It is, perhaps, the one good deed I have done in ages: certainly, it is the only one I can remember offhand. I can't quite fathom why I call it a 'good deed', except that it gave me joy and satisfaction: as if a cheery glow had been set off within me... It was oppressively sultry, typical of Bombay on a May afternoon. I had just seen my mother off at the station and was hurrying back to work. Thrusting my hands into my pockets, I bulled my way through a horde of sweaty souls. The public announcement system at the platform crackled distantly. I pressed forward, oblivious of the message. It must have been a fraction of a second before I saw the distraught woman that the announcer's metallic drone burst through to me with startling clarity: as if someone had wiped clean a misty window pane to help me see through. "A little boy wearing a yellow shirt has been lost. His name is.... Anyone who finds him should approach the stationmaster's cabin. The boy is mentally retarded," the dispassionate voice intoned. I looked at the woman. Excessively edgy and weeping uncontrollably, she was trying to look everywhere at once. A sobbing, spastic child in a yellow shirt clung on to her. People milled around, unaware of the grieving duo. The scene was surreal: a dirge being recited before a dead audience. I softly asked her if the announcement was about her son, pointing at the child. She nodded through a thick veil of tears. I looked at her quizzically, not sure of the reason for her grief. Her son was obviously with her, so what was the matter? She understood my questioning gaze. "No, this is my elder son. My younger one's lost. He too is a spastic. If this boy were lost, he'd give his address and reach home..." "But the younger one can't even tell his name. We have trained him not to go anywhere alone. We normally get off at the next station, but when I couldn't find him there, I was frantic," she moaned. "Other passengers told me that they had seen a child get off at this station. So we came back. I have looked for him everywhere..." she said in an anguished torrent of emotion and melted into tears. I helped her into the stationmaster's cabin. She reluctantly took a chair, while her son perched on her lap. Having done my bit, I was about to leave when I heard myself say: "Don't worry, I'll find him." Her stare was a mix of hope and hopelessness, anger and scorn, sorrow and helplessness.... She sought to judge if my voice carried concern or condescension. I didn't blame her: helpful strangers are an uncommon occurrence. She just nodded, as if to say: "Oh yeah?" I was ashamed at how hollow my words sounded. I couldn't meet her gaze and, feeling a touch guilty, made myself scarce. But I was determined to keep my word. For an hour I turned the place inside out looking for a 'child in a yellow shirt', but to no avail. Every new lap I took I decided would be my last, but each time I would retrace my steps and start all over again. He certainly wasn't anywhere at the station. I finally gave up and, praying for the lady, strode out on to the road. It was then that I sensed a yellow flash. Next to the temple across from the station, I saw someone in a yellow shirt. Tiptoeing across, I glanced at the diminutive figure. The mongoloid features told me it was the lost child. Squatting on the pavement, he simultaneously sobbed and drew circles in the dust with a twig. Absorbed in his game, he often stopped crying. Then suddenly, he would resume his mournful wail. I watched for a while and then approached him. "Are you...?" I smiled benignly. His eyes widened with naked fear. He tried to escape, but I had him cornered. I whispered that his upset mother was waiting for him. That she had asked me to fetch him. I wonder what went through that little mind, but he refused to budge and started howling. Relentless parental warning to avoid strangers made him suspicious. Abruptly, I lifted him up. He thrashed about like a miniature tornado, kicking, scratching, screaming. But he was only a child, helpless in my grip. I will never forget the delighted squeal with which the lady jumped up at seeing him. She ran to us, tore him off my arms, and cuddled him like there was no tomorrow, crying and laughing all at once. She kissed him a thousand times, mouthing silly endearments. The little brothers exchanged toothy grins and the three locked in an embrace forever. I stood quietly by. Embarrassed somewhat, I made to slink past when she turned to me. Again it was that look in her eye: a strange blend of happiness, relief, benevolence, gratitude, affection, faith... Still crying, she hugged me and began to thank and bless me. I just nodded numbly, prised her fingers off my arms and raced out. I was afraid I would cry. Looking back, I often wonder why I felt that rare elation. Was it the sight of the reunion of a terrified lady and her lost child? Or the belief that I was Providence's instrument in bringing them together? Was it because the woman thanked me effusively, heaping blessings on me...? Or was it that I felt superior and self-important, having had a chance to cock a mental snook at Fate? I have not been able to answer that. But, who cares. The important thing is that Shishir Bhate has his heart in the right place. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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