Bangali was the name of a Garbage Collector who visited the house every morning to collect Kooda.
Garbage was taken to his rickshaw to sort out and stored in Huge bags.
There was a tribe of them, with rickshaws every morning in various areas visiting houses.
Mostly rude, notorious for not doing the job, foul mouthed, drug addicts, petty thieves.
But not Bangali.
A middle-aged well-mannered man, who regularly wished you. A no nonsense man, high cheeked with a scanty goatee of 20 odd hair on the chin – somewhat a picture of Vietnamese descent
I saw him many a times and acknowledged his salutations.
When relatively free he would walk up the stairs to my Verandah, where I would be basking in the winter sun, invariably reading a book or writing something with a side table of coffee or tea and biscuits.
Shying away to my offer of tea saying No thank you, He would fire a question and wait.
This time it was: “Sahib you must be a well read man with lots of money”.
My reply: “Yes I like both and God has been kind”.
Likewise, his curiosity in me grew, along with a silent respect and mutual understanding.
With time, his visits grew.
I was eager to know about much talked ‘Amaar Sonar Bangla’.
His face would light up and there was sparkle in his eyes.
He described to me his fields full of paddy, rich flatland, his Pokra (Fishpond) his Bari (house) and the bus service.
They were peace loving, happy people - till the equilibrium was disturbed.
On another visit he asked me: “Have you been to my country?”
I said NO.
‘Chalo saab aap hamara sang chalo’, he said - inviting me instantly.
I told him that my Father had.
On asking how, I told him that my father had been there as part of the Indian Army.
He rose to stand up and salute, describing the help received.
On poetry, he narrated Nazrul Islam by heart.
One fine day he appeared I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Impeccably dressed, with shoes on and oil in his hair - beaming with joy and happiness.
He said he was going back home.
I offered him Tea, this time he accepted and sat down to chat with me.
He told me that his eldest son had become a Doctor and was attached to a hospital in Malaysia. The younger one had finished his studies and was preparing for an entrance exam.
I hugged him close to my chest and he uttered with pride:
Everybody looked down on me and behaved rudely - ‘Hum Ganda kaam karta hai iss liye’.
Sahib, you are my true friend to give recognition to me “Hum ko izzat diya, Hum yaad karey gaa tumko”
I doled out some money to him which he refused to accept.
I said to him: For your son to study hard and put it in his pocket.
He walked with Pride holding his head high - a taller man than I.
I remember him sometimes and whenever I do, I break into ‘Ekla Chalo re’ a song I learnt with him.
PS
Bangali is one of many fellow travellers in my journey on this Planet.
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