The warmth in a morning knock

He rode a 1927 model atlas goldline super bicycle. As Navjot, our old Hall president had said, he had been allowed to come to the hall to collect newspapers only on compassionate grounds. He was around 70 years of age. He was a sikh by religion. The little hair he had on his head, were coiffured suggesting so. The old man had arthristis, with swollen joints. He would cycle from somewhere in gol bazaar, each weekend, to our campus. (Which would be around 5 kilometres one sided).

Each saturday morning, you could hear the same familiar knock on your door, and in the feeblest of tones, he requested you to sell your used newspapers to him. With the limited vision that he had, he could barely see beyond a couple of metres. (You could often see him talking through an open door, to the room's owner. Only that the room's owner wasn't in there). He would, mind you, never, ever, ever ask you to give your newspapers to him for free. He always offered to pay. And, some of my worthy friends, I distinctly remember, would almost always receive that meagre 20 rupees from him, in liu of their old newspapers. I wonder where their conscience would go.

Having collected a minor bulk of newspapers, he would head to a corner of the hall, deposit them there and head to the next block. Born to a benevolent mother and a social worker father, I would, apart from my usual stock of newspapers, also give him a small amount of money. Why? Not because he was poor. Not because he was in need of help. But because, despite his pain, his lack of eyesight, his aging muscles, he would still work. He would earn his living, buying old newspapers from future leaders of the world -- IITians. And those IITians would be on record of having sold off their conscience and philanthropy for a meagre 20 rupees... but lets not discuss them. They're far worse than you can imagine.

So, I would pay my homage to the grit and determination of this old man. One who would earn his living, at an age, when we'd be retired and playing with grandchildren... feasting off the interest of barrow-loads of money.

Its been five weekends since I last saw the old man. I asked some hall staff to find out about what happened to him, and was told that he was taken away by Lord Almighty. He was at work then, selling off newspapers to a buyer somewhere in the market, when the Lord called him off.