Mr. Bhatnagar was feeling a bit off today. The bangles he had proudly bought for fifteen thousand rupees after some tough bargaining, thinking he had gotten a fifty-thousand-rupee item for a steal, were purchased by his wife for just nine thousand rupees online from the comfort of their home. All his efforts seemed in vain.
After dinner, he sat outside, looking a bit tired, when his neighbor, Mr. Saxena, came strolling by. As soon as he arrived, he said, "Come on, let me take you for a ride!" "Where?" asked Mr. Bhatnagar. "Just come along; I'm taking out my bike. I need to get some sweets. My mother-in-law is arriving on the night train, and my wife wants to make sure we have some 'rabri' ready for breakfast," said Mr. Saxena, opening his gate.
In no time, both of them were at the same sweet shop from where Mr. Bhatnagar used to buy 'rabri.' While the shopkeeper was weighing the sweets, Mr. Bhatnagar's eyes wandered, searching for the beggar woman he often saw there.
And, as the saying goes, "Speak of the devil, and the devil appears," there she was, a frail old woman, leaning against a dried-up tree, engrossed in eating something from a piece of newspaper.
"Good, she's eating. She won't bother asking for alms today," thought Mr. Bhatnagar with a sigh of relief.
But just as Mr. Saxena handed him the pot of 'rabri' and started his bike, the old woman dropped her newspaper and rushed toward them, stretching out her hand for alms.
"Oh no, it's nighttime, she's already eaten. Why is she begging now?" wondered Mr. Bhatnagar, looking at her in disgust. The sight of her repulsed him—remnants of food were dripping from both sides of her mouth, and her face, dirty and matted, was framed by dry, disheveled hair, covered in dust.
Her tattered clothing barely clung to her chest. Mr. Bhatnagar turned away in contempt. The bike sped off quickly.
That night, Mr. Bhatnagar couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning, he glanced over at his wife, who was fast asleep.
What was it? Was Mr. Bhatnagar afraid of his dreams, or was sleep itself afraid of him? He lay awake in the dark for hours, staring at the ceiling. Who knows how long it was before he finally fell asleep—if he even slept at all.
Morning arrived as usual. His wife brought him a cup of tea, gently waking him. Mr. Bhatnagar pretended to wake from a deep sleep, though the truth was, he hadn’t slept a wink.
He remembered everything—the moment his wife had woken up, gone to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen. He had even heard the sound of her crushing ginger for the tea.
As he was about to take the tea cup, his phone, lying by the pillow, rang.
His wife handed him the tea with one hand and picked up the phone with the other, putting it to her ear.
It was their son calling.
"So early in the morning? You're already awake?" she asked him.
"Oh, Mom, I’m not at home; I’m in the hostel. Here, you have to wake up early, or you miss out on morning tea, coffee, and milk," their son replied.
Though the phone wasn't on speaker, his voice was clearly audible.
"Well, at least you’ve picked up a good habit there. But why are you calling so early?" she asked, and Mr. Bhatnagar perked up, trying to listen intently. He was wondering the same thing.
"Give the phone to Dad," their son said, so she promptly handed it to Mr. Bhatnagar.
"Dad, why didn’t you sleep last night?"
Mr. Bhatnagar was stunned. How did he know? Dreams were one thing; mothers always seemed to know about those. But how did his son, miles away, know he hadn’t slept?!
(To be continued...)
