Page 41 - English Reader - 7

I scrutinised his lithe figure, as he washed the motor with his shirt, soaking it in the water again and
again from the bucket.

His long beatnik hair seemed to make his longish neck seem elegant. His features were clear-cut. His
dark brown colouring glistened with sweat. His slim body exuded energy. And I thought it was a pity
that a so intelligent boy was disfigured by the loss of one eye.
‘And are you going to be a cleaner when you leave school?’

‘No, I want to be a motor engineer. My mother says she will send me to the Polytechnic in Patna
next year.’

‘What does your father do?’
Devaki Nandan Pandey did not answer back immediately. And I felt that I had been officious in asking
personal questions like that. When I had turned my face to greet my companion, he answered:

‘He is dead!... My mother says, she is father and mother to me—both mother and father.’
I toyed with the idea of adopting him. Or, at least, I could introduce him to the local ashram, run by
the companions of Jayaprakash Narayan. He might learn to do some chores—like cooking, dusting,
driving. I was sure that the eccentric Englishwoman, Jane Baxter, who was called ‘Mother’ by all and
sundry, would adopt him to take him about in her station-wagon as she went to do relief work in
the countryside.

‘You know how to cook… I could take you to the…’ He stopped me before I could finish.
‘I am Harijan by birth. Upper-class people will not let me touch their water and flour.’ I signed to my
companion to take a photo of him at work. She did so.

I felt he knew that he was being immortalised, but remained unconcerned, as he now rinsed the
shirt to wipe the water off the black surface.
I got up to fetch the proper yellow duster, so that his shirt buttons would not scratch the shiny
splendour of my newly painted Fiat.

As I handed it to him he added, ‘Have you been to all the places where Buddh Maharaj went after
his enlightenment?’
‘No, but I passed through Banaras where he argued with the Brahmins. I have been to Sarnath where
he delivered the first sermon. I have also visited Kaushambi where, I am told, Gautama often stayed.’

‘Not Mithila, where he stayed with Amrapali, the dancer?’ the boy parried.
‘No, but I hope to go there! ...Will you come with us?’

Devaki Nandan Pandey relapsed into silence. Furiously he rubbed the surface of the car until it shone
and reflected the shafts of the early morning sun in rainbow beams.
I gave him a rupee out of the sheer pleasure of the friendship he had conferred on me.

The other boys looked enviously at him. And one indigent young man among them stretched his
hand out for a tip for doing nothing.

‘I will get you change, Sahib,’ Devaki Nandan Pandey said. ‘I only take fifty paise for washing the car.’
I exchanged glances with my companion.

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