Poor beginning, poor childhood,
Poor learning, poor adulthood.
This is the life of our Typist. He never had much at any time in his life. His childhood was a car made of plastic bottles and their plastic caps, his teenage was a fictitious movie made from a movie poster and his adulthood was a tiny, dark house and an old typewriter. His earning, on the best of days, was 50 rupees.
For years, our Typist sat outside the post office with his life, his typewriter, typing letters in Hindi, for ten hours a day. English was a luxury he could not afford. His life was upto his typewriter. His typewriter was heavy, and so was his life. The cost of "life" was a heavy burden. He typed his own life's story everytime he pushed a bead. At 65, he still authors his own life.
After years of having that spot outside the post office as his sheet of paper, it didn't look like he needed some place else to go. The neighbourhood knew that there was an old Typist who sat outside the Post Office, who would write a letter for them whenever they wanted.
I can't say if he was happy with the story he had written for himself. But, he did the same job, everyday, in that same place, without saying a word. Grief and despair don't come to you when life is being harsh. Grief and despair come to you when there is nothing left to call it, "life." One day, there came a time when he felt grief.
It was a Sunny day with the regular bustle of the street outside the post office. The Typist was sitting there, looking around, nothing to type. Maybe, it was one of those really bad days. What day isn't so bad when you can't keep up with society? Or when society doesn't let you keep up with it? It was the same neighbourhood, the same people who recognised the Typist and whom the Typist recognised, but, without a greeting or a smile. Years and years of sitting there like a statue and no one cares. Does he? I don't know.
Years of having people he recognised around him couldn't prevent what happened, that day.
A man clad in khakhee, stars on his shoulders, badge on his chest, neatly combed hair and a better life than our Typist, stood tall in front of him. Hoping for a customer, the Typist looked up eagerly, with a tinge of hope that it is just not someone who needs directions. His mouth was open and he had an expression of humility on his wrinkled face. His eyes glistened with something only a person in the most desperate situations can show. He waited for the man to say something.
"What are you doing on this street?," asked the man, with pride and high-handedness.
The Typist replied, "I type letters, Saab."
The man asked, "Do you have permission to do it?"
What permission was he referring to? No one had asked him that since the time he started typing. "It's time to close shop. Go home," said the man with force and threat.
The Typist stared at him with doubt, disbelief and shock. Words did not come out of the man, this time. He pushed the Typist away from where he was sitting and, with a stroke of his hand, pushed the Typist's life off the stone, onto the road.
The Typist took a second or two to digest what was going on. He ran to the man and begged him to stop. He made for his feet, but, only ended up getting hit by the man's hard, black boots. The rock hid his typewriter. But, it did not hide the man who continued to crush it under his boots, like it was a soft-drink can. What's a soft drink can to one is a source of life to another. And our Typist's source of life was the man's soft-drink can. The last thing our Typist could do was join his hands and beg someone so much younger to him to stop doing whatever he did.
The Typist's paper, suddenly, wasn't the same. In a span of ten minutes, everything his life stood for was alien to him. He looked over the rock and saw his life lying there, broken. More broken than it ever was. The strings of the typewriter were torn. But, for him, the strings of life that played his tune were forever broken. The typewriter's casing broke, the belt was torn apart, nothing seemed the same. He left his sheet of paper there, without any weight on it. He took his broken life to the only other place he could call, "home."
The wind blew and the sheet of paper flew away and told the Typist's story to all the right people. The man was taken care of. The Typist received two new typewriters.
How does it matter anymore? A broken life could not be stitched back with this thread. The Typist accepted these typewriters because his life, even if it was broken, could not afford to stay on a busy road. It would be crushed. He had to push himself to a side and wait for someone to place him somewhere safer, if not better.
He went back to that place where it all happened. There was no paper. Whatever was left was only an inkblot.
Poor learning, poor adulthood.
This is the life of our Typist. He never had much at any time in his life. His childhood was a car made of plastic bottles and their plastic caps, his teenage was a fictitious movie made from a movie poster and his adulthood was a tiny, dark house and an old typewriter. His earning, on the best of days, was 50 rupees.
For years, our Typist sat outside the post office with his life, his typewriter, typing letters in Hindi, for ten hours a day. English was a luxury he could not afford. His life was upto his typewriter. His typewriter was heavy, and so was his life. The cost of "life" was a heavy burden. He typed his own life's story everytime he pushed a bead. At 65, he still authors his own life.
After years of having that spot outside the post office as his sheet of paper, it didn't look like he needed some place else to go. The neighbourhood knew that there was an old Typist who sat outside the Post Office, who would write a letter for them whenever they wanted.
I can't say if he was happy with the story he had written for himself. But, he did the same job, everyday, in that same place, without saying a word. Grief and despair don't come to you when life is being harsh. Grief and despair come to you when there is nothing left to call it, "life." One day, there came a time when he felt grief.
It was a Sunny day with the regular bustle of the street outside the post office. The Typist was sitting there, looking around, nothing to type. Maybe, it was one of those really bad days. What day isn't so bad when you can't keep up with society? Or when society doesn't let you keep up with it? It was the same neighbourhood, the same people who recognised the Typist and whom the Typist recognised, but, without a greeting or a smile. Years and years of sitting there like a statue and no one cares. Does he? I don't know.
Years of having people he recognised around him couldn't prevent what happened, that day.
A man clad in khakhee, stars on his shoulders, badge on his chest, neatly combed hair and a better life than our Typist, stood tall in front of him. Hoping for a customer, the Typist looked up eagerly, with a tinge of hope that it is just not someone who needs directions. His mouth was open and he had an expression of humility on his wrinkled face. His eyes glistened with something only a person in the most desperate situations can show. He waited for the man to say something.
"What are you doing on this street?," asked the man, with pride and high-handedness.
The Typist replied, "I type letters, Saab."
The man asked, "Do you have permission to do it?"
What permission was he referring to? No one had asked him that since the time he started typing. "It's time to close shop. Go home," said the man with force and threat.
The Typist stared at him with doubt, disbelief and shock. Words did not come out of the man, this time. He pushed the Typist away from where he was sitting and, with a stroke of his hand, pushed the Typist's life off the stone, onto the road.
The Typist took a second or two to digest what was going on. He ran to the man and begged him to stop. He made for his feet, but, only ended up getting hit by the man's hard, black boots. The rock hid his typewriter. But, it did not hide the man who continued to crush it under his boots, like it was a soft-drink can. What's a soft drink can to one is a source of life to another. And our Typist's source of life was the man's soft-drink can. The last thing our Typist could do was join his hands and beg someone so much younger to him to stop doing whatever he did.
The Typist's paper, suddenly, wasn't the same. In a span of ten minutes, everything his life stood for was alien to him. He looked over the rock and saw his life lying there, broken. More broken than it ever was. The strings of the typewriter were torn. But, for him, the strings of life that played his tune were forever broken. The typewriter's casing broke, the belt was torn apart, nothing seemed the same. He left his sheet of paper there, without any weight on it. He took his broken life to the only other place he could call, "home."
The wind blew and the sheet of paper flew away and told the Typist's story to all the right people. The man was taken care of. The Typist received two new typewriters.
How does it matter anymore? A broken life could not be stitched back with this thread. The Typist accepted these typewriters because his life, even if it was broken, could not afford to stay on a busy road. It would be crushed. He had to push himself to a side and wait for someone to place him somewhere safer, if not better.
He went back to that place where it all happened. There was no paper. Whatever was left was only an inkblot.
