I first met Mushraq on a Churchgate-bound fast train. It was a Saturday and the train was relatively empty. I had just plugged in my earphones when I felt someone tapping my knee. I looked up and all I saw was the bright eyes. They glittered with innumerable stories to tell. He chanted something while balancing the pile of books he hoped I’d buy. I took off my earphones and realized that it wasn’t a chant. It was the nine times table. He belted out multiples of 9 with the enthusiasm of a choir singer. He stopped to breathe and I asked him his name. “Mushraq Ahmed. Class 3 A. Roll no. 22. Ismail Yusuf School.” He said, answering all the questions I hadn’t asked. “Book lega?” he asked. I laughed at the child-like aggression. He noticed I hadn’t answered him. He pointed at my I-Pod and said – Gaana nahi sun-ne ka. Books padhneka. School jan-ne ka.” I bought a couple of books from him. Books that I’d already read. Somehow, that didn’t really matter.
I met Mushraq several times after that. He was on the same train every day. I was the irregular one. Sometimes I’d see him reading some book himself. Moving his finger slowly on the page, he’d string words together. Once, he had it figured, he’d proudly say the sentence out loud. Sometimes he’d sit on an empty train seat and count his money. He’d neatly arrange the tens together and then the fifties. He’d neatly fold the hundred rupee note, sometimes two of them, and put it in his shirt pocket. He’d stuff the coins in his shorts’ pockets; they’d make a jingling sound when he ran around. Sometimes, he’d gently chastise yet another college- goer for choosing music over books. And yet another person would become his loyal customer.
Often, I’d catch him eyeing the fruit that some women ate in the train. However, he’d never accept any food that any of us offered him. Once I offered him a chocolate. He shook his head and quickly moved to the other side of the compartment. I had tried to ask him about his family but he didn’t volunteer any information. I didn’t dig further, worried that I would stumble upon some painful story which I would eventually regret asking. He didn’t seem uncared for, though. His hair was always combed and his face always looked scrubbed. His clothes were old, but not unclean. He didn’t seem malnourished. He didn’t seem sad, either. Evidently selling books made him happy. He didn’t update his stock of books to often; but that didn’t cause his clientele to dwindle. The fact that he sold so many books had more to do with his endearing nature than the books.
Eventually, I switched jobs and I took the train at a different time. I didn’t see Mushraq at all. Sometimes, I would think of him if I saw another book seller; but it was left at that. So imagine my surprise when I heard someone shout – “Didi!” as I stood near the Andheri Bridge to cross the road. It was Mushraq, of course. He was flanked by a miniature version of himself. “Yeh- Salim” he said, introducing me to his younger brother. I smiled at both of them and asked him how he was. He tugged at my hand and kept smiling. I asked him if he lived close by. He nodded and at a distance I saw a number of make shift huts. The empty space under the flyover served as a settlement of sorts. As I looked around under the bridge, I realized it housed several families. Women bustled around the space as if it had been their home for a long time. Children slept in hammocks made out of old saris. A few men were crowded together, a foul smell and silver smoke forming a haze around their huddle. I stood there and many thoughts suddenly crowded my head. Had they always been this poor? Had they moved to Bombay abandoning their slightly bigger
houses elsewhere to earn more money? Were they happy?
I met Mushraq’s parents. They sold flowers at the Dadar flower market. After meeting them I realized, much to my relief, that there was no obvious painful story. His mother smiled when he said, “Ammi- yeh train wali Didi hai.” His father nodded and moved away. His mother told me how he was a smart boy and had now gone to class 4. “Bahut padhayenge isko.” She assured me and ruffled his hair. I smiled. I briefly enquired about his school, his books. He told me that more people bought books now. I told him his scolding them had worked. He missed the joke and nodded solemnly. I said goodbye to Mushraq and his family and went my way.
The thoughts that remained with me that day weren’t of Mushraq alone. They were thoughts of this dimension of Bombay that is much talked about. The poverty and the people. But it wasn’t the poverty that remained with me that day, long after I had gone home. It was the fact that Bombay somehow brings out such strong emotions in people that their faith in the city is unshakeable. The pack their lives into boxes and come to Bombay bright eyed, like Mushraq. It is their faith that lets them believe that something brilliant will happen for them, even if it means living under a bridge in the mean time.
I met Mushraq several times after that. He was on the same train every day. I was the irregular one. Sometimes I’d see him reading some book himself. Moving his finger slowly on the page, he’d string words together. Once, he had it figured, he’d proudly say the sentence out loud. Sometimes he’d sit on an empty train seat and count his money. He’d neatly arrange the tens together and then the fifties. He’d neatly fold the hundred rupee note, sometimes two of them, and put it in his shirt pocket. He’d stuff the coins in his shorts’ pockets; they’d make a jingling sound when he ran around. Sometimes, he’d gently chastise yet another college- goer for choosing music over books. And yet another person would become his loyal customer.
Often, I’d catch him eyeing the fruit that some women ate in the train. However, he’d never accept any food that any of us offered him. Once I offered him a chocolate. He shook his head and quickly moved to the other side of the compartment. I had tried to ask him about his family but he didn’t volunteer any information. I didn’t dig further, worried that I would stumble upon some painful story which I would eventually regret asking. He didn’t seem uncared for, though. His hair was always combed and his face always looked scrubbed. His clothes were old, but not unclean. He didn’t seem malnourished. He didn’t seem sad, either. Evidently selling books made him happy. He didn’t update his stock of books to often; but that didn’t cause his clientele to dwindle. The fact that he sold so many books had more to do with his endearing nature than the books.
Eventually, I switched jobs and I took the train at a different time. I didn’t see Mushraq at all. Sometimes, I would think of him if I saw another book seller; but it was left at that. So imagine my surprise when I heard someone shout – “Didi!” as I stood near the Andheri Bridge to cross the road. It was Mushraq, of course. He was flanked by a miniature version of himself. “Yeh- Salim” he said, introducing me to his younger brother. I smiled at both of them and asked him how he was. He tugged at my hand and kept smiling. I asked him if he lived close by. He nodded and at a distance I saw a number of make shift huts. The empty space under the flyover served as a settlement of sorts. As I looked around under the bridge, I realized it housed several families. Women bustled around the space as if it had been their home for a long time. Children slept in hammocks made out of old saris. A few men were crowded together, a foul smell and silver smoke forming a haze around their huddle. I stood there and many thoughts suddenly crowded my head. Had they always been this poor? Had they moved to Bombay abandoning their slightly bigger
houses elsewhere to earn more money? Were they happy?
I met Mushraq’s parents. They sold flowers at the Dadar flower market. After meeting them I realized, much to my relief, that there was no obvious painful story. His mother smiled when he said, “Ammi- yeh train wali Didi hai.” His father nodded and moved away. His mother told me how he was a smart boy and had now gone to class 4. “Bahut padhayenge isko.” She assured me and ruffled his hair. I smiled. I briefly enquired about his school, his books. He told me that more people bought books now. I told him his scolding them had worked. He missed the joke and nodded solemnly. I said goodbye to Mushraq and his family and went my way.
The thoughts that remained with me that day weren’t of Mushraq alone. They were thoughts of this dimension of Bombay that is much talked about. The poverty and the people. But it wasn’t the poverty that remained with me that day, long after I had gone home. It was the fact that Bombay somehow brings out such strong emotions in people that their faith in the city is unshakeable. The pack their lives into boxes and come to Bombay bright eyed, like Mushraq. It is their faith that lets them believe that something brilliant will happen for them, even if it means living under a bridge in the mean time.
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