He was a rich man; a rich businessman, with a happy family. Suddenly he was on the streets!! His sweet and lovely son had thrown him out on the roads to be on the pity of other Malayalees of the society. It had been quite a few years that I kept seeing him at my doorsteps regularly every week...Perhaps he even had fixed days for fixed places.. was it Wednesdays for us or Fridays...? I don't remember. I was just a kid at that time...28 years back. what I remember is that he had a fixed rate- Rs. 2.00. It was a routine... he would come in front of our house's gate (as perhaps he did to other Malayalees') and just say in his plain , loud, elongated and stretched voice.."NAMASTEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYY!" and would start babbling to himself in a God-knows-what language.
2.00 Rs. to "Namastey Uncle".. if it were any less, my mom or I had to explain that we didn't have the amount then, and that he should come the next day to collect it. If the amount that we gave to him was more than a 2 Rs. note, he would calculate the remainder, search his bag for the amount and then laugh his heart out and would ask of our well being. "Yellam Sukhamalle?" he would ask and my mom would answer "Paramasukham!!" He would happily move on....
I had tried to make out some sense of what he was holding under his breath, but I failed every time. My failure to understand his gibberish language could be attributed only to his looks as I was a considered a smart kid by others and by myself. He looked really dangerous.. Unkempt, unwashed and spread hair, his long and shapeless stick which he used as a support for walking, torn blazers(he wore them even in Bhilaian summers), worn out slippers, a huge bag made of old pieces of clothes across his shoulders...
But even behind all these outward appearances, studded there on his bearded face were two innocent eyes. They were red.. always...but I am sure they were innocent. And that is why, even when he hugged me too tightly sometimes when I went to give 2 Rupees to him, I never felt insecure, or frightened or guilty.
No one amongst the Malayalees in Bhilai was afraid of "Namastey Uncle". He would not speak to any person from any other part of India. He would only visit Malayalees as he knew where each one of them stayed. He would stop only at their gates and would be promptly handed over a 2 or 5 rupees note. No questions asked. Even when we changed our residence, he would come and visit only up till the gate.
Then for some weeks we didn't see him. I didn't notice his absence till one day I realized that our "Namastey Uncle" was not to be seen for so many days.
I was told that he died. Some said it was an accident, some said he died of extreme intake of liquor, some said he died of heart attack, some said since he was mentally sick, he couldn't have lived long anyways... so he died.
Whenever I see a beggar in front of my house, images of 'Namamstey Uncle' flash by and I feel like I could still hear the long, plain, elongated, stretched "NAMASTEEEEEY"... Its been a long time since I stopped giving alms.
2.00 Rs. to "Namastey Uncle".. if it were any less, my mom or I had to explain that we didn't have the amount then, and that he should come the next day to collect it. If the amount that we gave to him was more than a 2 Rs. note, he would calculate the remainder, search his bag for the amount and then laugh his heart out and would ask of our well being. "Yellam Sukhamalle?" he would ask and my mom would answer "Paramasukham!!" He would happily move on....
I had tried to make out some sense of what he was holding under his breath, but I failed every time. My failure to understand his gibberish language could be attributed only to his looks as I was a considered a smart kid by others and by myself. He looked really dangerous.. Unkempt, unwashed and spread hair, his long and shapeless stick which he used as a support for walking, torn blazers(he wore them even in Bhilaian summers), worn out slippers, a huge bag made of old pieces of clothes across his shoulders...
But even behind all these outward appearances, studded there on his bearded face were two innocent eyes. They were red.. always...but I am sure they were innocent. And that is why, even when he hugged me too tightly sometimes when I went to give 2 Rupees to him, I never felt insecure, or frightened or guilty.
No one amongst the Malayalees in Bhilai was afraid of "Namastey Uncle". He would not speak to any person from any other part of India. He would only visit Malayalees as he knew where each one of them stayed. He would stop only at their gates and would be promptly handed over a 2 or 5 rupees note. No questions asked. Even when we changed our residence, he would come and visit only up till the gate.
Then for some weeks we didn't see him. I didn't notice his absence till one day I realized that our "Namastey Uncle" was not to be seen for so many days.
I was told that he died. Some said it was an accident, some said he died of extreme intake of liquor, some said he died of heart attack, some said since he was mentally sick, he couldn't have lived long anyways... so he died.
Whenever I see a beggar in front of my house, images of 'Namamstey Uncle' flash by and I feel like I could still hear the long, plain, elongated, stretched "NAMASTEEEEEY"... Its been a long time since I stopped giving alms.
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