Who's God !

Babu is a ‘Malabari’. That’s what everyone says. Malabari is a derogatory word for Muslim people of the Malabar Coast in Kerala. Why derogatory? As my boss in Dubai would put it “ They are a pack of wolves who arrive here and then devour all the jobs.”. It seems that if you pick up a fight with one of these people, you may find staring into the fists of a dozen of them in a matter of minutes, virtually speaking. Also if you ask any of them where they were from they would promptly say “ Kerala.” And if you ask “Where is Kerala?” they would reply, with a long pause “ India.” The rest of the Indians in the gulf resented this answer so the colloquial term.

Babu arrived in Abu Dhabi about 16 years ago as a tenth grade pass with little knowledge of anything else other than to look for a job as a helping hand in some shop or construction site or whatever he could find. He did not come here with any other dream though he thought being in the Middle East he will gain the riches just as his cousins flaunt whenever they visited their small hamlet on the sea side back in Kerala. The gold chain, the perfumes, the Stereo set and that Yashica Camera! They all worked in cafes or washed dishes in restaurants or worked in small shops as attendants.

When he finally landed in the Gulf, his ideas about the riches changed. He found that those flashy things that his cousins showed did not just pop up from the sands with a gesture of a hand. They had to toil hard and ration their expenditure to save so much. He took it with a pinch of salt and landed a job with Hiralal Patel, the owner of a grocery store on Hamdan Street.

Hiralal came to Abu Dhabhi as a foreman 30 years ago in some construction site and when the contract was over he chose to stay behind and open a grocery store . He opened a small shop on Hamdan street with whatever saving he had.

Hiralal is from Valsad in Gujrat. Later he married and had two sons. One of them were working in a bank and the other working with a car rental company. Both of them were married and had a kid each. They were so much comfortable in Abu Dhabi that they called it home rather than their ancestral home in Valsad .

Like most Gujratis, he too had business in his blood and like all Gujratis he would open his shop and perform the ritual of lighting exactly 5 sticks of incense and wave them over the picture of the goddess of money, Laxmi, While mumbling something. He would then do the same over his cash register and finally towards the heavens. He was never late in opening his shop dot at 9 am he would be at the steps of his shop. Babu would be waiting there for him to arrive. He was never late either, half an hour before his employer arrived. As Hiralal went about with his ritual, Babu would dust the cabin where his boss conducted his business from. He would then go on with his routine work.

Over the years Babu had gained a lot of trust of his employer. After a few years of working with him Hiralal handed over a duplicate key to the store to Babu. He was now entrusted to open the store and keep the cabin ready before Hiralal came to office. And even later in time Babu was given the previous day’s income to deposit in the bank near by in the late morning. Slowly he even took control of the desk on which Hiralal conducted his business in his absence.

Like all other Muslim employees Babu would be given the customary three times prayer breaks. Diligently Babu followed the prescribed format of performing his prayer routine.
He would get his obligatory Id holidays and the Prophet’s birthday and the sundry. And he would enjoy his leave on the Hindu festival days when Hiralal would shut shop. Hiralal never invited any of his Muslim employees, of which there were ten, to his home during those festivals or Pujas he had at his house for the simple reason that he believed that they would not be interested or even they might take offence, that was his fear.
He never did anything religious in his shop other that waving the incense sticks over the small picture of Godess Laxmi, hidden under his desk.




Vineet, is a class mate from my Kolkata days in Hotel college. He came here as a consultant of a large Baking establishment. One of the outlets of his bakery was in the same building where Babu worked. The twelve story building housed all kinds of shops on the ground floor and there were residential flats from the first floor to the topmost floor. Unlike the swanky buildings that have swimming pools and Jacuzzis on the roof and where the tenants are so secretive that you don’t even realize that there is some else on the same floor as yours unless you happen to be in the same lift, this building had a rustic charm that you find in the small towns of India. People knew each other! They talked and they were neighbors.

Shifting in and out of shared accommodation , Vineet finally found refuge of a decent kind as a paying guest of a Pakistani family, of which I will tell you later, in the same building that the bakery outlet he managed and Hiralal’s shop was housed. The family had no one else other than a middle aged man and his old father living in a flat.His wife and children were living in Pakistan.To supplement their income they sought a paying guest who would not be cooking and found Vineet to be a perfect flat mate. Eventually finding that these were normal human beings, not monsters from a different planet, he settled down comfortably.

As inevitable Vineet would often run into Hiralal and of course Babu. They would discuss about rising prices and family back at home and whatever they struck a conversation about. Often Vineet would visit Hiralal’s shop and sit at his table and chat with him. In the morning he would observe Hirlal’s ritual performance. He would take notice of Babu and his friends going to the mosque for prayers. Sometimes he would join for lunch too.

Once a year Hiralal would make his yearly journey to Valsad for a quick vacation of fifteen days. And during this time one of his family members ,usually his sons or an old friend would run the shop taking turns. Every morning during this period Ratan ,Hiralal’s youger son, would come to the shop and repeat the ritual that his father performed infront of the cash resgistera and the Godess . But Babu would be at the forefront of conducting the business activity with the others keeping a light vigil on the business. He would call up buyers and sellers ,keep the accounts while never forgetting to dust the cabin but he never sat on the same chair as his employer. When Hiralal was back from his vacation Babu would diligently hand over every detail of the business that went on during his absence. And never once it happened that Hiralal doubted him. He was a trusted worker.



It was December 2006 when the news arrived that Hiralal’s mother died in Valsad. Everyone in the Patel family had to attend her funeral. It would take about fifteen days to return back. The dilemma was whether to close the shop for those many days or rely upon someone to take care . Whom could they trust so much in complete absence of the family? Hiralal finally decided to keep the business going, give charge to Babu and ask a friend if he would look after the shop whenever he could and left for India.

