He was assiduously energetic in delivering his lot. Sundar had seen the dark side of life in his early years which had made him humble. He now immensely respected life and took all adversity in stride. Having to deliver newspapers at door steps was how he started his mornings. The first light saw him on his bicycle with a bundle tied up the at the back of his seat, each day every day.
Being from a lesser privileged background and losing his parents at an early age had brought him the gritty predisposition of character and will with which he now held is head high. As he pedaled his way through the streets in Mysore, Sundar saw all grades of life at sunrise as he had seen so as a child. He crossed the blatant streets with people in misery living in dilapidated brick houses who did not have the luxury of a newspaper, to the streets where he delivered his lot. He threw the paper in the plush lawns and there came running the pet carrying the newspaper inside to his master. He watched the money plants and crotons rising through the walls of the bungalows which had its bricks polished impeccably and windows with shining glasses. Seeing this he pedaled to the next house.
The uphill ride on his way back was a strenuous task. Every pedal stroke reminded him of the pains he had been through in the days gone by. The strokes however were no more a pain to him. It was like a daily endeavor that he mastered to perfection with his breath synchronized to his rhythm. After he reached the top he always halted and took a deep breath as a mark of celebration and accomplishment. The morning was over here and the day took over. Over the years he worked on several moderately paying jobs with equal aplomb but never quit his morning job. This was a work he was born to do. Little did the man reading the newspaper on his easy chair, sipping the hot morning coffee realize that the payment at the end of the month for the thirty rounds of paper went to the self righteous man who had once had to work at his kinfolk’s place to earn the next hours meal and who left them bidding a thank you. He was all of sixteen when he took the job and continued since.
It was on a Sunday morning with the breeze flowing gently on his face. Sundar stopped by the modest yellow house with a rose shrub mounted on a usually closed window. The walls had become pale over the years but the rose on the window pane were incredibly red. There was not a day that he saw the shrub without a flower or a bud on it. But today the shrub had been pale too with no flowers to boast. Instead of throwing the newspaper above the gate, he went in towards the window. Before this he collected some water in a container from the garden. As he was watering the plant, the window opened and there stood Savitri on the other side with a container too. She said that she had no idea why the plant was dying. They watered the plant together. As he was leaving he handed over the paper to her and said, don’t worry, times will change. The sudden breeze blew her hair back and he saw the glimmer in her eyes.
They watered the plant together for the next few days and when delivering the next Sunday Times, he saw the plant boasting a bud. That day he talked to her for over an hour and got late to work. He didn’t mind though.
Years passed by and Sundar now has two bright children. He was decisive that his end of studies after the eighth grade will never be repeated again. The children visit reputed schools in the city.
Being from a lesser privileged background and losing his parents at an early age had brought him the gritty predisposition of character and will with which he now held is head high. As he pedaled his way through the streets in Mysore, Sundar saw all grades of life at sunrise as he had seen so as a child. He crossed the blatant streets with people in misery living in dilapidated brick houses who did not have the luxury of a newspaper, to the streets where he delivered his lot. He threw the paper in the plush lawns and there came running the pet carrying the newspaper inside to his master. He watched the money plants and crotons rising through the walls of the bungalows which had its bricks polished impeccably and windows with shining glasses. Seeing this he pedaled to the next house.
The uphill ride on his way back was a strenuous task. Every pedal stroke reminded him of the pains he had been through in the days gone by. The strokes however were no more a pain to him. It was like a daily endeavor that he mastered to perfection with his breath synchronized to his rhythm. After he reached the top he always halted and took a deep breath as a mark of celebration and accomplishment. The morning was over here and the day took over. Over the years he worked on several moderately paying jobs with equal aplomb but never quit his morning job. This was a work he was born to do. Little did the man reading the newspaper on his easy chair, sipping the hot morning coffee realize that the payment at the end of the month for the thirty rounds of paper went to the self righteous man who had once had to work at his kinfolk’s place to earn the next hours meal and who left them bidding a thank you. He was all of sixteen when he took the job and continued since.
It was on a Sunday morning with the breeze flowing gently on his face. Sundar stopped by the modest yellow house with a rose shrub mounted on a usually closed window. The walls had become pale over the years but the rose on the window pane were incredibly red. There was not a day that he saw the shrub without a flower or a bud on it. But today the shrub had been pale too with no flowers to boast. Instead of throwing the newspaper above the gate, he went in towards the window. Before this he collected some water in a container from the garden. As he was watering the plant, the window opened and there stood Savitri on the other side with a container too. She said that she had no idea why the plant was dying. They watered the plant together. As he was leaving he handed over the paper to her and said, don’t worry, times will change. The sudden breeze blew her hair back and he saw the glimmer in her eyes.
They watered the plant together for the next few days and when delivering the next Sunday Times, he saw the plant boasting a bud. That day he talked to her for over an hour and got late to work. He didn’t mind though.
Years passed by and Sundar now has two bright children. He was decisive that his end of studies after the eighth grade will never be repeated again. The children visit reputed schools in the city.
As he returns home today after delivering newspapers, a home which does not have polished bricks, shining glasses on windows or crotons rising up the wall, has Savitri waiting for him at the door with a hot cup of coffee and has the same twinkle in the eyes he had seen for the first time fifteen years ago. The rose shrub blossoming implausibly red roses in the entire town looks in awe.
[Inspired by a real life, but exaggerated at places for reader’s fervor]
