Birthday Reflections: Part 2

Birthday Reflections:

Part 2:

I did not give deeper thought yesterday when I picked the saree to wear for the birthday dinner that our daughter had planned for me. Because for me birthday is not a special occasion. It used to feel special when my father was alive. He would make my favorite sweets at home. That was it. No cakes, no balloons, no gifts. Nothing. Just my favorite food at home. But it felt like being on top of the world that day. Now every day is as good as another. On top of that, we as a family endured the loss of two of my husband’s sisters since my last birthday, loss of my maternal aunt and also loss of two of my paternal cousins. All of them meant a lot to me. Life goes on. But feelings are subdued under such circumstances. I do not believe anymore in hanging the head low with every occasion of grief. But neither do I feel comfortable for grand celebrations in the face of solemn realities. My daughter’s desire to celebrate my birthday was evident even though I had tried to underplay it with a few excuses. Finally I decided to play along and not dampen her enthusiasm.

So I picked this old silk saree from my closet with Kantha embroidery on a floral design. The thought was that it should be something colorful, cheerful yet not too loud or grand. That’s it.

My mind did not realize in that quick decisive moment, which seemed rather unimportant at the time, the greater significance this saree holds.

I had bought this one from a Bengali vendor, Mr Pinaki Das, who we had known for nearly three decades. He would carry his goods in cloth bundles from house to house in Mumbai. Many women who stayed home would buy from him in the days of my grandmother and aunts. His way of life was noticeable for the hard work and struggle for survival. He had become like a brother to me over the years. Many times the stock he brought over did not impress me. Yet often I bought sarees simply to help him. I had seen his living conditions in Mumbai. Nearly 8-10 men doing similar work would pile on in a tiny rented room in a chawl in Lower Parel, with barely any space for each to lay down to sleep at night. Their families would be back home in the villages in West Bengal. These men would work hard from morning till night to send money home. It was a very hard life that we can never understand. What was important was that they never quit earning from honest means.

He wanted a better future for his son and would ask me if I could find the latter some work abroad. Yes, I could if the son could acquire certain skills for which there were legitimate jobs that he could apply for. But the son was not prepared for any skills training.

About 5 years or so back Mr Das suffered a stroke. I tried to help his son get a better footing in the business by setting up an online shop like many other vendors had started doing. But the son had no interest or capacity to learn the use of social media or computers. He continued the business in the old fashioned outdated manner. In fact he took over completely, started his own family. Although his father resisted saying it explicitly it was apparent that the son didnt help his parents very much. The father was left to fend for himself.

Mr Das reached out to me about a year back asking for help to find him employment. I didn’t know what I could do. Then he reached out a few months back with specific requests. He was ready to work as a security guard or household helper. Alternatively he was considering driving an auto rickshaw and asked me to give him money to buy a rickshaw. I have been burned before when I helped people out with money and learned my lesson. So that was not a viable option for me. I can help in many other ways. I put in a word with all friends who had contacts in Kolkata. They were gracious and said they would try and find him work. 

Two days after I had this conversation with 3-4 friends, I was having second thoughts. I was thinking to myself, I’ll just send him the 1 lakh to buy the rickshaw. It would be worth it if he earns daily meals for himself, his wife and his disabled and unmarried daughter. He has spent a fortune in earlier years for her cancer treatment. And more recently told me he is not even going to try and get her married because he has no money for it.

Anyways.

I had spoken to him two days earlier, reassured him that my friends are going to contact him for a job. The very next day after that phone conversation I had decided in my mind to send the money. Before I could get to it, his son called to tell me that dad had another stroke and passed away before being taken to the hospital!! 

It is those stories that remind us that life has other plans. It is not easy for many people in this world. But they continue to make our lives better anyways. I am wearing one of the many beautiful sarees he brought right to my home in India. I become the face of the artistic grandeur, I have the privilege to flaunt them but the artisans and sellers behind the scenes just struggle just so they could eat and feed their families because of these things. They need to be respected, appreciated and recognized. We cannot live in isolation. Rich and poor are connected not just by philosophy. We are connected by means of economy, social justice, ethics and interdependence. Callousness and resignation of social responsibility cannot sustain even the existence of the rich and privileged. Moral bankruptcy is not a disease limited to illiterate and unemployed. Even the highly educated, powerful and rich people are seen to suffer from its symptoms. So is the middle class that doesn’t fall into either category. 

There are many like Mr Das who live honest lives and die in anonymity, forgotten by even those for who they worked all their lives. In every case government cannot take the full blame. In fact nobody would need to feel the burden of blame if each person was taking responsibility for others welfare. Humans bring God and government into the picture just so they are absolved of accountability. 

Mr Das is gone behind the curtains of time. I couldn’t help him even when I wanted to. 

Needless to say he will remain in my heart forever. As a dear brother. Always kept calling me Didi, Didi. He knew he could reach me whenever he wanted help. He would reach me even when I told him I can’t help him. He still had faith in me. I am not sure why. Probably because he knew he could talk to me and I would listen. I just couldn’t help him when he needed it most.

I picked this saree without thinking of him. But the saree made me think of him. 

Chhoti baatein 

Chhoti chhoti baaton ki hain yaadein badi

Bhoolay nahi beeti huyi ek chhoti ghadi

Instead of remembering who did what wrong to me, remembering who did what good for me gives joy and keeps them and us closer to our own hearts.