My father, with his widowed mother, was ejected from his father’s home. His uncles wanted the house for themselves. Another uncle, more distant, took pity on him and found him a job in a printing shop. He did well later on and we lived in a comfortable apartment in a large building, of which he had supervising charge. Perhaps because of his modest beginning, he had an immoderate respect for the common man. He tried, in every way, to imbue his sons with the same respect for people who worked for us, the gardener, the gatekeeper or the janitor.
The incident I remember most clearly was the occasion when his lesson failed.
I don’t remember how young my brother and I were at the time, but we were young enough not to be able to peer out of the dining room window without standing on a chair. We would stand on two chairs at the two large windows of our third-floor apartment and watch the busy street that ran in front of our home.
The traffic on the street was of endless interest to us. There were few cars those days, mostly pedestrians, a few handcarts and rickshaws. We competed in identifying people we knew, Mr. Bose the doctor or Hafeezji the tailor. There were two familiar beggars, one very old and the other quite young, and there were also boys from the nearest slum who came to play soccer with us. Between my brother, less than two years older, and me there was stiff competition: the winner was the one who identified a target earlier.
The incident I remember most clearly was the occasion when his lesson failed.
I don’t remember how young my brother and I were at the time, but we were young enough not to be able to peer out of the dining room window without standing on a chair. We would stand on two chairs at the two large windows of our third-floor apartment and watch the busy street that ran in front of our home.
The traffic on the street was of endless interest to us. There were few cars those days, mostly pedestrians, a few handcarts and rickshaws. We competed in identifying people we knew, Mr. Bose the doctor or Hafeezji the tailor. There were two familiar beggars, one very old and the other quite young, and there were also boys from the nearest slum who came to play soccer with us. Between my brother, less than two years older, and me there was stiff competition: the winner was the one who identified a target earlier.
At some point something quite different drew out attention. Our gatekeeper, Ramji, a tall, gaunt man who always wore a crisp khaki uniform, sported a bright scarlet turban. He might have been a man of modest means, but he was very fastidious about his appearance. Early every morning he would bathe, dress, come out on a small open porch on the ground floor next to the building and sit on a stool to tie his turban. We marveled at the huge length of his turban strip and how he wound the strip around his head. He went around and around with the long strip until he had a neatly, tightly wound turban around his august head. Spellbound, we watched this ritual every morning. It was a spectacle far more interesting than the trivial things we saw on the street.
As we watched this show morning after morning, an intriguing idea sprang from nowhere. I wish I could claim authorship of the original idea. I cannot. My brother was very conscious of his elder status and he was, admittedly, quite devilishly inventive. His imagination had been doubtless stirred by the breathtaking sight of the huge red turban and the eye-catching process of its daily construction. We talked for several days about the idea and developed it. It would take some doing, but we felt we could execute the task to perfection.
And so it was that on a bright summer morning my brother and I got up early, and quickly ate our cereal, so that mother would be quickly out of the dining room, leaving us free to carry out our mission without interference. (We both doubted she would take to our idea with any enthusiasm; in fact, she might try to dissuade us.)
As we watched this show morning after morning, an intriguing idea sprang from nowhere. I wish I could claim authorship of the original idea. I cannot. My brother was very conscious of his elder status and he was, admittedly, quite devilishly inventive. His imagination had been doubtless stirred by the breathtaking sight of the huge red turban and the eye-catching process of its daily construction. We talked for several days about the idea and developed it. It would take some doing, but we felt we could execute the task to perfection.
And so it was that on a bright summer morning my brother and I got up early, and quickly ate our cereal, so that mother would be quickly out of the dining room, leaving us free to carry out our mission without interference. (We both doubted she would take to our idea with any enthusiasm; in fact, she might try to dissuade us.)
We went to the bathroom and filled two large buckets to the brim with water. Then came the delicate and most difficult part of the exercise. We had to take the heavy water-filled buckets to dining room windows, and then lift and balance them on the broad window sill. It took two panting boys a long time to drag the buckets to the spot and lift and balance them on the window. At last we were ready.
We stood on our chairs and held our buckets carefully, and looked at each other, waiting for Ramji to emerge, bathed and dressed. After an eternity, he did. He sat on the stool and, with his usual punctiliousness, tied his turban. As he did the last round, my brother looked at me and nodded his head. I tilted the bucket and let the entire load on Ramji’s nearly turbaned head.
He was dumbfounded for a second. There was no rain, he must have thought, how come the sudden avalanche of water. He jumped up and was about to look up for the answer when my brother, with perfect timing, tilted his bucket and poured a bucket load of water on Ramji’s uptilted face.
Mission accomplished, it remained only to place the empty buckets in the bathroom and return quickly to our desks, to pretend to do classwork and gloat over our pinpoint accomplishment. The pretension did not last long.
In less than six minutes we heard our father roaring our names and asking us to come to the living room in a second.
We came and saw Ramji standing in his uniform and disarrayed turban, dripping water all over the living room carpet. Father looked livid with rage.
“When he told me, he had been drenched, I thought it was some rascal from some other apartment. I am shocked to hear from this poor man that it was from my own apartment. How could you do such a terrible thing?”
We, of course, had no answer.
“You must respect all people. Especially, people who are good enough to work for us. I am ashamed, and you should be ashamed too. I want to hear you two express your apologies to this wonderful hardworking man. Promise him you will never do such a horrendous thing again.”
We did.
“I want you to fold your hands and ask for his forgiveness.”
We did that too. This was a bit too much for Ramji. No employer had done such a thing for him.
“They are just boys,” he said to my father, “I have already forgiven them. Let us all forget about it.”
He quickly left the scene. Our father growled some more and then he went to his office.
That evening my brother and I avoided father and stayed at our desks longer than usual.
When mother returned from her sister’s place late in the evening, father, still grouchy, started telling her of the extraordinary misdeed of her children.
From my desk, I could hear mother say, “Tell me first what they did!”
The next moment I could hear our mother’s girlish giggle.
I knew then that the episode was finally over.
Mission accomplished, it remained only to place the empty buckets in the bathroom and return quickly to our desks, to pretend to do classwork and gloat over our pinpoint accomplishment. The pretension did not last long.
In less than six minutes we heard our father roaring our names and asking us to come to the living room in a second.
We came and saw Ramji standing in his uniform and disarrayed turban, dripping water all over the living room carpet. Father looked livid with rage.
“When he told me, he had been drenched, I thought it was some rascal from some other apartment. I am shocked to hear from this poor man that it was from my own apartment. How could you do such a terrible thing?”
We, of course, had no answer.
“You must respect all people. Especially, people who are good enough to work for us. I am ashamed, and you should be ashamed too. I want to hear you two express your apologies to this wonderful hardworking man. Promise him you will never do such a horrendous thing again.”
We did.
“I want you to fold your hands and ask for his forgiveness.”
We did that too. This was a bit too much for Ramji. No employer had done such a thing for him.
“They are just boys,” he said to my father, “I have already forgiven them. Let us all forget about it.”
He quickly left the scene. Our father growled some more and then he went to his office.
That evening my brother and I avoided father and stayed at our desks longer than usual.
When mother returned from her sister’s place late in the evening, father, still grouchy, started telling her of the extraordinary misdeed of her children.
From my desk, I could hear mother say, “Tell me first what they did!”
The next moment I could hear our mother’s girlish giggle.
I knew then that the episode was finally over.
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