While surfing the internet – my drug! – I chanced upon this gem “As time goes by humans are becoming less and less empathetic. Today we care about others 40% less than people in the 1980’s did.” Very true I whole heartedly agreed as I was reminded of his face – the young man Ankit Malhotra’s who had been my co-passenger last week. I am sure Ankit and via him I too have learnt a hard lesson.
Ankit had reminded me of my younger brother as both of us boarded the train from Durg and settled down for the long journey. He was respectful, he wanted to talk, was curious about me, but kept his distance though every time springing up to help me if any little task had to be done. He was going to Delhi to join his first job. Delhi has become my home also for the last two years as my husband lived there.
After nearly ten hours of journey the fast train became almost a passenger train, stopping at every small station. At one such stop some beggars boarded the train and started pestering the passengers. Among them was a young teenager wearing a yellow T-shirt who looked sad and depressed. He was quietly beseeching the passengers to give him money. He looked at Ankit with his soulful eyes and asked for ten rupees as he had not eaten for the last twenty four hours.
Ankit was moved, “I won’t give you any money. You should earn money – you can do any job. But I’ll feed you,” he was buying sliced cucumbers for himself. He gave the ones he was holding to the fellow in T-shirt and bought some more for himself. “What’s your name?” asked Ankit. The fellow took a bite and replied, ‘Suresh’ and he fell down on the floor moaning and groaning. He started writhing. A murmur, ‘What-happened?’ started spreading in the compartment. Another beggar pointed towards Ankit, “That sahib gave Suresh something to eat.”
The “Any-doctor-here?” fetched a negative. Slowly suspicious looking persons started crowding the place. They picked up a quarrel with Ankit, “Sahib, what did you give him?” Poor Ankit was flabbergasted. “Cucumber,” he answered, “I bought them from the vendor” and he looked around for the vendor who had conveniently disappeared.
“No, he did not buy it. He already had it in his hand. I saw him taking it out from his bag,” said one from the crowd.
I protested. “No, he bought it from the vendor.”
“Look sahib, we have to take him to the hospital. Give us two thousand rupees and we will get down at the next station and take him to the doctor”.
“Loot macha rakhi hai (this is swindling),” another passenger said.
“Splash some water on his face” I said. Water was duly splashed but Suresh didn’t show any reaction. “Hurry, hurry the next station is coming. He needs a doctor.”
Suresh’s friends adopted an aggressive stance and one of them caught hold of Ankit’s shirt collar “Ai sahib, give us money. I won’t leave you if something happens to my friend.” His hand moved into his pocket as if to bring out his Rampuri.
Now well-meaning co-passengers started advising “Dey do beta, give them some money. Kyon paap sir lete ho (Why do you want to earn bad karma).” The train was indeed nearing the next station.
“Give us 2000.”
“I don’t have 2000.”
“Okay, give 1000.”
“No, I only have 800. I will give you 500.”
“No! Give us 800.”
“How will I go home?”
“Okay, give us 700.” The rest of the passengers looked at Ankit expectantly, enjoying the drama. Poor Ankit shelled out the money. The train drew to a halt. And this time when they touched him, Suresh opened his eyes and the whole gang got down with alacrity.
For the next two hours, till we reached Delhi I tried to cheer the depressed Ankit. “Put it down to coaching fees in life’s college. You must have paid a lot for your tuition classes, no?” He tried to smile. He still looked bewildered.
I too was wondering over the chakravyuh* of those louts in which the poor Abhimanyu alias Ankit had been caught. What a clever modus operandi! A phalanx any General would have been proud of! What perfect timing! What a smart group and how synchronized their movements were! ‘Suresh-has-struck-pay-dirt’ – the signal must have been passed on subtly and picked up and wham – seven hundred rupees!
There is little doubt that neither Ankit, nor I and nor some of you readers will dare to feel empathy for a hungry man – if we ever come across one in future. I will never forget the depressed, cowed down Ankit – far different from the confident go-getter who had boarded the train. All his college degrees had failed and so easily he had been taken for a ride by those street smart ruffians, teaching him an important life lesson.
*chakravyuh – maze
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