Summer of ’05.

Young Sundar’s deep slumber was broken by the screech of the train as it came to a sudden halt. As he rubbed and squinted his eyes, the firm hands of his father caressed his shoulders in an attempt to put him back to sleep. However, the noise and chaos that engulfed the railway tracks was too loud to invite sleep.

“What is going on father? And what language are they speaking in?” asked Sundar, who still looked outside the window in a failed endeavor to make sense of what the men in white shirts and dhotis were doing on the railway tracks.

“They’re repairing a section of the track, Sundar,” said Chandrashekar Nair.

In his early forties, Chandrashekhar was a man of deep wisdom and intellect.

“And they’re speaking in Tamil- our mother tongue- one of the oldest languages in the world.”

Sundar rolled his eyes irritably.

“Nobody speaks Tamil in Bristol! Why can’t they speak in English? And why in god’s name are they not wearing shoes? Don’t they know how to wear shoes like I do?” he said, pointing to the fifty-pound Nike he had been wearing.

Chandrashekhar sighed. He knew he couldn’t blame his son for his ignorance. He had shifted to Bristol almost two score years ago, where not only had he worked and gotten married, but also started a family when Sundar was born.

Having spent his entire childhood in sprawling bungalows, good schools, amidst luxuries and opulence, he knew that if left unnoticed, a sense of false pride and snobbishness would come to define his son.

“Where have you even brought me father?” Sundar motioned his hands frantically, while eating from a bag of chips. “It’s so crowded and weird. All my friends are vacationing in the highlands, and here I am on a train to some ancient village that you claim you come from.”

“We,” corrected Chandrashekhar. “We come from this land, Sundar. We belong here.”

“I belong to Bristol… What on earth? Get off me.” exclaimed Sundar. An old lady with a child in her arms stood before his seat, begging for alms. “Don’t come close. And stay away from my shoes!”

Sundar grunted in anger, pulling his shoes closer to his seat.

The lady walked away silently while Sundar resumed munching the chips.

The train resumed its journey through the plains, but oblivious to the scenic beauty outside, Sundar kept himself busy with the chips and his headphones.

Within an hour, they reached their destination. While Chandrashekhar was busy deboarding the luggage, Sundar stared blankly at the station plaque which read-

‘Theni’.

The railway station was so small that there weren’t more than three benches in sight; not even a separate room for the station master was present.

“What kind of a hell have you brought me to father?” Sundar said, sweating profusely. “It’s unbearable- the heat, the stench—”

Just then, his eyes caught up with those of young boy, roughly his age. Dressed in a tattered, moth-eaten khaki shirt and torn black pants, he was busy collecting small plastic bottles from the few dustbins available on the platform.

Sundar scrutinized the rag-picker boy carefully and grimaced with a look of disapproval, “And the people… what sort of people are these? They wear curtains around their waists and don’t even wear shoes! It’s freaking outrageous!”

Sundar looked at the ragpicker boy while adjusting his headphones, almost in an attempt to flaunt them like a peacock’s feather. However, the boy’s eyes never lifted up to meet Sundar’s eyes. Instead, his gaze remained transfixed on Sundar’s shoes.

“Sundar, do not judge people based on their looks. While you are privileged to wear and own expensive things, others are not,” said Chandrashekhar, holding his son’s hand. “Some day you’ll realise that all the things that you consider as fundamental are elements of extreme privilege for many others.”

On the way to their ancestral home, Sundar gazed at the quaint countryside town of Theni. Bliss in the sunshine, the town had a sparse population of farmers and craftsmen. The scenic beauty of the town was in stark contrast to the bustling streets and coffee houses of Bristol.

Upon reaching, Sundar was greeted by his Grandmother. When Chandrashekhar bowed before Grandmother to touch her feet, Sundar looked at his father, aghast and baffled.

A couple of young kids dashed into the living room to greet them.

“They are your cousins, Sundar,” said Grandmother.

Sundar smiled half-heartedly and waved at them, but in response to this, all his cousins joined their hands and greeted in unison, “Vadakkam Anna.”

That evening, before dinner, all of Sundar’s cousins sat in his room listening and humming old Tamil songs. Even though they tried initiating conversation, Sundar remained aloof, busy with Jackon’s songs on his headphones.

“Anna, talk to us also,” said Karthik, the youngest cousin, to Sundar, who, couldn’t hear a word beyond the croon of Jackson.

“Anna,” Karthick said and removed the headphones off Sundar’s ears so abruptly that they were broken into two pieces.

Sundar jumped out of his seat, in absolute rage.

“You dimwit! What have you even done? How are you going to pay for this?!” Sundar screamed at Karthik. “Even if you sell all your weird clothes and shoes, you won’t be able to pay for it!”

