by Sudha Murty
‘After getting Kashibai and Datturam’s approval, he got married to Salma.’
When he finished his story, Rahman was very emotional and in tears.
I was amazed at Kashibai. She was uneducated but very advanced in human values. I was surprised and humbled by the largeness of her heart. Kashibai had raised the boy with his own religion and still loved him like her son.
By this time, lunch was ready and Usha invited me to eat. While having the delicious lunch, I asked Usha, ‘What made you decide to visit here?’
‘I have holidays at school and I took an extended vacation so I could come for Panchami.’
Panchami is a festival celebrated mostly by girls, particularly married women, who come to their brother’s house. It is similar to the Rakhi festival in the north, where a brother acknowledges his sister’s love. I recalled our history and remembered that Queen Karunavati had sent a rakhi to Emperor Humayun, seeking his protection.
Now, I looked at the wall in the dining room and for the first time I noticed two pictures in Rahman’s house, one of Mecca and the other of Krishna, both hanging side by side.
13
Cattle Class
Last year, I was at the Heathrow Airport in London, about to board a flight. Usually, I wear a sari even when I am abroad, but I prefer wearing a salwar-kameez while travelling. So there I was—a senior citizen dressed in typical Indian apparel at the terminal gate.
Since the boarding hadn’t started, I sat down and began to observe my surroundings. The flight was bound for Bengaluru and so I could hear people around me chatting in Kannada. I saw many old married couples of my age—they were most likely coming back from the US or UK after helping their children either through childbirth or a new home. I saw some British business executives talking to each other about India’s progress. Some teenagers were busy with the gadgets in their hands while the younger children were crying or running about the gate.
After a few minutes, the boarding announcement was made and I joined the queue. The woman in front of me was a well-groomed lady in an Indo-Western silk outfit, a Gucci handbag and high heels. Every single strand of her hair was in place and a friend stood next to her in an expensive silk sari, pearl necklace, matching earrings and delicate diamond bangles.
I looked at the vending machine nearby and wondered if I should leave the queue to get some water.
Suddenly, the woman in front of me turned sideways and looked at me with what seemed like pity in her eyes. Extending her hand, she asked, ‘May I see your boarding pass, please?’
I was about to hand over my pass to her, but since she didn’t seem like an airline employee, I asked, ‘Why?’
‘Well, this line is meant for business-class travellers only,’ she said confidently and pointed her finger towards the economy-class queue. ‘You should go and stand there,’ she said.
I was about to tell her that I had a business-class ticket but, on second thoughts, held back. I wanted to know why she had thought that I wasn’t worthy of being in the business class. So I repeated, ‘Why should I stand there?’
She sighed. ‘Let me explain. There is a big difference in the price of an economy-and a business-class ticket. The latter costs almost two and a half times more than …’
‘I think it is three times more,’ her friend interrupted.
‘Exactly,’ said the woman. ‘So there are certain privileges that are associated with a business-class ticket.’
‘Really?’ I decided to be mischievous and pretended not to know. ‘What kind of privileges are you talking about?’
She seemed annoyed. ‘We are allowed to bring two bags but you can only take one. We can board the flight from another, less-crowded queue. We are given better meals and seats. We can extend the seats and lie down flat on them. We always have television screens and there are four washrooms for a small number of passengers.’
Her friend added, ‘A priority checkin facility is available for our bags, which means they will come first upon arrival and we get more frequent-flyer miles for the same flight.’
‘Now that you know the difference, you can go to the economy line,’ insisted the woman.
‘But I don’t want to go there.’ I was firm.
The lady turned to her friend. ‘It is hard to argue with these cattle-class people. Let the staff come and instruct her where to go. She isn’t going to listen to us.’
I didn’t get angry. The word ‘cattle class’ was like a blast from the past and reminded me of another incident.
One day, I had gone to an upscale dinner party in my home city of Bengaluru. Plenty of local celebrities and socialites were in attendance. I was speaking to some guests in Kannada, when a man came to me and said very slowly and clearly in English, ‘May I introduce myself ? I am …’
It was obvious that he thought that I might have a problem understanding the language.
I smiled. ‘You can speak to me in English.’
‘Oh,’ he said, slightly flabbergasted. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you weren’t comfortable with English because I heard you speaking in Kannada.’
‘There’s nothing shameful in knowing one’s native language. It is, in fact, my right and my privilege. I only speak in English when somebody can’t understand Kannada.’
The line in front of me at the airport began moving forward and I came out of my reverie. The two women ahead were whispering among themselves. ‘Now she will be sent to the other line. It is so long now! We tried to tell her but she refused to listen to us.’
When it was my turn to show my boarding pass to the attendant, I saw them stop and wait a short distance away, waiting to see what would happen. The attendant took my boarding pass and said brightly, ‘Welcome back! We met last week, didn’t we?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
She smiled and moved on to the next traveller.
I walked a few steps ahead of the women intending to let this go, but then I changed my mind and came back. ‘Please tell me—what made you think that I couldn’t afford a business-class ticket? Even if I didn’t have one, was it really your prerogative to tell me where I should stand? Did I ask you for help?’
