SOLACE FOR THE SOUL
In the busy central market of Faizabad district in Uttar Pradesh is a cycle repairing shop.
Its owner, Mohammed Sharif, sits amid scattered cycle seats, rims, chains and assorted
nuts, bolts, spanners and screw drivers.
Sharif had lived in Faizabad since birth and built his life around this shop. Having
provided well for his family and saved enough to help his son Mohammed Rahiz kickstart
his own drugstore, Mohammed Sharif was a happy man. And then, one day in 1990,
his son Rahiz did not return home. A frantic Sharif went around the town meeting
everyone who knew his son, but at the end of one week, there was still no news of his
whereabouts, only despair.
Mohammed Sharif lodged a complaint at the local police station, and prayed.
A month later, the police came calling. Rahiz, Sharif’s son and only child, had been
found dead in a neighbouring district just days after his disappearance. But not being able
to establish his identity, the police, following their procedures, had disposed of the body
as a ‘laawaris’ or unknown. Sharif was devastated. ‘I did not even get to see his body. For
a father to have his son die and not even see the body, you can imagine what I went
through,’ he says.
Slowly, as time went by and Sharif recovered from his tragedy, he thought of the other
unfortunates or unknown, with no family or friends to attend to the final rituals. From
that day on he made it his mission to provide dignity to the dead.
Mohammed Sharif seeks out abandoned bodies, arranges for a casket, calls for a priest
and organizes a decent burial. Says Sharif, ‘These are not just bodies for me. I see in each
of them a son or daughter, sister or brother, mother or father. It is this thought that I carry
to the burial ground. Even the dead need someone to be close to them when they depart.’
Sharif has lost count of the hundreds of visits he has had to make to the cemetery in the
last ten years. His charity is towards the entire community-in cases where the deceased is
Hindu, he organizes for a cremation and a Hindu priest to perform the last rites.
The shutters of Mohammed’s little cycle repair shop continue to open every morning. He
earns a modest living and in a corner of his home lies a unlikely apparatus-a casket. Who
knows when this may come handy to provide dignity to another ‘laawaris’.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
FLIGHT TO FREEDOM
Lost in the maze of streets, in a downtown locality in Kolkata is the house of a tailor
named Nur Nabhi. He stitches only colourful clothes for children in all shapes – frocks,
shorts, shirts, every style is available in small sizes. They seem to be an expression of his
love for kids. The work brings him an income which is hardly enough to pay for his
family’s meals and his children’s school fees.
Despite all the tensions, life was moving along at its usual pace for Nur Nabhi. The
mundane routine was punctuated with little joys, dreams and disappointments. His family
was bonded together in a strong emotional tie and their support was enough to carry him
through the lows and highs of life.
But five years ago, just as his family was about to celebrate Eid together, a terrible
tragedy befell them. On that fateful morning, as everyone was preparing to go to the
mosque for the Eid prayers, Nur Nabhi’s son and this two nephews went to the river to
have a bath. Little did they know that this was to be their last dip. As they entered the
water, the three boys felt the pressure of a forceful water current. They tried to get out but
the water kept pulling them down till they could no longer hold their breath. They were
swept away by a powerful tide and drowned in a matter of minutes.
At home, Nur waited impatiently for his son and nephews to return. He was angry with
the boys for being so callous. The last thing he wanted was to be late for his prayers. His
wife calmed him and sent him to the mosque saying that the boys would get there on their
own. Seeing that the boys had not reached the mosque even when the prayers were over,
Nur Nabhi made his way home. From the corner of the street he saw a crowd outside his
house. As he ran towards his house he could hear his wife’s wails. And then his world
came crashing down around him. The auspicious occasion of Eid was now filled with
cries of mourning and, since that day, his family has never celebrated Eid.
Losing his son and nephews has made Nur more sensitive to pain, his personal loss has
brought him closer to the sufferings of others. He is touched by the grief of those in
vulnerable situations. From his shop, where Nur Nabhi sits with his sewing machine, he
gets a good view of the market outside. One day, as he sat thinking of the boys, Nur’s
eyes wandered outside. There, in the din of the market, Nur saw a cage full of birds. A
man was selling them to earn his bread. For some reason unknown to him, Nur could not
take his eyes off the birds. While other customers admired the beauty of the birds, the
only thing Nur could see was the pain in their eyes. Before he knew what he was doing,
Nur had walked up to the bird-seller and bought his entire catch. He took them to a park,
opened the doors of the cage and set all of them free. That day he felt a strange
satisfaction in his heart, something that had been eluding him since the day his boys were
snatched from him so cruelly. As he watched the birds flying away into the sky, he felt
they would carry his wishes to the boys’ souls, as if he was reaching out to his boys
though the birds.
