him tell of the beggar’s plight.
‘Please, Brother, if it is not too much inconvenience, please help my friend,’ requested Basavaraj in the local dialect, with his hands folded.
Brother Abranches’s Kannada was limited. Still, it didn’t take a scholar to figure out what Basavaraj was asking of him, and he nodded his assent.
‘James!’ called the priest, cutting across Basavaraj’s thanks. From inside, a thirty-something man appeared at the doorway.
‘Take him inside and give him the corner bed in room number four,’ instructed Brother Abranches.
‘Doctor Bhaskara has promised to see to all his medical needs for free, Brother,’ said Basavaraj. ‘Please call him if required; he is very good with him.’
But Brother Abranches’s mind had already drifted off to other matters. James approached the beggar and tried to take his arm. The beggar shied away, eyeing him warily. James cajoled him in a low voice and Basavaraj interceded quickly.
‘Go with man, nice man,’ he urged the beggar in English. ‘He care you. Go, go.’
The beggar looked at Basavaraj keenly and asked, ‘Treesaregreen?’
‘Yes, yes!’ agreed Basavaraj enthusiastically, ‘trees are green here! Thumba-thumba trees in backside. Go, go. You happy-happy, iili!’
The beggar’s face broke into a wide, joyful smile. Basavaraj squeezed his arm affectionately. Without a backward glance, the beggar moved eagerly to the front door, chanting ‘treesaregreentreesaregreen’ as he went. James tried to take the ragged walking stick from him but he recoiled, clutching it fiercely to his chest. James backed off. Brother Abranches, who had listened interestedly to the last conversation, waited until the two men had disappeared inside.
‘What was that about trees?’ he asked.
Basavaraj explained and then added, ‘I think he’ll
spend a lot of time in your garden, Brother. Maybe you can let him help with tending to the plants? It will make him happy.’
‘Yes, of course, if that’s what he likes,’ replied the priest in broken Kannada. ‘Here, all the residents are encouraged to help in the running of the home.’
Basavaraj folded his hands gratefully and made to leave. Then he remembered something and turned back quickly. ‘Brother, ivarannu nodalikke barabahudaa?’
The priest smiled a smile that lit up his tired face for a moment. ‘You may come and visit him any time you like,’ he said, and went inside. As Basavaraj walked back home, he felt at peace about his friend at last.
Two days went by. Then, a man from the old age home knocked on Basavaraj’s front door and told him that Brother Abranches had sent for him. Basavaraj said he’d come in a little while and went back inside to put the finishing touches to the soppu-saaru, the spicy lentil curry cooked with red spinach. The rice was nearly done.
‘Shanta? The beggar wants to see me, I think. I must go. Will you take the rice off the fire once it is cooked?’
‘Okay ri, you carry on, naan maduttene,’ replied his wife from where she was lying down.
‘But the pot might be too heavy…’
‘Illa, ri! Don’t worry. I can manage, neevu hogi.’
Basavaraj went outside to the line where the clothes were drying in the sun. He pulled off a long, white cloth, and tied it around his head into a turban. Shutting the little iron gate behind him, he set out for the old age home, wondering why he had been summoned so soon. Perhaps the beggar had asked for him. Or could it be that Brother Abranches was having difficulty in managing him and needed help? Basavaraj knew how belligerent the beggar could get. Then the possibility that the priest had changed his mind about giving him shelter came to mind, and Basavaraj quickened his steps in alarm.