The women stared at me in silence.
‘You refer to the term “cattle class”. Class does not mean possession of a huge amount of money,’ I continued, unable to stop myself from giving them a piece of my mind. ‘There are plenty of wrong ways to earn money in this world. You may be rich enough to buy comfort and luxuries, but the same money doesn’t define class or give you the ability to purchase it. Mother Teresa was a classy woman. So is Manjul Bhargava, a great mathematician of Indian origin. The concept that you automatically gain class by acquiring money is outdated.’
I left without waiting for a reply.
Approximately eight hours later, I reached my destination. It was a weekday and I rushed to office as soon as I could only to learn that my day was going to be spent in multiple meetings. A few hours later, I requested my program director to handle the last meeting of the day by herself as I was already starting to feel tired and jet-lagged.
‘I am really sorry, but your presence is essential for that discussion,’ she replied. ‘Our meeting is with the organization’s CEO and she is keen to meet you in person. She has been following up with me for a few months now and though I have communicated our decision, she feels that a discussion with you will change the outcome. I have already informed her that the decision will not be reversed irrespective of whom she meets, but she refuses to take me at my word. I urge you to meet her and close this chapter.’
I wasn’t new to this situation and reluctantly agreed.
Time went by quickly and soon, I had to go in for the last meeting of the day. Just then, I received an emergency call.
‘Go ahead with the meeting,’ I said to the program director. ‘I will join you later.’
When I entered the conference room after fifteen minutes, I saw the same women from the airport in the middle of a presentation. To
my surprise, they were simply dressed—one was wearing a simple khadi sari while the other wore an unglamorous salwar-kameez. The clothes were a reminder of the stereotype that is still rampant today. Just like one is expected to wear the finest of silks for a wedding, social workers must present themselves in a plain and uninteresting manner. When they saw me, there was an awkward pause that lasted for only a few seconds before one of them acknowledged my presence and continued the presentation as if nothing had happened.
‘My coffee estate is in this village. All the estate workers’ children go to a government school nearby. Many are sharp and intelligent but the school has no facilities. The building doesn’t even have a roof or clean drinking water. There are no benches, toilets or library. You can see children in the school …’
‘But no teachers,’ I completed the sentence.
She nodded and smiled. ‘We request the foundation to be generous and provide the school with proper facilities, including an auditorium, so that the poor kids can enjoy the essentials of a big school.’
My program director opened her mouth to say something, but I signalled her to stop.
‘How many children are there in the school?’ I asked.
‘Around 250.’
‘How many of them are the children of the estate workers?’
‘All of them. My father got the school sanctioned when he was the MLA,’ she said proudly.
‘Our foundation helps those who don’t have any godfathers or godmothers. Think of the homeless man on the road or the daily-wage worker. Most of them have no one they can run to in times of crisis. We help the children of such people. The estate workers help your business prosper and in return, you can afford to help them. In fact, it is your duty to do so. Helping them also helps you in the long run, but it is the foundation’s internal policy to work for the disadvantaged in projects where all the benefits go directly and solely to the underprivileged alone. Maybe this concept is beyond the understanding of the cattle class.’
Both the women looked at each other, unsure of how to respond.
I looked at my program director and said, ‘Hey, I want to tell you a story.’
I could see from her face that she was feeling awkward. A story in the middle of a serious meeting?
I began, ‘George Bernard Shaw was a great thinker of his times. One day, a dinner was arranged at a British club in his honour. The rules of the club mandated that the men wear a suit and a tie. It was probably the definition of class in those days.
‘Bernard Shaw, being who he was, walked into the club in his usual casual attire. The doorman looked at him and said very politely, “Sorry, sir, I cannot allow you to enter the premises.”
‘“Why not?”
‘“You aren’t following the dress code of the club, sir.”
‘“Well, today’s dinner is in my honour, so it is my words that matter, not what I wear,” replied Bernard, perfectly reasonable in his explanation.
‘“Sir, whatever it may be, I can’t allow you inside in these clothes.”
‘Shaw tried to convince the doorman but he wouldn’t budge from his stance. So he walked all the way back to his house, changed into appropriate clothes and entered the club.
‘A short while later, the room was full, with people sitting in anticipation of his speech. He stood up to address the audience, but first removed his coat and tie and placed it on a chair. “I am not going to talk today,” he announced.
‘There were surprised murmurs in the audience. Those who knew him personally asked him about the reason for his out-of-character behaviour.
‘Shaw narrated the incident that happened a while ago and said, “When I wore a coat and tie, I was allowed to come inside. My mind is in no way affected by the clothes I wear.
‘“This means that to all of you who patronize the club, the clothes are more important than my brain. So let the coat and the tie take my place instead.”
‘Saying thus, he walked out of the room.’
I stood up. ‘The meeting is over,’ I said. We exchanged cursory goodbyes and I walked back to my room.
My program director followed me. ‘Your decision regarding the school was right. But what was that other story all about? And why now? What is this cattle-class business? I didn’t understand a thing!’