Karthik apologized earnestly and said that it was completely unintentional.

However, every attempt towards justification fueled Sundar’s suppressed frustration and hopelessness about the inferiority of his antecedents.

And in one full blow, they were unleashed when he slapped Karthik across the face.

Tears welled up in his eyes, but Karthik didn’t say a word; he simply walked out of the room.

When Chandrashekhar learnt of this incident, he called Sundar into his room and rebuked him for his actions.

“I do not understand how hitting your seven-year-old cousin can satiate your never-ending urge to assert your dominance and false prestige that you neither deserve nor have acquired by virtue of your deeds. Who exactly do you think you are Sundar? And on whose account do you think you can act so disdainfully? I was born in this very room amidst the parents of the very cousins you end up reprimanding. This is my home, our home- not Bristol.

“You belong here too and this is your reality. Remember Sundar, a person who does not respect his roots, does not respect himself. Learn to develop some empathy and understanding towards people around you.”

That evening, at the dinner table, Grandmother had made payasam. However, the quantity wasn’t sufficient to feed everyone. Even though hesitant earlier, Sundar loved the sweet so much so that he had three refills and asked for more. Grandmother checked the vessels and informed there wasn’t any more left. Sundar frowned a little in disappointment.

“Anna, here, you can have some of mine,” said Karthik, offering his bowl.

Sundar looked at him in astonishment. A few hours ago, he had hit this very boy for a mistake for which he had been deeply remorseful, and still, here he was offering him sweet from his own share.

“Why, umm, why are you offering your share to me? Isn’t it yours?”

Karthik smiled. “Grandmother says there is no mine and yours in a home anna; it’s us. We are all similar and should stay together. Hence, what is mine is also yours.”

Sundar breathed heavily. Never before had he thought of togetherness in this manner. He left the dinner table filled with guilt and an unknown heaviness in his chest, that weighed down every step he took. As he continued walking, he stopped at the railway station for some coconut water and sat down on a bench, watching trains arrive and depart, a flock of passengers boarding and deboarding. And for the first time in his life, an epiphany occurred to him- every face that we see has a story behind it; every inflection of the skin, twitch of the muscles, every small detail has a significance behind it that makes us all capable of resonating the universal feelings of love, empathy, grief and rage.

Amongst the passing faces, Sundar’s eyes met one face that was familiar- the ragpicker boy. While the passengers deboarded, Sundar saw him jump into the compartments and fetch out as many used plastic bottles and wrappers from the dustbins as he could. Sundar observed him closely- he was a young boy, not more than fifteen.

His dark, scarred hands spoke about his daily struggle, his sunburnt skin told Sundar of the boy’s hardships in the scorching heat, but it was the battered, wounded feet that caught Sundar’s attention; they were riddled with fresh and old wounds, some clotted, some still open. He limped with every step he took, squinted his eyes and groaned when his bare and wounded feet touched the hot ground. Sundar got up from the bench and walked towards the boy. Upon seeing him, the ragpicker boy stopped groaning, held his bag of collected bottles tightly over his left shoulder. He met Sundar’s eyes for a fleeting moment and then looked down again.

Sundar extended his hand to offer a fifty-rupee note to him. “Take this,” he said, firmly.

The boy looked at Sundar again with an expression of confused trepidation; his countenance reflecting his inner dilemma of trusting a stranger.

Finally, he looked at Sundar more firmly. Holding his gaze, he shook his head to the money and walked away.

Sundar stood stunned at his place, unaware to process what had happened. The ragpicker boy, dressed in tattered clothes had refused to take money that he was in a desperate need of. Money, to earn which, he toiled in the heat day in and day out, scouring dirty dustbins- he had refused that.

Every evening hence, after devouring his Grandmother’s payasam, he rushed to the station. Observing the quaint countryside, the trains that arrived, passengers that deboarded and faces that had a story to convey, Sundar had started to develop an affinity towards the town. The coconut vendor had become a familiar face and often greeted him with a Tamil proverb before offering a fresh coconut to him.

But still, the one face that intrigued Sundar the most was the face of the ragpicker boy. He saw him every day, wearing the same old clothes, picking up bottles with battered hands and a limping gait. And every day, Sundar’s inquisitiveness made him consider having a conversation with the boy. Not only did he wish to know why he had refused the money, but also, he wanted to understand who the boy really was and how, beyond all rationality, he had considered preserving his dignity as a more crucial virtue than accepting a few rupees from a stranger.

However, Sundar never mustered the courage to talk to the boy. How could he? His sense of false pride and arrogance discouraged him from initiating any conversation with a boy of inferior circumstances. Nonetheless, he felt an uncanny connection and familiarity with the boy which was the reason why, when Chandrashekhar decided to return back to Bristol after a week of stay, Sundar was crestfallen.

