Leftovers

Leftovers

Roshan was in a tearing hurry to board the 9.24 local to reach his office on time. While crossing the over-bridge with giant strides to arrive at platform no. 2, a sallow, rugged hand suddenly appeared in sight. He stopped and dug into the right pocket of his trousers, while shifting the strap of his bag higher up the left shoulder. One rupee coin was traced and he tossed it into the beggar’s aluminum bowl from a height that caused a jarring clink as it dashed against the existing ones. Roshan reciprocated the beggar’s smile of gratitude with an artificial one. He was again on his feet, making his way through the crowd. The PA system had already announced the arrival of the down train.

For the last couple of years, the young, limb-less beggar had made the Bidhannagar railway station over-bridge his business spot. Earlier, Roshan wondered how tough it was for the poor fellow to climb so many stairs every day. Curious, he had asked him one morning when the train was late, “How do you manage to come up, must be difficult?” The beggar replied, “What to do, Babu, it becomes a habit – more income here, so I take this trouble.”

Ever since Roshan had acquired a job, some six months ago, he was bumping into this beggar. This had led to a sort of familiarity. On the day of his interview, Roshan had given a two-rupee coin to this beggar. He had blessed him raising his hand to his forehead. Though it was clichéd, delivered to all generous passersby, it bore fruit in his case. Roshan got the job of an office assistant in a private company for Rs. 3600 per month, out of thirty suitable candidates vying for one post.

That day onwards he considered the limb-less beggar a lucky mascot. Whenever he arrived early at the station, he took time off for a few words, like “How are you?” The beggar would hint at the lack of something in his life. For instance, if the weather was hot, he would complain, “After eleven it’s impossible to sit here, the sun is direct...if an umbrella...” Understanding that he needed a bigger amount, Roshan would contribute five or ten rupees.
*

Having kept himself virgin for many years in the hope of marriage, he was unable to bear the pangs of physical hunger. He started visiting a brothel. Despite being a jobholder he was scared of commitment. Given the political anarchy in the state, the private company could easily close down, thus rendering him jobless for another indefinite period. How could he marry?

He received his salary today and went straight to have some fun. The fat, worn-out lady-in-charge wearing a silk sari, clutched his sinewy arm and led him in. Suggestively running her tongue over her lips painted red, she bellowed in an amorous tone, “You have been here before. This innocent face, these brooding eyes, I remember all...” Roshan nodded in assent and put his left hand inside the pocket.

Roshan’s eyes were travelling in various directions, examining the prostitutes loitering around with fake seductive smiles. “For you there is something special. Arrived from Banaras last week. She’s a bit high-priced, two hundred and fifty for half an hour. Price does not matter for quality-conscious like you. Want her?” the matronly lady asked Roshan.

The regular menu was passé. Since there was craze about this special beauty, he grew an urge to try her. Roshan fished out five crunchy fifty-rupee notes and thrust them on the lady’s palm – the residual talcum powder accentuating her long fate and heart lines. He asked impatiently, “Where’s she? Which way?” Tucking the money into a corner of her low-cut blouse, she cooed, “Wait, Babu. Sit on the chair there, the green door will open and she will be all yours - wait for your turn. She is serving one.” The lady with prominent tyres of flesh around her waist faded out with a fake smile as another girl beckoned her to solve a crisis.

Roshan sat quietly on the wooden chair and pushed it – as much as possible – near the door. His mind was busy imagining what sort of a beauty she was: her face, her breasts, her complexion...He was biting fingernails, with dirt prominent in the crevices. He was excited that he would enter once the door opened. The door to heaven. The door to bliss.

Suddenly the door creaked to snap his reverie. Roshan was flustered. He grew pale, at a loss to explain anything. Everything was clear like writing on the wall. Buttoning up the fly of his shorts, the beggar limped with the crutch, trudged a few steps in his direction and excitedly spoke, “Arrey Babu, you!” Roshan had never expected to see the beggar here. The beggar seemed interested to continue the conversation but Roshan’s cold behaviour made him go his way. It was as if he had not recognised the beggar.

A female voice strayed in a high pitch at the right moment, “Don’t waste time, come fast.” Roshan scurried towards the door, as if his boss had summoned him. He lifted the printed floral curtain and walked in, slamming the door shut. Firmly.

A maze of conflicting thoughts was already wreaking havoc as he stood gazing at the beauty while taking off his clothes. Am I going to sleep with a woman who has been tasted by a beggar? Have I stooped so low? He chose to cast away the dilemma of what’s wrong and what’s right. He feasted his large eyes on the delicacy that lay in front of him to excite himself: a fair woman gift-wrapped in a white bed-sheet, with fleshy limbs and bangle-laden arms spread wide. How could he refuse?

*

Next day the beggar was conducting business at his usual spot, waiting anxiously for Babu to pass by, hoping to tease him on how the last evening’s fare was. Five days passed. His eyes searched for Babu like a relative looks for his dear ones arriving at a railway station. But there was no sign of Roshan. To the brothel the beggar went several times but he did not find his generous Babu there. Any accident? Any arrest? Is he sick? Left the city.

After a fortnight or so, one morning, while sitting at his usual place, he turned back to spit out the betel juice. When he looked down, he saw a familiar face. His Babu was hurriedly crossing the tracks to reach platform no.2. The screeching clatter of the galloping Darjeeling Mail on the third track had snuffed out his loud call. Within seconds the 9.24 local had trundled into the platform from the other direction. His Babu was lost in the sea of humanity. Forever.

*