She took up little space. Home in the day was a 3X3 feet piece of pavement, and at night, the narrow space under a store awning.She looked over 75, wore thick glasses that had seen so much, and a grimy saree she carried off with quiet grace. I’d been meeting her for close to 7 years.
I didn’t know her name and I don’t think I ever told her mine. There was no need. ‘Aunty’ and ‘beta’ worked well enough for us. We’d become acquaintances in this bustling, heaving, cheek-by-jowl city, and as I’d like to think, something more. I’d see her every day on my way home or when I’d step out to run an errand. I’d even see her when I’d step out for a run - she’d be slowly waking up and would wave a cheery ‘hi’ at me.
Once a week, I’d stop by and slip her a 500 rupee note through my folded hands. Always embarrassed, ever aware that what separated us was a slip of destiny’s wheel. I’d enquire how she was doing, and she’d always ask after our son: ‘Baba kaisa hai? School jaa raha hai? Ab kaunse class mein hain?’ ('How's your son? Hope he's regular at school? Which class is he in now?') If I was unwell or missed our weekly date for some reason, she'd ask as a matter of right when we met again: 'Bahar gaye the kya, dikhe nahin?' ('Were you out travelling? Haven't seen you recently) And I'd smile and make my explanations.
I once asked her about her family. And she told me that she was from Kandivili. That her son had left her here by the side of the road and promised he’d be back soon. ‘Soon’ turned out to be 18 years. That’s 216 months of monsoons, the scorching sun and a Mumbai winter that feels very different on a hard footpath. But there was no bitterness in her. Like most mothers, she was filled with inexhaustible goodness and that indefatigable empathy reserved for their birthed blood. She made excuses for him, said that she understood that she was getting to be a burden and forever believed that he would return one day.
She reminded me of my mum - of mums everywhere - and looking at her broke my heart. So I’d try and do what I could. Fruits, bedsheets, my amma’s old sarees, a soft pillow, an umbrella during the monsoons. All of it felt inadequate and self-serving. And truth be told, she gave me so much more. Every time we spoke, she’d end with ‘God bless you and your family.’ She said this with fierce affection and an earnestness that made me feel bulletproof. She only ever once asked me for something. She’d fallen asleep on the pavement one day, and someone had stolen her spectacles. She was devastated, I was aghast. She was quite dependent on them, and also didn’t know her eye power. I convinced a local optician to let her come in and get her eyes tested. But when I went back to her with this good news, she had something better to tell me. She grinned at me through her old glasses, as she narrated how a security guard from the bank nearby had taken them for safekeeping, afraid they might be accidentally stomped upon by someone.
Life with nonchalance, writes tearjerkers that copywriters strive to craft.
During the lockdowns, I’d step out to see if she needed anything. I told her I’d find an NGO to take her in, but she was clear that she didn’t want to move. ‘I have people looking after me here’, she said, referring to her ragtag support system that included the newspaper vendor who gave her the daily for free, and the quaint next-door restaurant that refilled her tea at no cost. ‘Besides’, she added, ‘My son should find me here when he comes’.
I have no idea if he ever came or even knows. But a few mornings ago, I saw for the first time that she wasn’t at her usual spot. And she hasn’t been around ever since. I asked but none of the regulars know. I hope she’s fine but chances are that she isn’t. At her age and terrifying lack of privilege, Occam’s razor cuts deep and fast.
In this bustling, heaving, cheek-by-jowl city that thrums with frantic energy and desperate purpose, she sat still everyday at the same spot, creating no ripples, just another elderly, homeless, nameless, everything-less human being.
She took up little space. But today, a little piece of pavement in Bandra stares back at me, enormous in its emptiness.
