He almost took off the mendicant’s arm when he pushed it away. There was spite in his rejection. ‘You scum! why don’t you find some honest employment, without being parasites?’ words spat out with unrestrained passion. They got to camp under the shady haven of the mango tree, while an honest man had to whither in the blasted sun. He had little time and sympathy for beggars and their kind, they were merely plying a trade, that was all. He entertained a very simple philosophy; that feeding them fed their parasitical greed even more, sweat and hard work defined his character. He was proud of it.

But this time, this singular experience struck some unwanted rusty cords in his heart. The absence of a heart wrenching sob story, the emaciated body that reeked like a sewer, and the two tiny withered boys that clung onto the man, smote him with unwelcome guilt. Their mute cry for help killed anything that words could offer, the memory of their plaintive, gaze mocked his jealously guarded principles. The brutality of his rejection bore down on him with equal venom. He flinched in embarrassment and shock, as something that felt like a tear scampered down his cheek threatening further escalation. He took some deep breaths to crush this disgrace. He felt drained and confused. The gate loomed in front of him almost out of nowhere.

His wife noticed the difference the moment he reached home. ‘Where are the kids?’ he asked with urgency. She pointed towards the backyard, eyes brimming with something like wonder. He saw the two boys playing soft ball cricket through a misty veil of suppressed tears. He rushed towards them and hugged them tightly. They both wriggled to flee his crushing grip, He was not capable of open displays, and this terrified them. All he could feel were their soft, healthy bodies against his and their upbeat stamina as they fought to break loose. He was about to betray himself.

He went inside, she was cooking,

‘Could I get some of the boys’ old clothes and some of mine too?’

‘What for!’

He turned a deep red.

‘I-I saw a couple of boys, beggars, perhaps even smaller than ours, out near my work, well I am sure they are genuine cases.’

It was torture to spill it out.

 ‘No probs, there should be plenty.’

She was all smiles, and desperate to sound normal.

‘As I told you it was just those kids.’

He struggled to salvage some lost pride, she smiled again with her thoughts. It was a good act.

His breath was short, his step hurried, as he made his way to the busy square where his offices were located. He had a bag full of clothing from the boys’ collection and heaps more from his. He had several rupiah notes in his clutch, now drenched in his palm. Nervous energy throbbed through him. He visualized their ecstatic faces and sweated again. He felt good, quite good, like never before. His eyes scoured the pavement under the mango tree, where they were hiding from the stifling heat the other day. He felt impatient with the nuisance of humanity that got in the way. But they did not hide them. He searched with dismay, he turned to all the nearby streets, yet with no success. The bundle he had, by this time was starting to attract a horde of other mendicants who began to trail him with outstretched hands and a jumble of gibberish that was meant to scorch his heart. He had a generous supply of abuse to dispense among them. He looked at his watch, he had spent an entire hour and was even late for work. He abandoned his search, he was crushed. His clothes were plastered on to him. He shivered in disgust as the freezing cool from the air conditioner evaporated the sweat and the smell of it from his body. The hours before lunch dragged on slowly, he was impatient to return at lunchtime. But he was met with an empty tree and a shade teeming with other beggars who surveyed him with hopeless eyes. Hopeless because they knew that there was nothing to be had from him. He was frustrated and cursed in silence.

Days passed, and his crusade of mercy floundered as each day brought him no closer to them. By this time, he had traversed the length and breadth of all the alleys and by ways of the bustling city, where beggars flourished in record numbers. The desperate fragility of those young innocents who had trembled with hunger spawned fresh anxieties. A brazen trickle of tears began a shameless march down his cheeks, and he flinched again, but allowed them free access. A frequent glance at the mango tree and its cursed shade soon became ritual.

His rare charge of goodwill was shot to pieces; this unsettled him. It was a challenge, a spiritual one. And he hated to lose. He was bitter and confused. He desperately craved a way out, one cropped up, it called for a shocking betrayal; a giant leap outside his ideological threshold.

He was soon the most popular figure among the beggar colony that populated most of the streets around the square. They would skip gaily behind him with greedy palms and fake smiles. The miser of the square as some had come to know him, became their darling almost overnight. Generous amounts of rupiah notes and sweets were constantly in his clutch, and these departed to other greedy, greased palms with astounding frequency. Hid generosity soon spilt beyond the far reaches of the square, and began to encroach on the sanctity of his own home. The poor street urchins in his lane would line up at his gate religiously around the time he would return from work. They knew, they would be rewarded for their patience. His obsession soon became a significant point of concern to his wife as well. Her husband’s radical transformation had initially become a source of joy, and she observed it silently. Yet, now it boasted of an obsession.

 ‘What’s the meaning of this? You’re encouraging thieves to our door, it’s bad for our boys.’

 ‘Ohh! now you are pontificating me against something you pushed for all these years, what a bloody hypocrite!’

There was bite in his reply. But he wanted peace at home and caved in. His crusade in the square, however, persisted with more desperation. Yet fulfillment remained an elusive prize. His gritty, working-class roots still reminded him of his treachery. Many weeks went by, he stuck to his ritual with fervour, but to no avail. His original objects were still agonizingly missing. Their mute appeal and forlorn gaze still etched in his mind with unforgiving clarity. On one such lunch time walk, a friendly beggar picked his purse in a brazen display of mendicant loyalty. The customary anger was at hand, but did not survive. His own conversion amazed him and saddened him.  

His wife who headed the charitable wing of the family, now pulled hard on the reins. She felt her husband more than indulged the average social obligations for one family. She was somewhat amused. She had always adopted a sensible approach to charity, which ensured an equitable distribution of aid. Under her administration the most deserving received the most, a rational departure from the singular frenzy that drove her husband now.

One day, after a hearty lunch and on a digestive walk, his gaze fell once more upon his shrine, and his heart stopped. There they were, that blessed trio, he rushed towards the apparition, they all looked much worse. He grasped the mendicant’s hands with pure warmth and joy, and their eyes lit up when they saw him. He asked the man where he was all this while, all the time crushing his hand in a tight grip. The poor man winced in agony, but smiled on, maintaining his humility.

‘Sir, we were chased away by the others.’

It was a trembling whisper. His veins exploded. To think he had helped those very vermin, it brought back old sparks, yet, the moment at hand was too precious. He loaded the man’s hands with notes and the kids’ with coin. The man’s drenched cheeks were reward enough. Redemption rushed in like a long overdue gust of fresh air.

 The club was teeming with the weekend patrons, the dimmed lights, and the smoky haze cartwheeled around him. The air inside was saturated with the scent of free-flowing spirits and it soon came to his turn with the drinks. As he maneuvered the tray back to the table, he bumped into another patron who elbowed him viciously with dazed hatred and a loud curse, for his apparent indiscretion. Something about the man made him look again.

He looked emaciated still but was impeccably dressed, with cleanly pressed and ironed clothing, his eyes were still submerged in their hollows, but looked bloodshot. He reeked only of spirits, and there were no impoverished children hanging onto him.

With the greatest difficulty he steadied himself and muttered a curse at those damn lights, which were playing tricks. He even forgot about the pain in his ribs and drowned his sorrows by swilling his mouth with beer and turned his weary attention to the .drunk conversation around the table.

 

copyright @ 2008 Jude Perera