Whenever one moves around one comes across people narrating their dire needs. Long ago in 1962, during an evening walk to Rajghat in Delhi with my classmate Naqvi, a Pakistani, a man on bicycle asked us the way to Panipat. “Will you go on cycle to Panipat?” we asked almost in unison. It surprised us that he intended go to Panipat, 100 km away, by cycle.
On being asked, he narrated a sad tale. He said he was working in a factory in Faridabad and had lost his job for having taken leave during an illness. As he had no money to go home, he was cycling from Faridabad to his hometown, Panipat. He said his father was a driver with Haryana Roadways. He requested our help to phone him. We took him to our hostel at the Indian Institute of Public Administration (IIPA) and booked a trunk call to the number he gave us. Of course, at that time there were no cellphones. Even to call a number outside Delhi one had to book a trunk call.
We waited and waited for our call to mature. Later the telephone department informed us that no such number existed. It was 9 p.m., the mess would close soon. We were not in a position to invite this stranger with us for dinner. He asked us money to take the night bus to Panipat, offering to leave his cycle with us as security. We did not suspect him, so we did not keep his cycle. Giving him money for bus fare and meals, we slept with the satisfaction that we had helped someone.
A month passed. Though he had given his address we did not enquire. We believed that the decent man would turn up one day. But one evening, while walking to Rajghat, a man came across us on cycle. At first glance we recognised him; he was the same Panipatwala. We signalled him to stop, but he fled at Olympian speed.
Tale of a lost bicycleI narrated this incident to my friend Venkitaraman, working at the IIPA. He then narrated his own experience. He had bought a new cycle. He usually parked his cycle inside the IIPA campus. There was none to guard it nor was there any need for it. One evening he found his new cycle missing and an old cycle kept instead in its place. For a few days he searched for it. Finally, he complained to the police, who said they would look.
However, he started using the old cycle hoping that the police would recover his new cycle. But one day a policeman came asking him to surrender the old cycle as he was not its owner. Thus, for having complained he lost the old cycle too!
One winter morning while waiting at the bus stop near Willingdon Hospital (now Ram Manohar Lohia Hospital) in Delhi for a bus, a man came to me asking the number of the bus going to a particular village. When I enlightened him, he started crying, saying “ mera mataji mar gayi, mera mataji mar gayi” (my mother died). He said his mother had died the previous night in the hospital and he had no money at all to go to his village and inform relatives. At that time the maximum bus fare prevailing in Delhi Transport Corporation was 40 paise. I believed him and gave Rs. 2.
After a month, while I was waiting at the IIT-Delhi bus stop, the drama was repeated; same man, same dialogue. I went near him and said, “You are a cheat, I will call the police.” He ran away.
This brings another incident to my memory. On a train journey to Delhi, I happened to meet Pavithran, an engineer. He said once his suitcase containing money was stolen from the train in Bihar. When he complained to the police, a policeman said: “Koyi bath nahi, aap ka luggage mil jayega” (you will get your luggage). Surprisingly, after a few weeks he got a parcel without any clue about who sent it , containing part of his lost luggage but no money. How precocious the policeman was!
Though 52 years have passed, Mr. Venkitaraman is yet to get his bicycle back.
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