In search of...Chhotu

It was early morning as I drove down in my car into the sleepy hamlet of Devghar, a village on the outskirts of Pune.  The sun was just about to rise and I could hear the crowing of the cock from the distance. I looked at the small piece of crumpled paper in my hand. Chhotu had scribbled in Hindi the address of his home town.  I had to get  one of his parent back to Mumbai. Or else I would have to let go of all my free time for the next 2 months. As I entered the village, I noted that most of the villagers were asleep. It was almost 5am and not many people were around. 

I stepped out of my car in front of a tea stall. The stall owner was in the process of setting up his stall. Looked like he hadn’t bathed for weeks. 

“ Where does Pandurang live?” 

Sleepy eyed, he pointed towards the direction of a huge banyan tree. There were rows of huts beyond the tree. 

“Which of those huts belong to Pandurang?” 

“You want tea? I make the best tea in this village.” From his tone I got the message that he wont give me the right address if I don’t have his tea.

“ I will bring Pandurang and we both will have tea.”

“ Okay okay.” He knew I wouldn’t. Yet proving me wrong he pointed to the hut which was the most dilapidated in that area. I looked around as I walked towards Pandurang’s hut. A few villagers had risen by now and some of them were rubbing their teeth with a neem stick. I stood outside Pandurang’s hut and thought of knocking the door. However, with a  closer look I realised that the door was ajar. I pushed it open and stood outside. Inside on a cot I could see a frail thin lady, probably Chhotu’s mother and a  man lying on the floor. The lady saw me and nudged her husband to wake up. Perhaps her weakness stopped her from screaming at the sight of a stranger. The husband woke up and was startled to see me. I spoke in pure Marathi and told them that Chhotu had sent me here. 

As soon as Chhotu’s name was mentioned they both got up. The man turned out to be Chhotu’s father and the lady was Chhotu’s perennially ill mother. He jumped to his feet and welcomed me to come inside. I bent down so as to avoid bumping my head on the door frame and stepped inside. They offered me a small wooden stool to sit. They kept asking me about Chhotu, as to why he didn’t come with me. “Has something happened to him ?”  I raised my hand and requested them to quieten down. 

“ I was passing by this village and Chhotu asked me if I could come and see you guys just to tell you that his owner has started a new Vada Pav stall next to their Idli Vada stall. So he is going to be very busy but will send more money frequently.” Their face fell. Both looked at each other silently. I did not have the heart to wrench one of them to the city. If I take Pandurang to Mumbai, who will take care of Chhotu’s sick mother? After thinking for a moment, I rummaged in my purse and saw a packet.

“His owner has been kind enough to give him an advance.” Saying this I handed them the brown packet. “This should be enough to get a good sari.” I could hear mom’s voice in the background. Only last night she had handed me this amount so that I could buy a nice saree for my brother’s wedding.  Pandurang took the packet from my hand. The couple heaved a sigh of relief. The lady went back to sleep. Strangely, Chhotu’s parents seemed relieved that they got the money. Chhotu’s absence didn’t seem to pinch them much. Very soon I left the hut and came back to where my car stood. By this time, the tea stall was crowded with around 8 to 10 customers. 

I sat in my car and started the car. I felt for the bundle of notes in my purse. It was gone. I had planned to buy a new fancy sari as my brother was getting married at the end of the month. On my way back I thought of Chhotu. Chhotu, aged 15, a victim of the bomb blast was lying in the hospital with severe burns. He had no one to take care of him in the hospital as he knew no one in Mumbai. He had come to Mumbai to work in a Idli wada stall in Zaveri Bazaar. His owner was also badly hurt but he had his son to take care of him. The NGO I worked for had entrusted the responsibility of finding Chhotu’s parents and informing them of his condition so that they could come and take care of him. 

I returned, determined to take care of Chhotu myself for the next few months. His parents can easily survive with the 10000 I had given them for the next few months.  The amount was huge for me. It pinched me real hard. But I could not think of being decked up in a saree that expensive and mindlessly chattering with friends and relatives while Chhotu lay in the hospital, all alone.