Every week Nur spends one-fourth of his earnings to free caged birds. He brings them
home, feeds them and then opens the door of their cage so they may fly free, as they were
meant to. Every time he watches them disappear, his heart fills with joy, his throat chokes
with emotion and his eyes well up.
Till date Nur has set free hundreds of birds. As the birds stretch their wings to fly free,
Nur’s face breaks into a contented smile as he watches them sail into the air.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
A CIVIL SERVICE
Year after year, more than 250,000 young citizens from all over the country face the
monumental task of appearing for the entrance examination for the Indian Administrative
Service (IAS).
It is a fascinating annual ritual spanning every nook and corner of this vast country. Be it
in Manipur, Bihar, Kerala or anywhere else, every single mofussil town has at least one
aspirant, if not more.
The dream to join the Indian bureaucracy, however, is fraught with agony. The
examination is known to be difficult, and the chances are a punter’s nightmare since the
number of vacancies is only 500 each year. Yet, there is no dearth of career martyrs,
which probably explains the explosion of institutes to prepare such aspirants.
But this career theatre also portrays the anguish of the less privileged, who have neither
the coaching not the resources to prepare for this monumental hurdle. Brij Lal Patel was
one such unfortunate. As a boy, Brij Lal grew up in a village in Saurashtra, and was the
first local citizen to complete high school. That was in 1976. He then moved to Mumbai
and got his bachelor’s degree in science and firmly set his sights on joining the IAS.
He got no counseling and was hard-pressed to even buy the necessary books, but that did
not dampen his zeal. He appeared for the exam not once, not twice, but three times. But,
like that of so many others, Brij Lal’s dreams too were shattered. He was crestfallen.
However, he soon bounced back and devised a plan. He procured employment in the
Central Excise and Customs, which is also a part of the bureaucracy, though not the
coveted IAS. Even as he worked on his new future, he began to implement his plan to
help needy aspirants to the IAS.
In Brij Lal’s personal failure lay the foundation of a new hope for the students like him in
Mumbai. His small apartment has a room which has been converted into a library. This
library has more than 25,000 books, all providing lessons and techniques in facing
competitive examinations. Any student is welcome to share the resources of this library,
for free.
‘Once upon a time, I had dreamed of joining the IAS,’ says the Customs Inspector.
‘Today, my desire is that no poor student’s dream must go unrealized for want of books
and counseling.’
Brij Lal’s services don’t end there. Every morning, between 7 a.m. and 10 a.m., he
interacts with the young people frequenting the library, providing advice for some, solace
to others, and pep talk to those who need it. Evenings too find him performing the role of
friend, philosopher and guide to students.
There is no external funding in this voluntary effort. Brij Lal says he spends most of this
savings on books and reference material, and thanks his wife, an officer in a bank, for her
wholehearted support.
Failure and shattered dreams afflict all of us, and we usually walk away, wary of looking
back at them. Brij Lal is one of the very few among us who has the courage not only to
look defeat in the eyes, but to also use it as an inspiration to bring hope and happiness to
the lives of others.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
THE VOICE OF COMPASSION
Inspector Ravi Atrauliya of the Indore police force might be a middle-age man, but he sill
reads his textbooks. He spends a couple of hours every day speaking into an ordinary
mike connected to an inexpensive sound recording system, reading and recording
chapters from different textbooks prescribed in schools for the board examinations. Once
he finishes with a topic in history, he goes on to something in science or English. And his
magical voice is actually creating history, not just reading it.
As it happened, one day in 1994, a group of blind men approached him for help in
locating an address. His inquisitiveness forced him to find out who they were looking for.
He was amazed to discover that these blind men were about to appear for the class X
examinations and were going to meet a man who read to them from textbooks. Inspector
Atrauliya took the men to the place they were looking for and parted ways with them, but
the incident had suddenly made him aware of a serious situation that very few people
know about.
Ravi realized that if blind men wanted to study, they could only do so till class VII
because their books in Braille were available only till that class. Those who desired to
study further had to depend on people to read the texts out to them. There were many
blind men who aspired for a graduate degree, but there were hardly any readers
committed to their cause. Ravi decided that he would do something about it.
From 1994 to 2002, Inspector Ravi Atrauliya has recorded all the prescribed books from
class VIII to graduate level into audio cassettes. These cassettes are circulated among
groups of blind students free of cost. To make copies of these cassettes, Ravi has invested
his savings in a dubbing machine. As for audio cassettes he gets a constant supply of
them from his colleagues. Every day he spends a couple of hours at his recording studio,
making more and more copies. He wants to reach out, to illuminate as many lives as he
can with his voice.
But there were further concerns. Despite his efforts Ravi realized that his students were
not making much headway because there were no writers for their exams either. Even if
these students prepared from Ravi’s cassettes, they could not write out their exam.
Invariably, their families had to keep looking for writers till the morning before the
examinations. Ravi decided to try and sort out this problem as well. He went to all the
local schools and appealed to them for a bank of volunteers from among the students.
