Through the blazing summer morning Ram Sharan steadily peddled. His eyes glued to the road ahead and his rickshaw bobbing occasionally as he crossed the main junction and moved parallel to the service lane. All of sudden the rickshaw jangled violently and with a screeching noise a bike flung across, plonking the riders on the road with palpable thud. The bike fell and slid a few yards ahead due to the impact. Fortunately no other vehicle was passing through the lane at that moment. Perplexed, Ram Sharan turned only to find his favourite ‘Madamji’ quivering, as she tightly clenched the hood of his rickshaw.

Ram Sharan was about to get down to help the bikers but he could hardly move. There was a deep wound below his right knee. Through the raptured flesh the white bone was peeping. His head started spinning and his throat dried up. He felt his heart racing faster. He pushed the paddle with all his strength and stopped only after reaching the gate of Madamji’s house. She still seemed shaken. She picked her bags and went in. Without a word, without turning back and even without paying. But that did not bother Ram Sharan. Madamji was one of his regular passengers and he was certain that she would pay the next time.

Ram Sharan returned to the young Babul tree, his only shelter in Lucknow. He parked the rickshaw in one corner. The pain on his right leg was unbearable. He took his rag from the corner of the tree and spread it down on the pavement. He was unable to recollect whether ever in his life he found it so difficult to sit down. Exasperated, Ram Sharan looked for help. But Budhia. Kansi or Ganga Prasad were nowhere around. They have been his neighbours on this pavement since he came here from Makhdoompur. They must be busy, as this is the prime hour for rickshaw pullers to earn, kids are on their way to schools and mothers rushing to markets. Madamji was also on her way back from Hahnemann Sabji Bazar. He doesn’t know why every week she would pick Ram Sharan for the ride. Maybe Madamji enjoyed their little conversations. “How much should I pay?” she would ask every time she got off at the gate of her kothi. “Whatever you like!” would be Ram Sharan’s routine response. She always paid more than he expected. Why isn’t every passenger like Madamji?, Ram Sharan wondered often.

Finally, after much effort he managed to stretch his leg. The songs emanating from the loudspeakers of Hanuman temple seemed to be getting louder. The morning arati had started. Ram Sharan felt feverish. “Should I visit a doctor?” he contemplated as his raised his hands to convey a distant pranaam to Hanumanji. Ram Sharan clearly remembers the day Panditji touched his palms while giving prasad. He was overwhelmed as he had never experienced this before. This Hanuman Mandir, which incepted during Ram Sharan’s early days at Makhdoompur, was very different from his village temple in Bahraich, where he would never be welcomed.

Makhdoompur did give Ram Sharan a tough time. Initially on his arrival here he thought he would gradually settle in the city as he had a distant relative here. But there he didn’t even get a square meal. He generally kept those memories buried, but today in the wake of this immense physical pain, torments of those early days of Makhdoompur were resurfacing.

For the first few days, Ram Sharan had nothing to do in Makhdoompur. For some time he worked as a construction labour of a flyover that was being built to ease the commute to Shaheed Path. The concrete slabs were too heavy for him to manage but was still better than surviving an entire day in Makhdoompur without work. The labourer colonies were mud hutments, covered with plastic sheets – dwarfed by the high rises under construction canopying the horizon. The men here toiled the entire day and the women would be busy grazing buffaloes. Although Ram Sharan hailed from a village, he has never seen such large number of buffaloes. There was not a single inch in Makhdoompur that was not covered by buffalo dung. The constant odour of buffaloes and their dung made him nauseous. Neither could he sleep, nor could he eat the rotis and mirch for dinner, the only meal offered by his relative as hospitality. “What is it like spending the whole day with buffaloes, making uplaas, handling manures and milking?” He often wondered about the lives of those women.

“How did this happen?” Ram Sharan’s train of thoughts got halted abruptly. It was Budhia, almost shrieking. Kansi and Ganga were huddled behind him. They promptly realized the gravity of the situation and also the fact that none of them had money for Ram Sharan’s treatment. It was beginning of the month and they had sent money orders to their respective families from the nearby post office in Gomti Nagar, a few days ago. “I know the herbal values of these leaves. They will heal you.” Kansi retorted as he gathered some leaves and promptly started making a paste. Ram Sharan couldn’t control his laughter at Ganga’s reaction. Ganga hid his face looking at the exposed bone. After applying the paste on the wound, Kansi broke few branches from the Babul tree in perfect rectangles and bandaged the leg. A glass of sugarcane juice is all that they could collectively offer to Ram Sharan and it seemed no less than any life saving medicine to him at that moment.

