Skip to main content

That Old man

   I don't know if anyone of you has ever faced this situation in your life. But I have. And I am being nothing but truthful.

   The old man was trailing me for some time now. It was getting awkward. So, I quickened my steps, trying to loose him. I finally did.

   I stopped at a vendor for a glass of juice. While I waited, to my surprise, the old man appeared out of nowhere, bearded and wearing shabby clothes and holding a walking stick in his hand. He started gesturing with his right hand, wanting something to eat. I ignored him, but kept looking at him through the corner of my eye.  It was a public place. People were miling around. A few more people stopped by the juice stall. All this time, the old man stood there, repeatedly pointing his joined fingers towards his mouth and kept bobbing his head. It was getting so uncomfortable for me. I just wanted to finish my juice and get out of there. At last, my glass of juice arrived. Usually, I savour its taste, taking it sip by sip but this time I just guzzled it in one go.

   I felt the old man's eyes on me. I looked at him and saw the pleading in his eyes. My insides squirmed. I didn't dare look at him again. Without uttering a word, I motioned the vendor to prepare another glass and give it to the old man. I didn't wait to see if he did. He just wore an appreciating smile while I paid the money and left.

   I felt an urge to look back and see if the old man got his drink, whether he liked it. But I didn't look back. Because doing that would have been like appreciating myself for doing a good deed. It might have seemed like one from the outside but it definitely wasn't. There was no compassion here. Deep, deep down my heart knew whatever I did was out of sheer embarrassment.

   Does this make me a bad person?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

LIFE AND LIES #17 | Fancy a Haircut

Snip-snip, clip-clip Despite its monotonicity, the sound has a certain ring to it. If I concentrate a bit harder, it almost sounds like a well-placed tune. Or maybe I have been listening to it for too long. Nevertheless, the sound has a sense of power because it remains upbeat in spite of the consistent murmur. Then it pauses. A brief silence follows. The boy at the start of the line scuttles to the most demanded chair in the room, to fill the momentous vacancy. A sense of relief is evident on his face. Following this, a wave ripples throughout the line. Everyone takes a few steps ahead and then comes to a stop. Another down, three more to go , I count. The snapping of scissors resumes. The murmur follows suit. My legs ache. I had jogged all the way to the barbershop, after taking a hasty lunch. There, to my dismay, a long queue was already in place. Patiently, I stood at the end. Awaiting my turn, I had spent the past hours shifting my weight from one leg to other, taking se...

LIFE AND LIES #67 | The Shortest Story

Dedicated to a friend of mine who is no longer in this world. ********************************* A friend had died. Still, the world  Hadn't come to a stop. Perhaps, it should have. Because I gave my presentation Smiling from ear to ear. And later at night, I drank to my fill To honour him. Because life is too fricking short, But at times, Feels too bloody long. If you google 'Shortest Short Story' You'll get the following result: "For sale: Baby shoes, never worn." Popularly attributed to Ernest Hemingway. Ernest, I'm sorry  But I ended up writing  Something similar myself. "Hang in there, my friend. He did." I'm not proud of what I wrote.  It is what it is. "Who is this about," my friend asked after reading my poem. "He was my batchmate in school," I replied. "He committed suicide yesterday by hanging." "Why? What happened?" "Nobody knows. He had cut himself off from everyone." "Was he i...

LIFE AND LIES #77 | The English Teacher

When we are young, the world is full of possibilities. We can do anything, and become anything. We antagonise anyone who even hints at thinking otherwise about us. It's probably why most of us have a story to tell where the villain was a school teacher. Even I do. I don’t remember exactly how I ended up in the Headmaster’s cabin that day. All I remember is that back then I blamed my House Master for it. It wasn’t just me who had bunked the STD XII Pre-Board exams. There were many. But he made a scapegoat out of me. And the moment, I set foot inside the cabin, I received a big slap from the Headmaster. My ears rang. But that wasn’t the worst thing that happened that day. The Headmaster instructed him to call my father. Tell him to come or his son would be rusticated. I wasn’t a notorious student. I was good in my studies and had no disciplinary complaints against me. Had this incident not occurred, I would have completed my schooling in a few months with a clean record. My fat...