Haria stands silently near the Ganesh temple. He is purposefully clad in the dirtiest and the most tattered clothes in the world. His filthy and wounded hands in conjunction with his robe produce disgust which force the bikers on the red light to pop out some coins. They do it before he touches them and lends them the fatal infection which would render them lifeless in no time. Haria is jealous of Pappu though. The moment he throws the remnants of his amputated arm towards someone, he shrieks in horror and shoos him away by giving him whatever he has in his pocket. People like Pappu make Haria wonder as to how lucky people could ever get in their life.
I know you must be wondering about the particulars of Haria and what you have to do with such a disgustingly wicked creature. Well, nobody actually knows anything about his father. The identity of his father is a raging controversy among the shopkeepers surrounding the temple. The owners of prasad shops think that he is an offspring of Jaggu Bhikhari who used to keep his mother along with him in the city corporation’s unused sewage pipe. Before he was killed and thrown in the gutter by the policewallahs of course. He had committed the crime of not paying the weekly security charges to them and went pretty vocal with them on the issue.
The flower vendors on the other side of the market, however, have different views. They are quite sure that Haria is not Jaggu’s son. Haria’s mother was taken several times to the police station at late hours in the night after the incident. The Sipahis and the incharge are the more logical probables for them. This uncertainty about Haria’s origin had, at one time, led to another serious ambiguity, as nobody knew what to call him. While some called him ‘H******’ others differed by calling him ‘Bh****’. There were other adjectives also, which he was offered to adorn permanently, but before he grew intelligent enough to make a choice, his mother interfered quickly to give him his proper name.
Haria is a professional. Ever since he started walking, he was taught how to sift through the waiting traffic to ask for alms. He is pretty adept at his job. His height is around 3 feet, which puts his field of vision is exactly in line with the commuters’ pockets. This helps. He could easily make his choice among the scores of prospects which he is supposed to interact with. Very professionally, he makes his choice. He draws close and puts his gammy hand in front of the riders, acting as if he was going to touch them. Once the rider reaches a sickened state of mind, he tries to reach out for some exposed part of his body. Most of the times, Haria immediately gets a coin or two from the frightened rider, but in case it doesn’t happen, he quickly switches on to another prospect without wasting any time. He doesn’t even approach cars as he has been told that it won’t be as rewarding since he won’t be able to intimidate the passengers through the glass of side windows.
Haria has grown up among a jungle of steel rims and rubber tyres. Nothing on the road could ever hit him. The live things which fall at the altitude of his vision are usually hips and bellies. Fat bellies, slim bellies, normal bellies, abnormal bellies, male bellies, female bellies, bellies that are full, bellies which are suffering with constipation, bellies with non-vegetarian food inside, bellies with ice-cream inside, bellies that are never full, bellies that could never be filled. There are all the types of bellies in his view. None of the bellies is like his though. In fact it’s hard to make out whether he has actually has a belly. It’s so small and slim that people sometimes think of him as an alien and give him the money even before he extends his arm.
Haria starts off from one side of the road as the red light turns on, with a perfect ticker running above his shoulder. He exploits innocent people with his wicked idea of earning money and then hits the footpath on the other side of the road exactly before the light turns green. He has never failed at doing that, because he knows that the day he does, he would be history, just like his closest friend Ballu.
Ballu actually had the advantage of not having a leg. One of the times Ballu got trapped for a bait of 5 rupees. He waited for the money as the plump, fat, red and kind youngster struggled to take the currency note out from his front pocket even when the lights had turned green. Though the money involved justified the risk taken, Ballu, with just one leg, wasn’t as quick as most of the vehicles on the road. Ever since the incident happened, Haria is particularly conscious of his timing on the road.
On the other side of the road, there is a chat shop. It’s embellished with all sorts of fruits and other tongue tickling delicacies. As evening draws, tastefully dressed, overly pleasant smelling people huddle around it. This used to be the spot for Haria and Ballu in their good times for some of the most enjoyable feasts of their life. People who came to this stall were especially kind. They threw paper plates of chat in dustbins without licking it even once. Both friends shared the best times of their lives near the dustbin, licking plates which tasted so good that one wouldn’t have minded dying if he got to eat a full plate.
When Ballu was alive, he told Haria that he once found a completely uneaten plate of Bhel Puri in one of the dustbins. In the first instance, Haria didn’t believe him. “C****** banata hai sssala”, he had exclaimed. He was quite logical in not believing Ballu. How on earth could someone throw a full plate of Bhel Puri in a dustbin? But once Haria realized that Ballu had actually managed to get lucky, he didn’t talk with him for two full days. He resumed talking with Ballu only when he promised that if he finds something as good, he would share it with Haria.
The fun that the two guys had together, however, didn’t last for long. One day Haria’s maa spotted him licking plates near a dustbin. For her, this was totally unacceptable. She held Haria by his hair and dragged him right till the sewage pipe, their home. There she slapped her continuously for half an hour till the time he understood that it was suicidal to be so unprofessional. For his mother, she luckily caught him in time. Had he continued with what he was doing for some more days, he would have started looking normal in size. In Haria’s profession, size and state have serious implications on your daily collections.
Haria’s mother is especially particular about the daily collections of her son. She is not as practical as some of her other counterparts. She doesn’t want Haria’s hand to be severed if the collections fall below a certain limit. Nobody understands why she doesn’t want that to happen even when the earnings simply double after it happens. Even though Haria has been pretty strong on the collection charts so far, she doesn’t want to take any chances.
Haria keeps working day in day out. His mother, however doesn’t even rest in the night. Haria simply doesn’t understand where she goes with so many people every evening. He finds her sleeping by his side in the morning though. He doesn’t even bother anymore as he is accustomed this practice now.
With every passing day, Haria’s complexion turns even darker than the day before. With every passing day, his belly turns slimmer. With every passing day the wound in his hand gets pulpier. With every passing day his eyes protrude out one more nanometer, the layer of skin over his ribs gets thinner. And still, surprisingly Haria lives to see another day and goes through the entire scheme of transformations all over again. It’s no big feat though.
Lakhs of Harias are produced everyday. People like you and me who are not Harias exist only in residual proportions. These Harias continuously, untiringly wait on the roadside for the light to turn red. They know the art of doing nothing perfectly. Those who are not as perfect get trampled, beaten or are thrown in a gutter. Those who survive to suffer become a vote. The production of such Harias is always encouraged. They play a vital role in country’s development by helping the greatest leaders in finding a chair for themselves. Even the thoughts of forcing a law on family planning are hushed.
To get through the never-ending traffic and ever-demanding Harias is a must for every living Indian now. We now honk horns, eat smoke, get frustrated and shake our heads in disgust at places where we used to test the top speeds of our bikes. Some Harias turn criminals too. It’s always better to bear the batons of policaewallahs as they are later followed by free chapattis with dal.
Are we in any way responsible for the production and proliferation of Harias? Ideally we should all ponder. We never give it a thought though, because we are not the ones who are concerned. It’s the government’s job.
Government, which loves Harias, as they keep it in power. Power, which everybody wants. Now who is more ignorant, the government, Haria, or us? You tell me.
