As narrated by my father..
It was the time when I was in secondary school. I studied in the Municipal Corporation’s school. It had a very simple building, with arches over the windows, somewhat depicting the british style of architecture. The area in which I lived had many bungalows and costly flats. The kids from these houses went to Convent schools being privileged. One of them was my childhood friend, Sandhya Pradhan.
She hailed from a well off family and attended convent school. Her father used to serve in Indian Oil, a high paying company at that time. She and her siblings were received and dropped to school by a special rickshaw hired for the only purpose. The driver’s name was Bismillah. As days passed, me and my friends befriended him. We used to chase his cycle rickshaw and also used to cling on the end of it. Pulling a cycle rickshaw requires way much efforts. The moving vehicle made us triumph over our success of catching it. Bismillah used to scold us for this, but were never cared. Due to being ignorant towards him, we also bullied him over his religion. Pradhans used to help him as and when they could.
Years drifted along and I moved to another city for higher education. The Pradhans also migrated somewhere and the contact was lost. After many more years, I returned to my home town to see my parents. I saw Bismillah near the railway station and we instantly recognized each other. Bismillah had now grown a bit older. He talked to me with the same compassion as he used to do when I was a child. I asked him whether he was still in contact with Pradhans. He took me around in his rickshaw and we talked for a long time. His sons also now pulled rickshaw like him.
Another few years passed, and once again I visited my home town to see my parents and to celebrate Diwali. My home town even now has a fleet of cycle rickshaw pullers. The city has old corners brimming with life especially in the Muslim area. Bismillah had now grown quite old. His health was telling upon him and he could not drive rickshaw anymore. He used to visit our house each year on Diwali, asking for help as his sons had abandoned him. I helped him by giving him as much money I could.
Once like every year, I was again at my home town on the eve of Diwali. I just happened to ask my father, “Bismillah doesn’t come by our house?”. My father told me that he died a few days ago. It pained me to hear the news as not only being a fellow human being but Bismillah was like my father, and a friend whom I could never forget. Due to distance, I could never check upon him or help him outwardly.. but Bismillah will always be alive in my memories.
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