Kansi and Ganga shifted Ram Sharan’s bed slightly. It was not possible to entirely avoid the sun but a little shade under the young Babul tree seemed extremely comforting to Ram Sharan. It was already afternoon and time for the children to return home. Ram Sharan’s pavement mates to headed back to their rickshaws to ensure they earn their minimum wages to pay rent to the rickshaw owners. And today they’ll have to earn Ram Sharan’s rent as well.

Ram Sharan lifted his left arm. His armpit was itching. He looked up at the Babul tree while scratching and wondered why no new leaf has grown in the past few months. He kept looking up at the tree – his only shelter in this big city. The tree reminded him of his mother. She passed away even before Ram Sharan got married. He used to accompany her for picking potatoes. He didn’t know how much she earned, but during those few days of the year, she was the busiest and happier. She would work relentlessly. During the morning Ram Sharan would help her whole-heartedly but by noon, he would be bored and try to distract his her by conversing. In one of those potato fields there was a big Babul tree, under which she rested once in a while when her son insisted. A feeble smile broke upon his face as he remembered the way his mother wiped her face again and again with her pallu. She always liked when Ram Sharan massaged her forehead.

Ram Sharan’s wife Gangi also worked in those potato fields. She worked in wheat and sugarcane fields as well, as these days babus of his village are more interested in sugarcane. He is not sure how much Gangi earns. He is not even sure whether Gangi is interested in earning anymore. These days she is always busy with herself. Irritation is her new friend. She would get irritated with the slightest of dirt. What would you have in a dilapidated mud house other than dirt? She wants everything spick and span!

Gangi would relentlessly rearrange the few belongings they have in the house, every day, over and over again. It feels as if someone is going to visit, maybe to see Arti for marriage. She would whisper to Arti while cooking, “You are no more your father’s little girl. Grow up and change your ways. You will have to run your own household soon.” Initially Ram Sharan could not follow these hushed-up conversations but once he overheard and figured out what it was all about.

Gangi was a very different person. She would clasp Ram Sharan’s hand in front of everyone and insist on giving him a head massage sitting on their veranda. She did not care about what people might say. She would shrug off such possibilities with banter, “I am your wife! How does it matter what other people say?” and break into laughter, loud enough to grab the attention of a distant passer-by. Although her cheerfulness embarrassed Ram Sharan from the very first day of marriage but he did enjoy his wife’s attention nonetheless. Ram Sharan does not remember the exact day when Gangi started behaving strangely. She had gone into a shell after Arti’s death but did not abstain for her domestic duties for even a single day.

Gangi was opposed to the idea of Arti visiting Ghazi Mian’s darbar in Salar Kazi that year. The journey wasn’t an easy one and it would exhaust Arti. A distant relative had confirmed to see Arti in five days time. But Gangi’s argument did not even stand a chance in front of the father-daughter duo. “Let Ghazi Mian cure all her ailments, if she has any, before her marriage”, with this silent prayer Gangi gave in gingerly.

The morning sun was blazing as if it was midday. Ram Sharan and Arti left quietly. Bahraich was a six-hour walk and reaching the mela would take even more time. A huge number of people would be walking to Bahraich from Balrampur, Ekouna and Bhinga. By the time they reach Bahraich, it would be difficult to navigate their way to the Dargah, Ram Sharan thought. 

Arti never got tired of the walk to Ghazi Mian. She would rather enjoy sharing food and water with the other devotees, play little games and crack jokes, most of which were about Ram Sharan. Although on her way back Arti would always throw tantrums. Gangi had accompanied them once when Arti was about eight years old. After that the father and daughter have visited Mian Saab four times. This time too, Arti was jovial. “I know baba, my days of freedom are numbered,” she said with a mischievous smile. Ram Sharan made face at her. Arti was chatting with two older men. These men, who had become quite friendly with her, had signs of grey hair and seemed to be in their forties. They compelled Ram Sharan to have food with them. But at the resting spot the volunteers were helping the devotees with water and food. Why should they take food from these two men, Ram Sharan wondered.

Ram Sharan finally heaved a sigh of relief when he and Arti got lost in the crowd and those two were nowhere to be seen. The rituals took about three hours. Arti wanted to attend the Qawali performance near the Mazaar, but it was already late and Ram Sharan wanted to head back. “But then, we would go from Anarkali lake,” she quipped while tying another mannat ka dhaga. “This one is for your Gangi, khush ab?” Arti said with a twinkle in her eyes. She was much more beautiful than Gangi. Taking the Anarkali lake route would mean an extra hour but Ram Sharan gave an approving nod without much delay, as both of them loved the view of the lake. Ram Sharan wished that Arti wouldn’t spend much time there. 

