Life is measured in Tea spoons

This is a legend in our family archives available only to selected friends. There’s no gloating or hip-hip hurrahs for a small act of mercy done. It dates back to the time when our children hadn’t reached their teens. 

 One hot Sunday afternoon as we were settling down to a siesta our doorbell stridently rang. It was a young dusty famished looking young man with a ten-day old stubble on his face. He asked for water and gulped it down. 

All he asked my husband was ‘give me a job Sir’. His story was a sad one. A Hyderbadi welder, Faisal had been with a contractor in Kochi. The contractor had decamped leaving six workers to fend for themselves. 

Faisal had walked kilometres asking for a job till he was directed to meet my man who had an industrial unit. There was no job to give but we suggested he go back to home to Hyderabad. The cost of the train ticket was the next question. 

Our purses were on their last legs till payday but we decided to scrounge all hidden sources within our walls. Our kids had been promised a treat of Dacca ice cream on the last Sunday of every month. This was Kochi of the old days and Dacca cream or pail I cream was available only in CRH. There were no ice parlours then.  

The treat money was not enough to pay for the rail ticket but somehow enough was found by some strange conjurances. 

His famished look of hunger broke my heart. So, my daughter aged 7yrs was sent to bring him a mug of tea. She came back with tea and slices of thickly buttered bread and jam which he wolfed down.  

Kneeling down he lay down his stack of certificates and said “Sir keep these certificates with you till I return the money you give me”. But we were no cut throats and he was told that if he wanted to repay, he could give it to my father who was in Secunderabad. Touching our feet, he left with a jaunt. Our Shylocks demanded a double helpings of Dacca ice cream for their financial sacrifice.

My father was flabbergasted to have the visit of a young man at his doorstep three months later, with the repayment of his travel which we had proffered and he took along a basket of the choicest grapes. He said he had a job.  

For the year’s our father was there, at Ramadan, Faisal would visit him with the choicest of Hyderabadi cuisine.  

We had forgotten Faisal since my Father left. 7 years later a well looking, well dressed Faisal knocked at our door. We could hardly believe our eyes. He said he was on his way to Dubai and had come to say goodbye. He asked for the choti-behen who gave him tea long ago. She was now fourteen. He held her hand and gave her a small box. It was a pair of the most beautiful jhumuki’s fit for a teenager.  

He left promising to keep in to in touch. But life has a way of moving on.