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| Burden of Guilt |
Although the monsoon is at its fag end, the rainy spell over Bhubaneswar shows no signs of ending anytime soon. In fact, today it has been pouring steadily since dawn. I will be leaving for Cuttack in a couple of hours from now. Meanwhile as I wait for the rain to stop, suddenly I can feel a wave of vertigo sweeping over me. There is an eerie sense of deja vu about this morning and the rain. This setting has reawakened forgotten memories of Ammaa and I can't help but reflect on that fateful morning in Delhi.
I remember it was raining that morning as well, while I waited to leave for my office. The more I try to recall the sequence of events that followed on that morning, the more it ratchets up the intensity of the pounding in my head, for having made that grave mistake. That familiar knot of guilt has once again formed in the pit of my stomach, it's overwhelming. If only I hadn't sent her back empty-handed that day!
Have you ever found yourself feeling overwhelmed by guilt like a burden too heavy to bear, when the memory of a grave mistake from the past suddenly comes back on your mind? Have you felt that horrible sinking feeling gripping your stomach? How we wish life had a rewind button, so that we could go back in time and fix all the wrongs! But alas, life doesn't work that way.
My life so far has been a mistake-riddled ride. I have made quite a few mistakes in my life ~ some were unintended though, while some others were either due to my immaturity or my ignorance or plain stupidity on my part or else due to gross carelessness. Some of them I have been able to fix, but it's also quite likely that I am yet to realize a few other mistakes of mine! There are also some terrible mistakes I have committed that can never be reversed, however much I may wish to. And this particular incident is one of those guilts that I will have the burden of for the rest of my life.
It was 2009... nearly a year had passed since I moved to Delhi the second time around, this time for professional reasons. The residential colony where I lived had a door-to-door garbage collection service ~ an elderly Haryanvi woman aged around 70-75 years (whom everyone fondly addressed as "Ammaa") had employed about 4-5 waste-pickers who would come every day to collect kitchen waste and trash from people's homes. And we were charged a nominal fee of Rs. 20 every month for the same. Though I used to see Ammaa only on the first Sunday of the month when she would come to collect the garbage fees, she always came across as a simple, cheerful and a warm person. Even after taking the monthly charge from me, she would often sit down on the stairs to strike up a conversation with me (my flat being the last one in the lane), sometimes over a glass of water. And since I stayed alone, I always loved to hear from people. More over, ingenuous people have always fascinated me. But she being toothless and added to that, her typical Haryanvi accent, I mostly failed to understand what she said but there always used to be a rustic charm in her demeanour and that ever-present-smile of hers. I would only nod my head and smile back.
And during festive occasions like Holi or Janmasthami or Dussehra or Diwali, she would come for baksheesh or sweets, in addition to the monthly charge. Given her age, sometimes she also fell sick and the waste-picker boys would then collect the monthly charge on her behalf. When asked about Ammaa, they would say, "Ammaa bimaar hai" (Ammaa has fallen ill). But as soon as she recovered, she would come again the next time to collect the garbage fees (her energy always belied her age). On two or three occasions, she had also come to me, asking for money (some fifty or hundred rupees) to buy her medicines (which she adjusted with my monthly garbage fees in the following months). I had never disappointed her until that day. Probably that's why she had come to me again on that fateful morning.
It was the month of October perhaps because if I can remember correctly, Ammaa had already taken the Dussehra baksheesh. But like always, the monsoon was late to arrive in Delhi and so rains continued to lash even in the month of October. As much as I love the rains, I also hate them for the muck and mire everywhere, the overflowing drains, the waterlogged roads (all thanks to the civic bodies' inefficiency), and the ensuing chaos due to traffic congestion that they result in. If I could, I would not venture out of my home at all during this season.
On one such morning, it had been raining incessantly and I was waiting for it to stop as I was getting ready for my office. Just then, Ammaa came. She needed about 200 rupees to buy her medicines. But unfortunately I didn't have any change with me, I had only currency notes of 500 rupee denomination (and me being a spendthrift, I avoid keeping much cash at home). The rain had stopped by that time and I was eager to leave for my office as I was running late. Even then, I could have easily given her a 500 rupee note. I am sure, I wouldn't have been troubled that much by having one note less. But petty selfish thoughts had entered my mind by then, "What if it starts raining again? I am already running late for office. With so much of rain since morning, all the roads leading to the ATMs would have been flooded with drain-water. Getting down on the way to take out some more cash from the ATM would be so much of an inconvenience. My pant and my shoes would get stained!" So even though I was a bit reluctant to send her back empty-handed, I turned down her request (telling her that I didn't have change money) and left for my office. But the disappointment was writ large on her face. She had probably come to me with a lot of hope.
The following month when it was time to collect the garbage fees, Ammaa was conspicuous by her absence. Instead, one of the waste-picker boys had come to take the monthly charge. When I asked him about Ammaa, he said, "Ammaa guzar gayi" (Ammaa passed away). I just stood there stock-still at the door, stunned into silence. I felt like I had been struck by a lightning bolt, in my gut. I just couldn't help but think what if I had given her a 500 rupee note that day! May be, she would have been alive. May be... A few minutes of inconvenience to me could have probably saved her life.
When a person dies, he/she doesn't die alone. His/her loved ones and family are also impacted. Even at her age, she was still continuing to look after the waste-collection business, which implied that her family was dependent on her. Directly or indirectly, I had snapped off the support she was providing to her family. I wish I hadn't! When someone in need comes to us for help, we should do our best in whatever way we can (however little that might amount to) and not just turn him/her away. Because one never knows, we may be their last hope!
No amount of inconvenience or botheration can be reason enough to turn our backs on a needy person. Our own comfort can never be valued greater than someone's life. But sometimes we get so blinded by our self-interests that we let them cloud our thoughts, so much so that it makes us inconsiderate towards someone else's pain or problems. How I long to be able to turn the clock back to that day and have a different outcome! But life doesn't always grant us second chances to correct our mistakes, however genuinely unintended they might have been... I will carry this burden of guilt all my life.
I am really sorry, Ammaa.
