The Buddha’s Story

In the pre- corona days, the ragamuffin would sit in the Buddha posture under the porch outside the ATM enclosure beside the ICICI bank.

The bank is next to my house.  The tramp’s frail body looked bloated with his multilayered clothes. Bundled up in a corner on his filthy rags, he sat with closed eyes. No one bothered about his presence as they went in and out of the enclosure for monetary transactions. The sight of a vagabond with matted hair and rags is a typical scene in India. People have ceased to care anymore.

A few families in our neighborhood did show concern. They offered him stale Rotis or leftover khichri from the previous day. His waist is his storage, tightly tied up with a rope to hold his pant from falling off.  The plastic bags, hanging about his waist, contained daal, chapatti, or sliced bread, biscuits, and bananas to be consumed when needed.

 I could not help feeling curious at the sight whenever I went to offer him some food. He relished my kheer made from palm jaggery, in particular. He would grab the plastic box and start eating with relish.

 During pre- Corona days, when I placed the food packet in front of him, he appeared calm. Yet, his closed eyes opened, and he would swiftly seize hold of it, looking away from me.

 Sometimes, he would peacefully puff away “bidi” some rickshaw – puller might have given him out of pity. Ironically, these guys did not talk to him. The rickshaw stand, under a shady Peepul tree, was just in front of the bank.

Since two months of lockdown period, these men have been jobless. The place is empty. Every day, the tramp sits there with his eyes closed to corona. No deadly virus can intimidate him. However, I felt he looked lonelier in the absence of those rickshaw men.  I watch from my enclosed veranda the beeline of socially- distanced, masked people waiting for their turn to enter the bank. They are busy acclimatizing to the “new normal.” With securely covered faces, aliens went about their business, walking past him hurriedly on their way.

The other day I observed how the man sat alone with his back turned away from any human concern.  One or two kind souls still offered him something like charity. But the number of regular givers declined.

When the situation worsened last week, nobody offered him any food.  I understood this while giving him something that day. The plastic packets around his waist were empty. As the sun beat down mercilessly, he had taken off his multi-layers, and hunger screamed out from every pore of his lean body.

Another day, I stood in the queue for banking. For the first time, I found his eyes open. I wondered how he watched the world, unmasked, with the cool detachment of a saint. Yet, when I looked, I found him observing me with sidelong glances! I felt some expectation from his side instinctively.  I fished out a fifty rupee note from my bag and offered him. He pocketed it swiftly. I felt the smoke of animal hunger in his eyes.

Yesterday, the “Amphan storm” raged over the city. A sense of pain gnawed within me for the man who lived exposed to the elements amidst the Covid silence.

 I knew about a curious place where he would seek shelter during heavy rainfall.

It is a narrow-shaded gully between two rows of shops.

But the shopkeepers do not allow his intrusion now. A heavy gate remains padlocked to prevent any unwarranted entry. He was unwanted, perhaps the carrier of the deadly virus.

 Amavasya night and the street lights lit up dimly, which created a mysterious ambiance.  My eyes peering through the pitch darkness, could not find him. Nature smiled after a turbulent phase while sick souls hid into their apartments.

Today morning they removed his body. The Buddha died battling the storm. He needed no mask from the virus. Only the cat who slept every night closely clung to his smelly body, sat ponderously by him. The municipality men carried his stinking body away from her.