CONFESSIONS
OF A COMMON
MAN
By A.V. Dhanushkodi
SIX -- THE
GOOD SAMARITAN
I have
often wondered why we, the common people, condone corruption. We read, almost every day, of corruption at
every level of functioning of our nation, right from the central ministers down
to the sweeper on the street, not impersonal events far removed from our lives,
but events which happen every day in our own lives, affecting us in so many
ways. Yet, we do not take them seriously. Possibly, either because we do not recognize
them as corrupt practices or, even if we do identify them as corruption, we
brush them aside with a casual gesture, as common occurrences. One may call it resignation, resulting from a
sense of helplessness. There may be some
truth in that interpretation but, going a step further, I would ascribe that
attitude to be rooted in an awareness, conscious or subconscious, of our own
behaviour, corrupt to a greater or lesser degree. I do not mean monetary corruption only, I
mean by the word ‘corruption’ a broad spectrum of behaviour in every one of
us---business and non-business in nature---crossing the boundaries of legality,
morality, and all norms of social behaviour, which have evolved over centuries,
meant to benefit the largest number of people.
It was my
usual early morning walk. I was on Arundale
Beach Road. It is really a street, but called a road, as
most of the streets in Kalakshetra Colony are named, perhaps to give them a
touch of dignity. Normally, at that time
of the day, all the streets in the colony would be populated only by
walkers.
At a
certain distance before me, an old man was walking briskly, making me wonder if
I was as healthy as he. From his looks,
even from behind, I estimated him to be much older than me. If I could walk faster than he did, I could
overtake him within a minute, I calculated.
I put my thought to action, without wasting a second.
I was
closing the distance between us rapidly, pleased with myself that I could be
roused to rapid action when required.
There were now merely a few paces between us, and I was closing in on
him.
When I was
within arm’s length behind him, I saw him collapse. His knees suddenly buckled and he went down
in slow motion. With one last quick
step, I was right behind him, in time to hold him and prevent him from hitting
the asphalt street with all his weight.
Then, I put him down gently on his back on the street.
First, I
felt his breath. To my relief, it was
quite even. Then, I felt his pulse, which
was beating normally. It must have been
just exhaustion. He must have been
walking for nearly an hour.
I
estimated him to be eighty. His shirt
was mildly soaked in sweat. Kneeling
down next to him, I opened the shirt buttons and decided to wait for a few
minutes, for him to come to. Meanwhile,
I checked his shirt and pant pockets to know if he had any valuables. I knew that miscreants would remove them
first, in such situations.
Not
knowing what else to do, I waited, kneeling down. Then I saw a few legs around me. I looked up to see that a few walkers and
others had gathered around us. I could
also see more and more walkers approaching us and now quite a crowd was
gathering around us.
“What
happened?” “Who is it?” “Is he OK?”
“I think we should sprinkle some cool water on him.” “We should inform
his people.” “Are you a doctor?”
Everyone was concerned. Questions and suggestions
were flying all around.
“He has
just fainted out of exhaustion. He is
OK. He’ll be getting up any minute
now. I am not a doctor. I was walking a few paces behind him, when he
collapsed. I caught him and laid him
down.” I tried to answer all their querries.
I saw a
young man peep over the shoulders of the crowd and gasp, “My God! He is my father!” Instantly, everyone made way for him to reach
the prone old man. He was greatly
agitated and trembling. He knelt down
next to me. I calmed him down, “He’s
OK. Just exhaustion. I think you should take him home.”
“Yes,” he
agreed and hailed one of the autos that had stopped there to see what was
happening. The old man’s son and I
carried him to the auto and placed him on the seat. His son got in and sat next to him.
As the
auto driver started the engine, the young man put out his hand, “Thank you very
much Sir. By God’s grace, you were next
to him when he fainted. I am
Kaushik. May I know your good name?”
I took his
hand and patted it. “God is always
merciful. Take care of him. I think you must go with him, when he goes
for morning walks.”
“Your good
name, Sir?” he insisted.
“I prefer
to be anonymous. I hate publicity. I am happy to thank God, that now and then he
gives me an opportunity to be of some help to others.” With that, I walked away in the opposite
direction. The small crowd had dispersed
by then.
Some five
minutes later, sitting at a table in Murugan Iddly Shop and sipping hot coffee,
I took out the old man’s purse and checked.
To my utter disgust, there was one, just one ten rupee note and a few
coins. I paid the bill with that money.
Then, I took out his cell phone and removed the sim card. On my way out, I threw the sim card and the
purse on the heap of rubbish, the Corporation sweepers had collected in front
of the restaurant, to clear later, God knows when.
Quite
happy that I was richer by at least a cell phone, I sauntered towards my
home.
A.V.
Dhanushkodi
June 29,
2011
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