Magical times. Sweat of the brow, strain of the sinews, matter of fact courage.
Fathers planned, toiled, worried, dared, protected, provided and built. Mothers cooked, cleaned, spun, wove, sewed, washed, swept, talked, sang, complained, cuddled, cared, fed, raised children and made homes. Children ate, played, read, went out to the fields, laughed, made, broke, dirtied, quarrelled, cried, slept, grew stronger and aspired to follow in their parents’ footsteps.
About once on an average day, a mother would be heard shouting to whoever was within earshot, "Jaa rayy, saadh nu rotti de de!"
(Go, give food to the saadhu!)
The saadhus came seeking food and alms, mostly just a meal to eat and a little flour to take away. The flour was from grain that had been grown by the fathers and ground by the mothers, the food was warm, and it was what the family ate.
One of the saadhus was an old dacoit, now bent over with age. His clothes were old and ragged, gnarled toes in leather sandals that seemed as old as time, knotted fingers holding a stick whose grip shone with years of use; eyes cast down behind bushy, white eyebrows; white beard and ancient moustache drooping from the bent frame; a length of old cloth wrapped around his head.
He would sit on the ground in the shade of a wall in the courtyard near the steps coming down from the veranda and wait quietly. Mother would call out when the meal was ready, "Jaa rayy, saadh nu rotti de de!"
Whichever child happened to be close by would take the three or four big rotis, some vegetable piled on them; given by hand, placed on hand; eaten in silence, slowly.
He seldom spoke a word. To a little boy, he looked like Baba Nanak.
Another saadhu was a middle-aged fakir who cared for a mazhaar under a nearby banyan tree. His robe was black, his little turban green, sometimes a black cap, and there was a string of colourful stones around his neck. His eyes shone brightly and there was kohl around them. There was a tangle of cloth bags at his side in which he would take home the few handfuls of flour or grains that he would receive.
At the entrance to the courtyard he would shout one word in a sharp voice, "Haq!"
Then he would sit and wait patiently in the same spot as the old man, till mother readied the same meal and called to anyone who was close at hand , "Jaa re, saadh nu rotti de de!"
His single-word command inspired awe in the little boy who was a bit intimidated by his mysterious apparel and piercing eyes.
Never another word, year after year, except, "Haq!"
And those who went by his 'jaarat' under the banyan tree would get a drink of water, a frugal meal, some drags at a hukkah, or a place to rest awhile if they wanted.
Then there were 'bhikshus' from a 'matth' somewhere not very near. They came by quite often, always in pairs; young lads with shaven heads, clad in saffron, full of playful energy and chatter. It was part of their training to go around asking for alms. They enjoyed their food, talked cheerfully, accepted whatever they got, and spent an extra hour roaming around without a care, watching the farm labour at work or the children at play.
The age of the 'children' spanned a period of almost 20 years. In their own turn, they all went to school and out into different experiences and exposures in the world. They learned a lot about money and belongings, about saving and coveting and hoarding, about stealing and grabbing and bullying, about selfishness and impatience, about appearances and luxury, about bragging and boastfulness.
They learned that saadhus do not exist in the real world, that those who came in expectation of a simple meal and a handful of grain were useless beggars who were too lazy to work for a living, they learned that wealth was best accumulated by taking away from the hapless and the meek.
They learned that contentment was a sin, sound health was a lie, charity was a fashionable thing to be paraded and used as building material for big bubbles of ego.
They learned that saadhus, jogies, snake charmers, raoming acrobats, even simple passers by who stopped for a drink of water at a hand-pump or an afternoon in the shade of a tree were to be chased away as loafers and prospective thieves.
The right of one man to share the food of another, the right of one being to share the earth with another, the right to be happy, the commitment to co-exist, were relegated to trash and replaced by a greed that, in turn, bred suspicion and insecurity.
Mankind lost faith in the natural order of things, in the irrefutable occurrences of birth, death, illness, wellness, prosperity, adversity, coming and going.
The clock kept ticking.
x x x x x x x x x x
She sat in a corner of the porch outside the huge Real Canadian Superstore, a young girl, maybe in her early twenties. A roughly torn piece of cardboard in front of her bore the scrawled words, "Any help will be appreciated."
One of the children, almost 60 now, stopped before her, "Can I get you anything from inside?"
"Uh, yeah! Something to eat?
"Anything in particular?"
"Ye-yes; a box of cereal? Any cereal?"
All other sounds around them seemed to fade away, and his voice was even gentler, “Anything else? Can I get you anything else?"
" Uh..a..a sandwich, maybe?"
"Sure. Why don't you just come into the store with me? Pick up whatever you want and I'll pay for it; I'll be happy to."
"No, they don’t like us going in."
A lump in my throat, vision blurring. Deja vu. I had heard the same words from a poor girl with handicapped legs outside a place of worship and much-touted charitable food back home.
“Will you get me a jar of Nutella?"
Oh my child, my child, my beautiful forgotten child - flashback to all those children in school who would smuggle up rottis from the dining hall and have them with Nutella or sandwich spreads late in the night when the hostel warden made his rounds.
The old warden's eyes swim with tears. “It's getting late,” he says slowly, intensely, as if it is desperately important to him, “They take a lot of time in there; wait for me. Please don't go away."
So many years after the saadhus started going elsewhere, the child understood what the fakir was reiterating in one syllable - the right of one human being to share the food of another!
No more, no less; without fear or favour; no begging, no piety.
Just a right to eat, to live, to be!
The right of one human being to share the food of another, honourably.
The privilege.
Haq!
x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Sant Kabir:
साईं इतना दीजिए जा में कुटुंब समाए।
मैं भी भूखा ना रहूं साधू ना भूखा जाए।
(Lord, give me this much that my family is fed,
I do not stay hungry, and a saadhu does not go hungry)
- Sant Kabir
x x x x x x x x x x x x
Even as I write this as a gift to all my children on Tiffy’s 28th birthday, the last of the parents of the Nawab Nagar children, my Chachaji Nasib Singh, has passed on. We’re all going through a few days of calm and contemplation on the seeming end of an era. Those ‘children’ of Nawab Nagar are now old, and a whole brood of blessed young men and women have taken their place.
The wheel of time will keep turning, and, in their own ways, they will feed the saadhus.
