By Sandeep Sahu
Every time I have gone to the place (CRP Square in Bhubaneswar) in the recent past, my eyes would unwittingly start looking for Appa Rao, the stockily-built cobbler who stays in a nearby basti. But each time, I would find his earmarked place at the entry point of Priyadarshini Market either unmanned or manned by his son. The son, who I have seen helping out his father for years, has now grown into an adult.
As I waited for the son to finish polishing my footwear on a recent visit, I could not help asking him; “Haven’t seen your father in ages. Where is he?” His reply stunned me. “Bapa chali gale, agayaan” (“My father died, Sir!”), he said, his voice choking with emotion. I next asked him if it was some disease, only to get a stony silence by way of reply. Curious to know the reason for the death of a man, who was by no means old enough to die (he was all of 45-46 at the time of his death), I asked him; “Did he drink too much?” “Yes, Sir. And he made it worse by not having any food,” the boy said, making no effort to hide his disapproval of the drunken ways of his dead father.
For over two decades, I had never gone to any of the other cobblers in the vicinity as long as Appa Rao was around. He was a thorough pro, going about his job quietly with clinical efficiency. Often I would give him some footwear to repair before going into the market for some purchases and unfailingly find my stuff ready on return. At times, he would smell of alcohol even during peak business hours, but it never seemed to affect either his efficiency or his demeanour. Not once did I feel the need to haggle with him over his fee since I had realized pretty early that he never overcharged.
While returning home that day, I kept thinking about the stereotypical image of the invective-spouting, quarrel-mongering, wife-beating drunkard that most of us have in our mind and wondered if one can slot the likes of Appa Rao among them. And I have seen from close quarters more than my share of benign drunkards who defied the stereotype.
Decades ago, there was this peon at our home named Yudhisthir Bag, who excelled in everything he did. Apart from his assigned job of cooking, he was very good at sundry household chores like pressing (ironing) clothes, minor electrical repairs and even knitting sofas with plastic threads. Like Appa Rao, he rarely talked unless it was absolutely essential. For 25 days a month, he would be a picture of quiet efficiency, going about his job in all sincerity. But for five days after he received his salary every month, he would make the local bhati his home, burning almost his entire income on the local brew. After running out of money, he would turn up at the rear door of our home one fine morning and keep standing there without a word till my father allowed him to get in – seldom before a sermon or two or a threat of suspension (he never carried out the threat, though). For the next 25 days, he would don his quiet doer avatar, only to land up at the bhati on the first day of the next month! A few years after my father was transferred, I heard that Bag, who was suspended by my father’s successor, died of excessive drinking. “Such a waste of a life,” I muttered to myself, unable to reconcile myself to the death of someone so young and so lovable.
But not every drunkard I have seen died young. In my student days, there was this washerman named Laxman Sethi – fondly addressed as ‘Nakhu Mausa’ by most students - in the Vani Vihar campus, who loved nothing more than his drink – desi or IMFL. But unlike most drunkards who dish out the choicest invectives after a drink or two, ‘Nakhu Mausa’ would break into the choicest Odissi, chhanda, champu and bhajan – not once missing a beat, forgetting his lines or messing up the scale. “One more, please,” he would plead, literally with folded hands, if he found his drunken companions losing interest in his passionate, soulful singing.
‘Nakhu Mausa’ had a heart of gold. It was well nigh impossible to get him to say anything bad about anyone – even those who had cheated him or rubbed him the wrong way – whether he was drunk or not. Even with his meager income, he was always ready to help out anyone in need of money. I too borrowed small amounts from him and returned them when the eagerly-awaited money-order arrived next. But there were others, who would not return his money. But not once did I hear him complaining. Years later, I heard from his son that he died in peace at the ripe old age of 75, barely an hour or so after his last drink!
None of these characters fits into the conventional image of the drunkard we all have in our minds. The one truth that Messrs Appa Rao, Yudhisthir Bag and ‘Nakhu Mausa’ have proved for me is that one doesn’t become bad just because he drinks. If one is good at heart, he stays good at heart no matter how much he drinks. After all, not for nothing has it been said; “Nasha sharab mein hoti to nachti botal” (”If alcohol was the culprit, the bottle would start dancing)!
[PS: I know I am in serious danger of being lynched by the anti-liquor campaigners for this piece, but still thought the stories of these adorable drunkards needed to be told!]