Vineet was up early morning a few days later and decided to take a walk to the nearby park which he hardly ever did. He sat in the park for some time. It was about half past eight in the morning and he had to get ready to be at office by nine thirty. He got up and made his way towards home. As he climbed the first few steps of the building he noticed someone in Grocery store performing the Puja that Hiralal did every morning. Curious if Hiralal was back or did his son not attend the funeral he descended the steps and entered the shop. To his amazement he saw Babu holding five smoking incense stick in his hands making circular motions in front of the small picture of the Goddess Laxmi with his eyes closed and mumbling something. Shocked Vineet stood there for sometime while Babu , with his eyes still closed repeated the gestures over the cash register and towards the heaven. Then opening his eyes, Babu saw Vineet in front of him . With an embarrassed look on his face. He could only mutter “ Sir, you need something ?”

“No ,I mean , I thought Hiralalji was back”. He replied. The with a pause he asked
“Aren’t you a Muslim ?”
“Yes sir. You are asking me why am I doing this Hindu thing when I am a Muslim?”
“Hmm” Vineet nodded his head unsure if he had started a wrong conversation.

“Sir, I have worked here for fifteen years. When my father was ill Hiralalji gave me money for his treatment. He did not see whether I was Muslim or something else. When my cousins would not help me get a job I came here almost begging and he gave me this job” said Babu while he picked up a crate of oranges and started arranging them in neat rows on the shelves.

“I am earning because of this business which Hiralalji has kept running and I have seen him do this everyday. I believe his God has given him his bread and butter. He should not be ignored while he is not here. So I do the same.” He looked up at Vineet.his eyes were placid and his expression was one of a sage.

“I will do this till my employer comes back and takes over. It does not matter whether I go to the mosque or a temple it a respect to my employer belief. It does not change my religion.” Said he resuming his chore.

Vineet was in a daze. Never in his life, he had ever thought he would see this.

“But do you know what you were mumbling?”
“No Sir, I believe He will understand my language.”

North and South

I have a colleague who always rants about how people from the south are more passionate and considerate.

"If you see someone driving rashly, 8 out of 10 times it would be a car with a Delhi or UP number plate or may be the guy is from Delhi and driving a Karnataka registered car" He says.

Quite a statement!

My only hangout in Bangalore is the Forum mall. The PVR and the Landmark are the only two places I visit during the weekends. To get there you have to take the road towards the seventh block in Koramangala. This road seems to have a perennial source of traffic.During the first days of arrival in Bangalore, I tried to abide by the rules,taking the zebra crossings to cross the street.

I would hold up my hand and take a step only to find honking cars stepping on the gas.I would retreat and try again. Frustrated with the futility of my attitude to abide by the rules I gave up. Instead I started looking for a gap in the oncoming stream of cars and bikes and when I got the slightest ray of hope of making my trip , I would dart across the road only to find being honked at from the other side of the road.

So much so for North and South wasn't it the same case in Delhi and Bangalore ?

But I did not hear the curse that I would usually get if I was caught in the same situation in Delhi. Probably there is a difference.

This morning when I was taking the same road to the Bank to get some statements, I saw two blind men standing by the bus stop a few yards away,apparently trying to cross the road. My heart went out to them. I , having an enabled visionary capability, could find the task of crossing this road such a life threatening experience, what would they face ?

A good Samaritan probably felt the same and volunteered to help the two hapless men across the street.

He held one of the two men by his right hand and with his left he signalled the oncoming traffic to be a little considerate of their hurry to make towards the slipping end of their world, while the other man held on the first one like a daisy chain.

Sweet surprise !! The cars and bikes obliged. They slowed down to a stop and gave way only one of them honked ! Was he from the North ? I don't have any idea. "All Indians look the same." That's what some of my Chinese friends told me while I was in Dubai.

I at that moment had a Deja vu. Albeit with a twist.

I was in Delhi two years ago trying to do the same thing. I was at a signal where the road from Paharganj intersected the circular road in Cannought Circle trying to cross the street towards the Metro station. The signal across the street for the pedestrians was going from red to green and green to red but none of the rush of buses,cars bikes and cycles would stop to give a glance at the Red light in front of them. After some three cycles of the phenomenon I felt someone tugging at my shirt!

"Bhaiyya mujhe rasta par kara do..."

A Blind man and an old one for that ! I felt like saying .. "Baba apko kya paar kara doon ...mere khud ke lale pade hain!" but I refrained. Perhaps I am not so inconsiderate. I said... "Jaroor, traffic bahot hai par koshish karte hain"...

Holding his left arm I used my right to signal that I wished to cross the street to the gentlemen hurtling their mode of transport towards me. The signal in fornt of me was green so I saw no harm in taking the plunge onto the zebra crossing,which I think was painted a century ago.

A Blue line bus, the leader of the pack of racers, screeched to halt and so did a few more vehicles after him.

"Ma....., marna hai kya?"

Something in my head snapped. First I never took abusive language and that too when I was not at the wrong side of deeds. Second I was trying to help a blind man.

"Dikhta nahin hai kya .? " I pointed towards the green light across his side,seething inside.

He took one glance at the thing I was pointing to.

"Abe teri to...." He made a movement as if to get down from the bus and dim the living day lights out of me. That moment I had a strange feeling in me! I cannot describe it.

As I was afraid of my status on earth, I simply hurried across pulling along the blind man with me. I did not look back. I let the blind man's hand go and was rude enough not to have reassured my old companion of the small adventure on the streets of Delhi that he was safely across the jungle.

Probably there is a difference or perhaps there can be an error of judgement, not quantifiable with random acts!