As she continued to gather the grains of white rice that
brightened the dirty staircase, another pair of hands – less rough but equally
effective – joined the act. She did not look up, she was too embarrassed
already but her eyes darted in and out of the huge frame of the man crouching
beside her – searching for some semblance of similarity. She found none.
From what she could gather from repeated stolen glances,
she found only differences – his shining black leather shoes a distinct
contrast to her bare feet which had almost turned to leather from the miles it
covered every day, his expensive suit, whose cost she could only guess but
which he obviously knew exactly to one hundredth of a rupee, an awkward deviation
from her crumpled sari bought from the village haat .His spectacles seemed to mock her unprotected eyes which were
myopic , his smooth , fair skin make fun of her sun-burnt and dilapidated one ,
his wavy hair laughing out aloud at her dirty greying mane and yet there they
were , two very different pairs of cupped hands trying to achieve the same
destination in the middle of a dirty
staircase on an over-bridge in an Indian railway station.
The stranger continued to pick up rice silently and pour it
into the bag, emulating the woman alongside. The woman wondered who he was; the
man wondered why no one else helped her. She urged her tongue to agree to her
mind and express a gratitude born in the deeper realms of her body but her
underdeveloped language skills and years of chipping away at her self-confidence
hindered the transformation of thought into action .She silently went about her
task although now, a storm raged inside her body – it was like someone was
churning her insides.
The man wanted to tell the woman that she needn’t worry –
most of her rice could be recovered and consumed or sold later but years of
English vocation and detachment from his roots hindered the transformation of
the same to actual words. He was sure that the woman would not understand
English and he knew too little of the regional languages to effectively
communicate with her. He wondered why no one else stopped to help her although
about a few hundred pairs of feet passed them – some slow, some fast , some
running , some strolling, some galloping , some wearing shoes, some wearing
sandals and some wearing nothing at all but none of them stopped. He silently
continued his task although now a storm raged inside his mind.
The last grain collected and put into the sack, the woman
stood up, clutched her bag, balancing it expertly between her armpit and hip
walked away as rapidly as she could. The man stood up too and walked away. The
place – a dirty staircase on an over-bridge in an Indian railway station-
however could not get up – it remained, to tell the story, the story of two strangers,
one who received help and got embarrassed and another who gave help and got
disillusioned, two strangers from opposite sides of the social spectrum united
by the staple food of the country- rice, two strangers who did not exchange a
single word but went back with so much more.
Even today the place exists and stands as a testament to
the existence of goodwill in a fast-paced world as well as the existence of a
ruthless world which doesn’t stop. In deference to the protagonists of the
story, however, the place chooses to remain silent.
