The flight attendant of Jet airways announced the approach of Bajpe Airport. I eagerly peeped out of the small window of the plane. There was not much to see. The sky was filled with white clouds and only occasionally a field or a road could be visible. Yet I was thrilled. It was a homecoming after ten years abroad. Years of longing for my home town filled me with tremendous anticipation. The plane circled in what seemed like an endless landing tone and the pilot finally landed the aircraft . I wondered how on earth they do it on such a narrow strip of land. The door of the aircraft opened and returning the plastic smiles back to the airhostesses I slowly alighted the plane filling my lungs with fresh Manglaorean air, though contaminated now with the refinery pollution. It still felt good. It had rained. The smell of the fresh soaked soil was an appetizer to old memories. The crowd of taxi drivers did not make me angry. My thoughts gratefully recollected the events that had made me different from them. The old Ambassador car now really looked funny and antique.The narrow winding roads towards the city had not changed a bit. In fact every pothole , every broken electric pole, and every landmark was still there!! 10 long years and not a rupee spent on these roads !!!
“Don’t they ever repair these roads…?” I blurted out to the driver and then suddenly realized my mistake. The Driver looked amused. I must have been the thousandth person in his taxi making such a remark.
I must have traveled through this road from Bajpe to Suratkal a thousand times before. But after 10 years of being accustomed to the 8 lane roads of Gulf every curve of the road looked deadly and frightening.The driver seemed too accustomed to the risks and after what seemed like an eternity of driving brought me safe to my home. I tipped him generously…he seemed unmoved by the generous gesture.
The old wooden gate creeked loudly as I entered our compound. The creeking
“Kon Putha…” I stared at the old bent figure of my mother coming out of our tiled small house. She was happy and surprised to see me.I had come unannounced, and joy was written all over her face. As she got busy talking I turned my attention to the house where I had grown up. So many sweet and bitter memories overwhelmed me. Every nook and corner of that old house had a story to tell ?..The stories in which I was always a hero?.The roof was leaking a couple of places and she had kept buckets to collect water. A pang of guilt came over me. All of us children had moved out and settled but none could afford to take up the responsibility of building a new house for her…Come what may I will do it soon?.I thought.
“Mum, cant you get someone to fix those leaking tiles?..” I asked. ” Richie, getting a handy man to do menial work these days is difficult. Your class mate Pasku was there, but he had a fall from the coconut tree and hasn?t shown his face since three months…poor guy. I wonder if he is able to walk. You remember your friend Pasku..dont you? ” she asked.
Pasku?.Of course I remembered him. In fact we his class mates had named him Pasku in white. For reasons un known to us kids ,Pasku always wore white . That was his trade mark. The other speciality was that he never carried a tiffin which we called “Buthi”…an aluminium container in a cloth bag perpetually emanating a stale smell. Nevertheless its smell always served as a trigger to ravenous hunger in us children. How else could one explain the way we gobbled in seconds its cold tasteless contents at the ringing of the school bell…most of the time it contained cold stale rice with a piece of dry fish.
It never occurred to me why Pasku never brought his buthi? or where he disappeared during our lunch break…He wandered in the church compound during the lunch break and ate cashews, mangoes or whatever was available . No one knew why he always wore white?..It was also peculiar that he went out of his way to help us carry our school bags…since he had hardly anything to carry. The constant fooling of classmates never even once affected Pasku. He always suffered from stomach pain and was constantly absent from school. When we finished 5th standard Pasku just gave up school and started doing menial jobs around and became popular handy man. I missed him. I used to admire him for his free and independent way of life and his ability to look after himself.
It was only years later that I realized with a sort of guilt that Pasku was extremely poor. In our childhood innocence we never thought of poverty or deprivation that was driving Pasku to behave the way he was. He always wore white because that was the only pair of clothes he had , which his mother had bought for his first communion. The first communion was a great event and every parent however poor somehow managed to get white clothes and celebrate. Pasku never brought buthi or tiffin because there was no one who could make it for him. His mother was working for a landlord as a labourer, and left the children to fend for themselves.
When I compared myself to him I was filled with guilt and sadness. The opportunities he had missed due to lack of school education were enormous. If only someone had helped him during his education…if only…there were too many ifs.
The ringing of my mobile woke me up from my train of thoughts. That was my travel agent briefing me about my much awaited tour to Kashmir. I asked him to cancel it. I had thought of a better use now for that excess money.When I flew back to Qatar I had ensured that Pasku had a autorikshaw as a means of livelihood. The thoughts of making one man self reliant filled me with joy.
It was two years later when I went to Mangalore again. As soon as I landed my thoughts went to Pasku with his auto. Perhaps Pasku was better off now.Was I feeling proud ? Did I deserve this kind of feelings ? Wasn?t it a sheer luck or fate that had made me different than Pasku ?……As I searched the market Pasku was no where to be seen. Later I learnt the sad news that Pasku was no more. The auto could never cover his needs nor that of his ailing mother. He had sold it, and started drinking. When he died of some disease Vincent De Paul society bought him clothes…White pant and white shirt . In Konkani they call “Anj Burgo ” (Angel Boy ) By custom such are buried in white clothes.
Pasku was indeed an angel of a sort…
–Richie Bendore, Qatar
Author: Richard D Souza- Qatar