LOST FORTUNE

a struggle for little luxury with dignity

LOST FORTUNE

 

 

         Om Parkash was a very happy man that day. After all, his sentence would be over by the time he had his next lunch. Six months appeared to have passed quite quickly this time. He was getting used to it, he thought. Moreover, once he was free, he would be greeted by a beautiful Delhi spring. The infamous cold climate of Delhi did not make a dent in his cosy cell number 22. Here he was also provided with a blanket, such luxury. It was almost as if he would be missing the comforts of his jail once he was free. Outside, it was a mess. He had no friends, no relatives, no home and no job. To the contrary, he had everything here. Still, he was happy. Freedom always ranked first for all living things.

 

         Om Parkash was a short middle-aged man with a declining hairline. To hide this shortcoming, he always wore a cap. He was jovial, down to earth and helpful to others. He respected the law, especially, when on the inner sides of the prison wall. The prison guards never had any problems with him. He would do his job as the sweeper with utmost sincerity. He was never reported against. He had only one bad habit, smoking. As the law of prison disallowed smoking, he indulged discreetly. He would roll a piece of paper and smoked it hiding in his cell toilet. The matches were never a problem as he had many acquaintances including some guards. Lately, however, he had discovered that he was forgetting more and remembering less. For example, a few days earlier, he forgot where he had put his broom. He searched for it for a long time only to find it resting under his cot. Sometimes, he would hide his neatly rolled up cigarettes under his cap and forgot all about them. When he found them while he retired to his bed, he considered them as bonus. One day, he forgot to clean the superintendent’s toilet. He remembered the reprimand though.

 

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” asked Ram Chandar, his cellmate.

 

“Oh tomorrow…let me see…lunch with Jagjiwan Ram and dinner with Indira Gandhi,” joked Om Parkash.

 

 “It will be nice…you know…the weather outside,” said Ram Chandar looking at the sky outside the dining hall.

 

“I will smoke my first real cigarette tomorrow,” Om Parkash aspired.

 

“So much for your dream…people usually want more than that.”

 

“Only a cigarette for a contented man,” said Om Parkash proudly. “I will also have a full lunch at Sonu Ka Dhaba. I am fed up with these elastic rotis,” added Om Parkash holding a roti in his hand.

 

“My time will also come soon. Only a year and a half remaining now,” Ram Chandar sighed.

        He was sentenced to five-year imprisonment for breaking into a house, which unfortunately belonged to a cop.

 

        After his last lunch at the prison’s dining hall, Om Parkash dozed off. He dreamed of a man with a bump on his back pocket walking in front of him. He curtailed his urge but couldn’t resist as his hand approached the wallet of that man. As he touched that wallet, the man caught his hand and turned. Superintendent’s angry face was staring at him. He jumped and woke up. What a ‘day-mare’! He was thankful that it was only a dream.

 

        He remained restless the whole day- tossed and turned the whole night. And before the morning bell could disturb him like every morning, he was up and ready to ring the bell himself.

 

        The cell gate was opened by a smiling constable Gajender. He returned his smile with another of his own. He bade Ram Chandar good-bye hoping not to see him in near future. He was taken to the jail-store, where his belongings were to be returned.

 

        A pair of trousers, one shirt, a wallet with two one-rupee coins, a pair of slippers and a Panama pack with two unlit cigarettes. That was all what constituted his earthly possessions after forty-five years on earth. He promptly changed into his own attire and returned the jail-uniform to the storekeeper.

 

        He was then escorted by Gajender to the jail-cashier. After making some entries in some registers, the cashier handed over a crisp hundred-rupee note and three one-rupee coins to him, his six months remuneration. As he tipped three rupees to Gajender, he felt like a regular at United Coffee House.

 

        He was finally ushered to the superintendent’s office. Surprisingly, he was greeted with a warm smile. He remembered his ‘day-mare’ and frowned. The superintendent shook his hand. He gave him a well-rehearsed homily before the farewell- out of a habit, Om Parkash guessed.

 

        A small door, which was a part of the bigger gate, was thrown open for him to pass through. As he walked across, he didn’t look back only heard the tangling sound of door closing behind him.