On the way back, they stopped at a tea stall near collector’s bungalow. The junction here had split into narrow roads leading to different directions. Ram Sharan needed a cup of tea – a luxury he enjoyed whenever he travelled outside his village — and Arti needed to respond to nature’s call. She headed towards the unkempt field just behind the tea stall as Ram Sharan sipped a hot cup of tea.

It has been some time and Arti isn’t back yet. Ram Sharan asked for another cup. “Is she having an upset stomach? She was having food from all sorts of people, whatever those filthy old men were offering.” he contemplated. Thirty more minutes passed. Ram Sharan grew nervous. He called out to Arti and walked into the field. She was nowhere to be seen. Clueless he returned to Ghazi Mian. Ram Sharan searched frenziedly near the Qawali gathering. Arti wasn’t there either. His heart sank, his vision got blurred and Arti’s innocent smile recurred incessantly on his mind. He wanted to get to the police station promptly but the sea of crowd was difficult to navigate through and no one was interested to help Ram Sharan. Flustered he went back to tea stall. While other customers found his account amusing, the stall owner guided him to the nearby police station. He walked along with Ram Sharan to lead him towards the police station. Ram Sharan waited in the police station for that whole night but in vain. No one even bothered to listen to him.   

By four in the morning, Ram Sharan lost his control and started sobbing. All he remembered is that someone dragged him out of the police station. Somehow he pulled himself together and started walking towards Anarkali lake. He was sure that he would find Arti there. The sun was glaring when he reached the lake. Ram Sharan flopped on the ground clutching onto his stomach, which was wringing with hunger. He had not had a morsel since last afternoon. He dragged himself towards the muddy shores of Anarkali and dipped his legs right in. A cool wave of comfort went right up to his head. In the blazing landscape, with the murmurs of people praying to the Mazaar adjacent to the lake, Ram Sharan gave in to slumber.

Ram Sharan ran around the lake several times calling out to Arti. All of a sudden someone pushed him hard, from behind. Ram Sharan fell facedown on the edge of the lake and felt a strong pair of arms holding him down. He started choking as he breathed in the water of Anarkali. Ram Sharan got up with a jolt. It was a bad dream. His throat was bone dry. He drank up from the lake and walked into the adjacent field. In less than 10 steps he found Arti, next to a bush. Hysterical, Ram Sharan took her head on his lap and started laughing as teardrops started rolling down his cheeks. Arti was laying limp. As he caressed her forehead, Ram Sharan felt some sticky liquid behind Arti’s head. It was blood. There was also a wooden piece. Inserted between the legs of his only daughter. A piece laden with dried blood, which had almost turned black. Ram Sharan pulled out the piece with great care and covered the bare body with her ghagra choli, which was lying under an adjacent tree.  

Ram Sharan could neither think anymore nor did he have any control over himself. “Arti must go to heaven. Such a nice little girl she was. Yes, she deserves this much,” he murmured as he trudged along with his daughter’s dead body. He knew that she couldn’t be taken to Gangi. He prayed to Ghazi Mian and Hanumanji. He wanted to cremate her by the bank of Sarayu and wished that he could reach there as fast as the wind. He wished to become the Vayu Putra himself. Suddenly Ram Sharan felt overwhelmed by thirst. He stretched his hand for his mug. But someone held his hand, “Are you dreaming Ram? Get up and have some food.” It was Budhia sitting next to him.

“Listen, Ram, I will be in the Hanuman Mandir tonight. Kansi and Durga will be there as well. There is a night-long katha session,” he said. Ram Sharan was too dazed to respond, he just nodded. He also wanted to attend the katha but he knew it for a fact that he wouldn’t be able to move tonight. Budhia was busy taking out plates from the plastic bag dangling from the tree. He seemed excited about the programme. Kansi and Durga were helping him to arrange the plates. The delicious aroma coming from the nearby chowmein thela attracted Ram Sharan. Recently two young chaps started this thela near Ram Sharan’s tree. He has never given it much thought about their menu but the neatly diced colourful vegetables and the aroma have always intrigued him. Budhia was friendly with everyone. He would often chat with the chowmein boys although he never bought anything from their thela. There have always been a few thelas selling food items in and around this junction. But recently the number of such thelas and the variety of items they sold have gone up remarkably.