These volunteers would have to be willing to sit in for three hours and write on behalf of
their disabled friends. The response was enormous. Five hundred students of varying age
groups registered with him during the first phase.
The number of blind students appearing for the exams in Indore has more than doubled
since Inspector Atrauliya’s bank of writers began writing examinations for the blind. A
significant number of blind students have passed secondary, senior secondary and even
graduate level exams. Some of them are now employed and earning for their families – a
becoming victory against a crushing disability!
But Ravi Atrauliya is still not satisfied. He now dreams of taking the students to the State
Public Service Commission Exams. He wants to see them as Deputy Collectors of
districts like Indore. Not really an improbable proposition, going by Ravi’s resolve and
commitment. But ask him how it all happened and he smiles, quietly, without answering.
He had stepped in to track down an address for a group of blind men but ended up finding
the direction of his own life. The symbolism is more than palpable.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
HELPING THE HELPERS
Keshubhai’s dream of his small clothes shop in Saurashtra, Gujarat, becoming a large
successful outlet came to naught when his son fell ill and showed no signs of recovery for
four months. The doctors did all they could and finally advised him to visit the
Ahmedabad Civil Hospital, the biggest hospital in Gujarat. It was here that Kanji, his son,
was diagnosed with cancer and admitted to the cancer department for an extensive
routine of tests and treatment.
Keshubhai had come to Ahmedabad alone, leaving behind his wife and a daughter in
their village. But now he needed help. Somebody had to be with the boy when Keshubhai
was out to buy medicines or fruits or collect test reports. He thought of calling his brother
but realized that it would be difficult for him to leave his work and stay with them for
three months. So Keshubhai chose the only alternative left for him – his wife and
daughter moved to Ahmedabad.
Keshubhai was a man of limited resources and these unexpected expenses caught him
unawares. He was willing to stretch himself beyond his means for his son. He pooled all
his resources and each paisa that could be saved was put in this pool; it meant no
expenses on any other needs. Slowly as time went by and the resources started drying up,
everything seemed to become more expensive by the day. They began cutting down on
smaller expenses like buying a soap for themselves and even eating two meals a day.
Their only solace was that they were not alone in this situation. All the families who had
had to admit someone in the cancer department were living on the footpath outside the
hospital. None of them belonged to Ahmedabad. They had all traveled from far-off
places, some from as far as Rajasthan, and none of them could afford to rent a house for
two to three months.
Ghatlodia, the locality that houses the hospital, is also the home of Gobindbhai, a
contractor and builder by profession. One day, Gobindbhai offered a lift to a colleague
whose mother had been admitted to the cancer department. Gobindbhai went to the
department thinking that he too would pay his respects. But his visit was destined to be
more than just that. The images from his visit replayed in his mind like a film that is
telecast again and again. He wanted to do something to relieve the pain, to ease the
hardship, to comfort all the people living in sub-human conditions outside the hospital.
Gobindbhai had noticed them sharing very meager meals. There was a dignity in it but
how long would they survive without falling ill themselves? One day the families would
be so burdened that they would have to beg for food or may be go without any. Finally, a
solution seemed to form in his mind. He visited families in the neighbourhood who he
knew would be willing to donate a meal a day. Gobindbhai drew up a list of thirty-five
such housewives to start with. All of them lived around the hospital and offered to bring
the food to a particular location by lunch time. Gobindbhai arranged for the hospital
authorities to identify the poorest families in the cancer department. Next, he hired an
auto to carry the boxes of food and distribute them among these families.
On the first day, the home-cooked food brought tears to the eyes of all those who ate it. It
reminded them of their homes, where they had the security of meals. For all of them, this
packed food was much more than just a meal, it was as if they had found a friend who
wanted to share their hardships.
That night Gobindbhai slept well; it was a heavy burden off his chest. But now that he
had found his way, he did not want to stop. So he went on convincing more housewives
to join in. Today, after three years of non-stop work, he gets seventy packets of food
daily while seventy more housewives are on the list waiting to join in. As they take turns
preparing these tiffins, the housewives in Ghatlodia feel that it is their duty to look after
the well-being of the relatives of the patients. And so these are no ordinary meals, for
each packet of food has a personal touch to it.
Gobindbhai’s idea clicked so fast that he could not handle the work alone, so he set up
the Gujarat Cancer Dardi Sewa Trust. They now have two auto-rickshaws that collect the
packets from several locations and carry them to the cancer department. The trust has
collected enough resources to serve 250 ml of milk to each of the four hundred patients,
twice a week. On Tuesdays and Fridays, ‘shiro’ made from pure ghee is served to all the
patients.
Gobindbhai’s initiative is a rare case of extending help to those who are helping others.
The patients were being looked after by their families and it is now the families that are
being looked after by the locals of Ghatlodia.
No comments:
Post a Comment