“Can’t we stay a bit longer,” he pleaded the evening before their train back to Madurai. “I kind of like it here.”

Chandrashekhar smiled warmly. “I know, son,” he said, putting a hand on his shoulders. “This is the beauty of Theni, whoever comes here, becomes a part of this land, its soul and existence.”

Sundar smiled absently. He didn’t care about the scenic beauty as much as the thought of the ragpicker boy. The unprecedented maturity of the boy pricked his mind.

“Son, there is no alternative, there’s just one train that runs between Theni and Madurai and we need to board it or else we’ll miss our flight to Bristol.”

So, the next day, after touching his Grandmother’s feet and meeting each of his cousins, Sundar set off towards the station with his father. Just when he turned to leave, he called out Karthik.

“Here, you can keep this brother,” said Sundar, placing a new set of headphones in Karthik’s hands. “You liked them the first time around. I am really sorry for the way I reacted back then.”

Karthik’s eyes glinted with the sheen of the new headphones. He touched Sundar’s feet and greeted him goodbye.

As soon as they reached the station, he saw passengers deboarding in large numbers from the special train which had arrived a few minutes ago. Even though the station was a bit more crowded than normal, Sundar’s eyes searched for only one face.

Amidst the plethora of people teeming like moths around a bulb, he couldn’t find the ragpicker boy. He wanted to meet him, talk to him, ask him his name and wish him goodbye before he commenced a journey that would conclude in the suburbs of Bristol.

The special train began to depart with a sharp screech akin to the one which had woken him up a week ago on the train to Theni. He couldn’t help but reflect on his reluctance to visit his ancestral home a week ago and how, right then, as the train pulled away, a part of his heart ached and longed to stay behind.

“Oh Lord!” exclaimed Chandrashekhar. “Our train will be arriving on the opposite platform. Hurry up Sundar, hold my hand real tight and do not let go of it come what may, do you understand son?”

Sundar nodded absently; his eyes still busy in looking for the boy.

They dashed through the bridge to the other platform, in a direction opposite to the one the deboarded passengers were walking in.

Right when their train arrived at the platform, Sundar and his father dashed down the stairs hastily and rushed to their compartment.

Somewhere, in the haste to reach the compartment in time, Sundar’s shoe came off. He looked behind and almost bent to retrieve it. However, Chandrashekar had held his son’s hand very firmly; he loaded the luggage in haste and boarded the train just in time.

The train started pulling out from the platform almost immediately after they boarded. As the train started to pick pace, Sundar’s subtle hope of seeing the boy one last time flickered. Standing at the door, he gazed absently at his lone shoe on the platform. Suddenly, he saw a silhouette walking towards the shoe, Among the manifold hands, a pair of familiar hands picked up the shoe. Dropping his sack of collected plastic bottles, the ragpicker boy stared straight ahead, towards the train Sundar was leaving on.

For a brief moment, their eyes met. Sundar gazed abstractly in his direction. The boy lifted the shoe in his hand, pointed towards Sundar and started running in his characteristic limp, trying really hard to hand over the shoe to Sundar.

However, the train had picked a good enough pace and was just moments away from leaving the platform.

Sundar raised his hand and gestured the boy to stop running. Removing his other shoe; he looked at him for a fleeting moment and hurled it towards the boy’s direction.

Smiling solemnly, Sundar waved goodbye to the boy as the train pulled out from the platform.

“Where are your shoes, son?” asked Chandrashekhar when Sundar walked towards his seat.

A smile touched his face- a very blissful, calm smile of contentment. “I gave them to someone who needed it more, father. You were right, all the things that I used to boast about weren’t even truly mine to begin with. I dropped one of my shoes on the platform while we were rushing towards the train. I didn’t have enough time to do retrieve it. The boy who picks those bottles- he picked that up. I knew he wouldn’t make it as the train had picked pace. So, either I could’ve left him with one shoe and remained with one myself or I could’ve done what I did. The former would’ve been of utility to none- what good could I have done by leaving him with one shoe? But the latter? Father, a week ago, I wouldn’t have even dreamt of parting away from those shoes, but today, the decision to give them away was instinctive. I couldn’t have them, but it doesn’t mean that the one who needs it more can’t have it too.”

Chandrashekhar smiled gaily. “Indeed son. Kindness is a dish that savors the more you share. And happiness—”

“Is a flower that blossoms even in the darkest of days if one believes in the power of giving,” completed Sundar, looking outside the window.

Adversities are a very subjective part of human life- one person’s loss could be another’s opportunity. But even though life gets tough and things seem hopeless, the virtue of empathy is what makes us all capable of perceiving pain and joy. Empathy is the one needle that sews the tapestry of diverse human personalities and perspectives without which the human race would cease to exist.