By Shishir Joshi
“….Paper….Paper-wallah….”….boomed a voice, slicing the pregnant silence in the dimly lit room.
The ten odd faces in the waiting lounge of the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) looked up, startled by the intrusion. Not as much of the person, but by the noise.
The sight of the paper-wallah had broken my chain of thoughts, taken me back a few years. 2005. It was another medical emergency I was attending to. Spending my days in a hospital room for a very dear one.
“Paper-wallah…” rang the voice…as the door opened…a head peeked in..deft fingers tossed a paper in my direction. Customarily he glanced towards the patient’s bed. Glanced back at me. This time, a wee bit sadder. Nodded his head consolingly but reassuringly, before vanishing for the day.
Only to be back the next morning. The ritual was unchanged. Initially, I would wait for the newspaper. Then, out of habit, (and since I did spend a considerable time in the hospital), I had begun waiting for the gentle face of the newspaper-wallah.
subconsciously, waiting for his reassuring nod.
For a man who was letting me peep into the world with the bundle he carried in his hands, I wondered what he was getting to see as he peeped into the room every day. This room where I was, or so many rooms within the hospital. A different shade of life, maybe.
Then one day things changed in the room I was in. The patient was better. Set to be discharged. The bills were being settled and we were all set to leave, waiting for the doctor’s final nod.
The bed, for a change, and unlike the last few days, was spotlessly done up. Waiting for a new occupant.
Just as we were to leave the room, there was a knock. “Paper-wallah….” came the voice first and then the head peeped in. Out of habit, he flung the paper in my direction. Within a fraction, he had noticed I was all dressed up that day. A little puzzled and almost simultaneously, he glanced at the bed.
His eyes betrayed his shock and sadness when he did not see the almost sedated patient covered in a white sheet, which he was habituated to seeing.
He stopped in his tracks. Stepped into the room; having imagined the worst. His face had changed. The human behind the vendor had emerged. With a bow of his head, he offered his condolences before wanting to zip away. This time, not out of habit but almost unable to control his tears.
I stopped him. To explain that the empty bed was not because what he may have imagined, but that the patient was stepping out of the room on his two feet and not being lifted away in tears.
His face broke into a jubilant toothless smile. His eyes sparkled almost like a blessing. Relieved. Then he was gone.
“Paper-wallah…” I heard the voice again. Bringing me back to reality. I was back in this hospital setting. Slightly worse. The waiting lounge of a hospital’s Intensive care Unit. (ICU). There were ten odd people in the room. Some grim, some in prayer. Some, a bit of both. The paper-wallah’s eyes quickly scanning the faces for a nod. Searching for any eye which wanted a glimpse of the world outside.
His eyes rested on the wrinkled and tired face of a seventy year old. The man looked at him and as if on cue, the paper-wallah pulled out a Hindi newspaper, and tossed it at the old man. A ritual I could never forget. I had been through it.
Before we could blink, the paper-wallah was out of the room.
I wondered what does the man, our paper-wallah, who every day unfailingly gives us a glimpse of our universe, gets to see when he peeps into a hospital room?
Life in so many forms. Pain and happiness in different shades. The rainbow and the clouds. And grief too.
Have we spared a thought for the paper-wallah who delivers the paper at home? Those early hours of the morning when we are …..so fast asleep.
He comes into our life when most of us are dead to the world. In deep slumber. He is also among the very few who sees us when we are completely unprepared to face the world. Dishevelled. Dreamy. Off-guard.
Maybe he is also among the very few who wakes us from our slumber and says, ‘hey wake up.’ There is reality waiting for you. Smell the coffee, literally.
How many of us have even seen our newspaper wallah? Would you recognise him if he stood in front of you? Probably not. But he surely will.
This is a salute to that faceless angel of sorts. A chance encounter with him made me realise how much he offers us. And how much more he manages to absorb every time he delivers the universe into our hands. With newspaper vending machines taking over our lives, would this human machine become extinct too?
This is also a tribute to a friend whom I lost recently. He was selfless. Gave us so much and before we could blink, like the newspaper-wallah, he too had disappeared.
This friend had gone for good.
He was like the most priceless fire cracker during the festival of lights. All that is left behind after his burst of energy is a deafening silence.
Life. Transient life.
(Mumbai based Shishir joshi is Journalist and Mentor and co founder of JM foundation for Excellence in Journalism, Mumbai. He can be reached on [email protected])