9th October 2019
History is lethal if distorted and then trusted. I hate history, you know why? Because dictators use it to slaughter people. And gullible people are easily manipulated by the emphatic speeches of their leaders. You hear that sound, yeah the creaking sound. Actually, this cot is torn and old. But still, it is a bed for my nights. I had a dream right from childhood; me sleeping under the tin-roofed passenger shed and the incessant rains helping me go into the deep slumber. You can say, my dream has been fulfilled. I'm sleeping under the open sky for the past some time. It is rewarding. If feels good but the mosquitos make the experience bad.
Anyway, I forgot to introduce myself, I am Sameer. I think this should be sufficient as of now. I am employed, good for me; I think. It is my home. You can say, I'm a scrap dealer, but to be more precise, I hold the position of accountant here in addition to my job as a customer care executive at a renowned firm which I call as a butchery.
Shyam is his name, who? My landlord; can say, cot-lord. I only use his cot, that is why. So, moving on, well, he is married to one beautiful lady who is furious with him. I can see her; biting her lips in utter rage, waiting for her husband to return. Don't worry, it is a prime time show here. He calls me when he so drunk that he can't walk and then I go and fetch his drunk body from the local tavern. He swears not to drink and then returns back the next day. Well, it is amusing. I remember, sometime before when we were coming back, he said, 'If I don't give up this habit, you have the authority to kill me and marry my wife.'
To this, I smiled and he said, 'I'm fucking serious bhenchod, you have to marry her.'
I knew he was just mumbling these words under the influence of alcohol but he suddenly broke down and made me sit on the road. In the middle of the night, the street was not lit. There were no people just a strange silence.
'Come here, sit down,' he offered me a seat on the dusty road.
I sat and looked into his face and I could see wrinkles and laugh marks engulfing his dusty face. His grey hair disappeared into the darkness of night. A street light further away was giving the meagre illumination. He grabbed my hand and said, 'I'm a failure.'
For a moment I thought he was not drunk. His voice carried a humble texture of seriousness. I tried to sympathise with him but he veered and wagged his hands to show disapproval.
'I'm a failure, don't tell anyone. I have failed everyone, even you.' He had tears in his eyes. 'I don't know why she married me. What did she saw in me? I'm a loser who can't see past his own nose tip.' He broke down and fell into my lap. At first, I was embarrassed sitting in the middle of the road trying to console him but then I realized his words. The twang of his words reverberated in my brain. The word 'failure' made rounds and rounds of my mind, I could see the word failure actually being suggestive of my name. I kept calm and as usual, lifted his unconscious body to take him home in which his wife was waiting to beat the shit out of him.
The next morning after the beating and consequent sex from his wife he came to me in his undies. 'I love this woman, you know, how much she loves me? Huh,' he placed his foot on my cot and placed his elbow on his knee. 'You know? More than I love her.' To this I smiled, 'good for you, or else she would have traded you as low-grade scrap material.'
'Don't talk to me like that, I'm your landlord. I'm your employer.'
'I know, please relieve me from my job. I will be thankful.'
'You know, I can't. If I will, who will bring me back from the tavern.'
I looked into his smiling face and left for the office punching him in the shoulder.
There is a special place in my heart for this place. The multi-storeyed apartment building flaunting its chipping grey colour. A line of shops selling everything but luxuries. The smiling Rehman Chacha whose morning tea lightens my mood. The old electric shop whose owner rarely visits his dust-ridden shop. Laundry at the roadside having an ironing table as its sole asset. Chinky, Monty and a nameless guy who are ever ready at the first turn to spot me and get their cut for the day.
My home huh, there is nothing to be called as a home. I sleep under the shed that houses some scrap material. Yeah, Shaym owns it. I consider it as my home because he was the guy who gave me shelter when I had no money to support myself, he employed me although he was running in losses. He hired me as an accountant for the job where no accounting was required since he had given up piling scraps.
One fine Sunday morning I woke up early and heard the couple making love in their hut. A hut erected on piers as the surrounding water usually filled the scrapyard in the monsoons, i.e why it was raised above the ground on four supports. I coughed a bit to alert the lovers about the passing people as the hut was flush and adjacent to the road. Shaym came out with a weird disgruntled look.
'You don't like us together, huh?' he said in a raging, whispering voice.
'There are people walking down the road,' I said.
'I don't give a fuck what the people do, so why do they? Huh.' He had a point, I just nodded my head went along. Shaym is an enigma for most of the people, but I was able to read him in the first instance. Belonging to an upper-caste Hindu family, he had married a Muslim woman, the only mistake he had done. He along with his wife were ousted from their places in Muzaffarnagar, UP. He had no choice but to settle here in the finely populated lower-middle-class society of Maidan Garhi, Delhi. Although surrounded by some posh looking apartments of South Delhi it never created hurdles in his poor outlook.
I remember when I first came here, I called my friend who was working in a company here. I had just found about him residing here. He didn't pick up my call. Maybe he was busy or was just ignoring me, I couldn't decide. I waited for a full day waiting for him to call me back. I remember the face of Rehman Chacha who was serving me teacup after teacup.
'Why are you so anxious?' He asked as if he already knew.
'It is my friend. He is not picking up the phone.'
'Don't worry, everything will be okay. By the way, where are you staying?' he said while pouring me another cup of tea.
'I just came from home. I have nowhere to stay.'
'Don't say that. Allah has made this earth for all of us. You can stay wherever you like,' he had a rueful smile on his face.
'It is easy to say that way. Can I stay in a 5-star hotel?' I was annoyed by his false hope.
'Is that hotel made by Allah?'
His question made me wonder about this old man. Was he playing games with me or was he just trying to make me understand, I couldn't decide. I smiled at his answer and he smiled back. In the meantime, Shaym came to the stall and sat on one of the benches that were placed on the opposite side against the wall. He took a cup from the tray and poured some tea and sat on the bench. I looked up towards his outfits and they were dirty and repelling. He pulled some snacks from one of the glass jars that was placed at the front counter and sat back. Rehman Chacha was humming some old song.
'Who is this?' Shyam asked Chacha without looking towards me.
'Oh, he is a traveller, looking for a friend.' Chacha replied.
'And, where is he?' Shaym was talking to me.
I was startled and nervous at the same time. I didn't know the answer. 'I don't know the specific place. But he told me that he is in Delhi, I think he lives here.'