Kansi and Durga helped Ram Sharan to sit up and stretch out his wounded leg. “You have high fever Ramu, you feel like a burning coal.” Kansi murmured. “Don’t you worry Ramu, I will offer a special prayer to Hanumanji for your speedy recovery. We all will pray for you.” Budhia was unable to conceal his excitement about the evening katha despite being concerned about Ram Sharan. “Now, don’t try and act smart. We will be back soon. And don’t forget, Hanumanji is there for you. Always!”

The first time Ram Sharan came here to settle down he had to fight hard. Budhia was using this Babul tree and the next one as well to keep his belongings. And when Ram Sharan asked for a bit of space, Budhiya did not restrain himself from pushing him violently towards the service lane. That injury mark on Ram Sharan’s shoulder hasn’t faded yet but the hostility is there no more. Soon enough they became friends. They shared plates, rice, aloo chokha and many other delicacies they prepared together on their makeshift chulha.

Kansi covered Ram Sharan with a chaddar before leaving for the katha. Ram Sharan followed them walking towards the temple for a while. Since childhood, he believed that Hanumanji was the greatest besides Ghazi Mian. It was because of Ghazi Mian he could find his Arti. But why did Ghazi Mian let him sleep? Else he would have found Arti much earlier. And maybe would have been able to save her. But why is he holding Ghazi Mian responsible? Hanumanji, the great Vayu Putra has also considered all his prayers in this otherwise cruel city. It was Hanumanji who gave him the strength to carry Arti, to face Gangi. Although he still regrets wasting a night at the Police Station.

Ram Sharan was sanguine that his physical pain would dissipate by daybreak by the grace of Vayu Putra but he could not to sleep. A sense of delirium had engulfed him. He was there, awake, but he was unable feel his own presence. His wounded knee started throbbing like the way temple of his forehead did whenever he carried someone heavy in his rickshaw or pulled for a long distance. The throbbing increased, till he could feel a ringing inside his head. 

Through the Babul tree Ram Sharan could see the glowing stars losing their sheen and melting with the blackish blue of the night sky. He pulled the chaddar over his head and closed his eyes tightly. Darkness engulfed everything but soon a kaleidoscope of images surfaced. It felt like watching a bioscope, the ones he saw in his childhood through a peephole. Children from the entire village would gather around the magic box and wait for their turns. The bioscope mostly showed images of monuments from across the country but inside his head Ram Sharan could see the faces of Gangi, Arti, his mother, Budhia, Ganga Prasad. They were smiling and the faces were changing. They tried telling him something, which Ram Sharan was unable to comprehend. He wanted to speak to them but the faces disappeared even before Ram Sharan gathered his thoughts.

In his slumber, Ram Sharan felt someone gently tugging his left arm. It was Hanumanji, the Vayu Putra himself. Ram Sharan pinched himself. He was awake indeed. Forgetting his leg injury, Ram Sharan leapt up and fell on Hanumanji’s feet. “Could you take me to Ayodhya?” Hanumanji asked while pulling him up. Ram Sharan nodded in affirmation while looking at Hanumanji’s face. He looked charming! Ram Sharan was immediately concerned. How can he take Hanumanji on his rickshaw, it is not in a good shape! He could no longer feel the pain on his right leg. Oblivious he scrambled towards his rickshaw. The seat cover was dirty, damaged. What a shame! Hanumanji had to seat on this? He tried to tear it off. Baffled, he looked at Hanumanji – his face had no sign on impatience. Ram Sharan wiped the seat carefully and bowed his head before Hanumanji. Taking the cue Hanumanji climbed on to the rickshaw. Ram Sharan touched his feet with veneration and started peddling. He wanted to be the fastest today, faster than Hanumanji.

He did not look back, did not stop, and went on pedalling relentlessly. He could feel a thick liquid flowing down from his right leg but there was no pain. Ram Sharan did not care. The great Vayu Putra was with him. He thanked Budhia, Kansi, Ganga, Gangi, Arti, his mother, they all had prayed for him. Without looking back, he thanked Hanumanji, whole-heartedly. Then he looked up to the sky and thanked Ghazi Mian. For the first time, he felt truly blessed.

It was easy for Kansi and Ganga Prasad to gather funeral woods for Ram Sharan. The government has recently started making a cycle path and several trees were cut in Gomti Nagar. Budhia was out for a far more challenging task. He went looking for a pandit to perform the last rites of Ram Sharan. They only solace was that Gomti river was nearby and there were cremation places on its banks. Kansi lit a biri and wondered why the passers-by did not even look at them. Maybe they made a peculiar sight.