I smiled at her obvious confusion. ‘Only the cattle-class folks will understand what happened back there. You don’t worry about it.’
14
The Old Man and His God
A few years back, I was travelling in Thanjavur district of Tamil Nadu. It was getting dark, and due to a depression over the Bay of Bengal, it was raining heavily. The roads were overflowing with water and my driver stopped the car near a village. ‘There is no way we can proceed further in this rain,’ said the driver. ‘Why don’t you look for shelter somewhere nearby rather than sit in the car?’
Stranded in an unknown place among unknown people, I was a bit worried. Nevertheless, I retrieved my umbrella and marched out into the pelting rain. I started walking towards the tiny village, whose name I cannot recall now. There was no electricity and it was a trial walking in the darkness and the rain. In the distance I could just make out the shape of a small temple. I decided it would be an ideal place to take shelter, so I made my way to it. Halfway there, the rain started coming down even more fiercely and the strong wind blew my umbrella away, leaving me completely drenched. I reached the temple soaking wet. As soon as I entered, I heard an elderly person’s voice calling out to me. Though I cannot speak Tamil, I could make out the concern in the voice. In the course of my travels, I have come to realize that voices from the heart can be understood irrespective of the language they speak.
I peered into the darkness of the temple and saw an old man of about eighty. Standing next to him was an equally old lady in a traditional nine-yard cotton sari. She said something to him and then approached me with a worn but clean towel in her hand. As I wiped my face and head I noticed that the man was blind. It was obvious from their surroundings that they were very poor. The Shiva temple, where I now stood, was simple with the minimum of ostentation in its decorations. The Shivalinga was bare except for a bilwa leaf on top. The only light came from a single oil lamp. In that flickering light, a sense of calm overcame me and I felt myself closer to God than ever before.
In halting Tamil, I asked the man to perform the evening mangalarati, which he did with love and dedication. When he finished, I gave him a hundred-rupee note as the dakshina.
He touched the note and pulled away his hand, looking uncomfortable. Politely he said, ‘Amma, I can make out that the note is not for ten rupees, the most we usually receive. Whoever you may be, in a temple, your devotion is important, not your money. Even our ancestors have said that a devotee should give as much as he or she can afford to. To me you are a devotee of Shiva, like everyone else who comes here. Please take back this money.’
I was taken aback. I did not know how to react. I looked at the man’s wife expecting her to argue with him and urge him to take the money, but she just stood quietly. Often, in many households, a wife encourages the man’s greediness. Here, it was the opposite. She was endorsing her husband’s views. So I sat down with them, and with the wind and rain whipping up a frenzy outside, we talked about our lives. I asked them about themselves, their life in the village temple and whether they had anyone to look after them.
Finally I said, ‘Both of you are old. You don’t have any children to look after your everyday needs. In old age one requires more medicines than groceries. This village is far from any of the towns in the district. Can I suggest something to you?’
At that time, we had started an old-age pension scheme and I thought, looking at their worn-out but clean clothes, they would be the ideal candidates for it.
This time the wife spoke up, ‘Please do tell, child.’
‘I will send you some money. Keep it in a nationalized bank or post office. The interest on that can be used for your monthly needs.
If there is a medical emergency you can use the capital.’
The old man smiled on hearing my words and his face lit up brighter than the lamp.
‘You sound much younger than us. You are still foolish. Why do I need money in this great old age? Lord Shiva is also known as Vaidyanathan. He is the Mahavaidya, or great doctor. This village we live in has many kind people. I perform the puja and they give me rice in return. If either of us is unwell, the local doctor gives us medicines. Our wants are very few. Why would I accept money from an unknown person? If I keep this money in the bank, like you are telling me to, someone will come to know and may harass us. Why should I take on these worries? You are a kind person to offer help to two unknown old people. But we are content; let us live as we always have. We don’t need anything more.’
Just then the electricity came back and a bright light lit up the temple. For the first time I saw the couple properly. I could clearly see the peace and happiness on their faces. They were the first people I met who refused help in spite of their obvious need. I did not agree with everything he had just said, but it was clear to me that his contentment had brought him peace. Such an attitude may not let you progress fast, but after a certain period in life it is required. Perhaps this world with its many stresses and strains has much to learn from an old couple in a forgettable corner of India.
15
A Lesson in Life from a Beggar
Meena is a good friend of mine. She is an LIC officer earning a good salary. But there was always something strange about her. She was forever unhappy. Whenever I met her, I would start to feel depressed. It was as though her gloom and cynicism had a way of spreading to others. She never had anything positive to say on any subject or about any person.
For instance, I might say to her, ‘Meena, did you know Rakesh has come first in his school?’
Meena’s immediate response would be to belittle the achievement. ‘Naturally, his father is a schoolteacher,’ she would say.
If I said, ‘Meena, Shwetha is a very beautiful girl, isn’t she?’ Meena would be pessimistic. ‘When a pony is young, he looks handsome. It is age that matters. Wait for some time. Shwetha will be uglier than anyone you know.’