 

        He was now on the main road. Somehow, the air outside was different from what he had been breathing inside. It was fresh and free. He looked around. Everything was normal. One Ambassador passed him along hordes of bicycles and scooters. Everyone was minding his own business. No one cared that he was free. Everyone took freedom as if it were really for free. Only a drowning man knows the worth of air, he thought. He inhaled a few deep breaths of the free and fresh air. He valued his freedom though he didn’t know what to do with it.

 

        Suddenly, he remembered. His six months old Panama was waiting to be enlightened. He groped in his pocket and took out the pack. He selected one and replaced the pack in his pocket. He smelled the tobacco. How dearly had he longed for this smell? He remembered, he didn’t have a matchbox. He walked to a nearby panwala and took out a one-rupee coin from his pocket. He asked for a matchbox, which was promptly delivered with ninety paise change by the panwala. He quickly put the change back into his pocket and lit his beloved. He inhaled the first puff so much that the smoke must have covered all the space in his lungs. He enjoyed the feeling. He sat down on a bench and continued his rendezvous with his beloved until its last breath. The fresh spring air around him was now filled with white fumes. He closed his eyes and relaxed for a while.

 

               After some time, he stood up and took a bus, which would take him to his next destination, Sonu Ka Dhaba. It was a small eatery situated at Connaught Place in New Delhi. He had eaten there whenever he picked a heavy pocket.

 

               As he sat at the corner table of the Dhaba, he looked around. All the persons were strangers to him. He looked at the burly man manning the cash counter. He looked familiar. However, the familiarity was only one-sided. He loved the food there. He ordered Dal-Makhani, Shahi-Paneer, Naans with mixed Raita and Salad. All of which would not be more than ten rupees and was affordable, he thought.

 

               He finished his lunch with a huge burp. His hands again went to his pocket almost as a reflex action. He took out the Panama pack and lit his second beloved after he had crushed the pack and left it on the table. The second cigarette was even more enjoyable.

 

               As he was about to stub the cigarette, the waiter arrived with the bill. He looked at it. It was eleven rupees and thirty paise. No problem. He reached his back pocket and pulled his wallet. His heart missed a few beats when he saw only one-rupee coin inside it. His crisp hundred-rupee note was missing. He searched his pockets and took out all his belongings on the table. They amounted to seventy paise since he had spent twenty paise on the bus ride. He tried to remember each and every move of his since the freedom but all searches to his memory resulted in vain. He frowned.

 

               The owner, who was watching his antics from the counter, approached his table. It was as though he suspected that to happen as soon as Om Parkash entered his Dhaba.

 

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

 

“No…I mean yes…actually I seemed to have lost my hundred rupee note somewhere.”

 

“Well, well…looks as if you have a big hole in your pocket, Mr. Tata. Where did you get a hundred-rupee note, anyway?” the owner ridiculed.

 

Om Parkash could not tell the source of his money, so he kept quiet.

 

“Are you paying up or should I call the police?” threatened the owner.

 

No, not the police, not so soon, thought Om Parkash.

 

“I have one rupee and seventy paise right now. I promise you I will pay the rest by tonight, please believe me,” pleaded Om Parkash with folded hands.

 

“From where will you get the money, you b*****d,” the owner yelled loudly. He lost his patience and slapped Om Parkash.

 

               Om Parkash stood stunned. He was humiliated, an emotion he never came across while doing his time.

 

“Take this b*****d in the kitchen and make him wash the dishes,” ordered the owner to one of his waiters.

 

               Om Parkash didn’t resist and quietly followed the waiter into the kitchen. He heard a few laughters on his way. He washed and washed the dishes for the whole day. No wonder Sonu Ka Dhaba was renowned for its meals. Finally, when the Dhaba was about to be closed, the owner came into the kitchen.

 

“All right, you can go and never show your ugly face ever.”

 

               Om Parkash quietly left the Dhaba and came out. He walked for a few minutes until he found a bench. He was tired, hungry and sad. The night had made all the surroundings silent.  The market was deserted.

 

               He dropped on the bench. Suddenly, he remembered that he had kept a rolled paper cigarette under his cap at the time of getting out of jail. He thought that perhaps the cigarette might ease his hunger and exhaustion. He removed his cap from his head and took out the rolled cigarette.

 

               He looked at it in complete disbelief. When he stretched the cigarette-roll back to its size, he saw a crisp hundred-rupee note mockingly staring at him from his hands.