“Kaushik” a voice called out and a hand touched my shoulder. This was when I realized there was indeed somebody beside me. I looked up. A boy wearing spectacles and neatly combed hair was standing beside me. He continued, “I did not know you were here. By the way, where do you stay? I am sure you have nobody here and your resources seem to have surely dried up. But then how did you survive for so long?”
I was aghast. How had he known my name? Did this man expect me to be dead?
I protested at him. I questioned him, “Who are you and how do you know my name? I have never seen you before.”
The other spoke, “That’s what time does. Not for nothing does people call time the best healer. Let’s go to the hotel nearby. We will have lunch. I will tell you everything later”. We went to eat. After all, this person looks familiar, does he not?
After a hearty meal I had, I again questioned as to which philanthropist he was to look out for me, find me and give me food. I thought he had just done that.
He spoke plainly, “I am somebody, Kaushik. It is enough for you to know that I am a messenger of God. It was He who sent me here to take care of you. You must remember that when you make a mistake, you are not supposed to leave a trail for it. Else you will be caught...”
My face went pale. “It means”, I broke in between his talk, “you are a policeman in plain clothes and you know what I have done. After four years, the law has finally caught up with me.”
The man, now irritated, continued, “Why do you break in between the lines? What you said is both right and wrong. Give me a patient hearing else you will be in trouble.”
The thought of again being out of job, caught by the police to be put into the prison made me silent. What does he mean by saying; I was both right and wrong?
He, however, continued “So where was I? Ha! Yes, you are not supposed to leave a trail especially if you commit a grave crime like a murder. You had made a mistake of giving your own real name in the train ticket and God followed up you till here and sent me here.”
He ignored my shocked and surprised face and kept on speaking, “I am not a policeman. I am merely a law abiding citizen of the country.”
I was also a law abiding citizen, till some four years ago.
“You can call me Bhagwandas, because God sent me to take care of you. I am merely a servant of the Immortal.”
He paused, before restarting his monologue, “Now listen to me, we will board a bus and I will give you shelter, food and clothes – your clothes. Let’s go. On our way to the destination, you shall tell the reason for your sad looking face. Was it just the lack of food or is there something else?”
I walked in silence towards the Mylapore bus stand and we took our seats in a near empty bus. Then came my turn, the chance to pour out the grief I had been stricken with for the past four years. Grief shared is grief halved. But to whom shall I tell my grief? The question was finally answered. I will tell it to Bhagwandas, which I suspect but dare not question, to be his pseudonym.
I had food and shelter but I wanted to see the clothes. He had said he will show me my clothes – the ones which I had left in Mumbai.
I spoke everything of the last four years. I started from the very beginning.
“I have now become an orphan.”