The roof of the bungalow offered a stunning view of the greenery stretching out in the distance. When my elder sister visited that day, I took her up to the roof as I was showing her around the bungalow. She was startled at the sight and exclaimed, "Wow, what a view! In Delhi, you wouldn't even find such greenery in a calendar picture."When she heard that the fresh radish we had with lunch earlier that day came from the lush green fields we were looking at, she was even more amazed. I told her that the fields belonged to a nearby village from where our milkman comes. Occasionally, he also brings fresh vegetables.One day, when the milkman arrived, I was strolling on the lawn. He greeted me and went inside to deliver the milk, but he seemed somewhat dejected. When he came back out, I asked him, "What's the matter? You look a bit down."This little bit of concern was more than enough for him. He quickly replied, "Sir, what can I do? Sheru has come back again."I didn’t immediately understand who he was talking about. Rather than guessing, I thought it better to ask directly, "Who is Sheru?"He laughed. He laughed so hard that I became alarmed, wondering if he might be having some kind of fit. Who laughs like that? His crooked, yellowed teeth were all exposed, and droplets of his spit landed on his shabby clothes.He said, "You’ve forgotten, sir? You were the one who named him Sheru."This was the second time I was surprised. I couldn’t recall at all that there was a Sheru, let alone that I had named him. But with a bit of his reminding and some memory stirring, I remembered that around eighteen to twenty years ago, he had brought his newborn child wrapped in tattered clothes to show me.When, back then, he forcefully bent the tiny baby's head, almost touching the ground, and said, "Bow to the sahib, the sahib will make your life," I had stopped him and said, "Don’t teach him to bleat like a goat right from now; he's a lion cub... Sheru!"And then I forgot everything.I also forgot that while I, who once rode a scooter, now owned two luxury cars, he could only afford to take his son’s wedding procession on bullock carts. I forgot that the old shoes or shirts I used to give him, he would treasure and wear for three years, and even after that, he would try to repurpose them for his children before throwing them away.I forgot that he would occasionally bring me free vegetables, peanuts, and sugarcane from his tiny field, and despite having his son fill out forms multiple times, I couldn't get him admitted to even the most mediocre of colleges.One day, I even overheard a sharp question from his wife that left me with nothing to say but to stare blankly.That day, it was his wife who came to deliver the milk. I was sitting in the drawing room, listening as she stood behind the curtain, crying and telling my wife, “We didn't have the means to dream, but still, we scraped together to pay his fees. Your child went on from there to an engineering college, but they won’t take my son anywhere. Today, we sent him for an interview for a peon’s position, and even there he failed. People say we dilute the milk with water, but I say you dilute education with water, life with water, and the fate of the poor with water!” And then she broke down crying again.Her words melted my heart, and I managed to get her son a job as a "water boy" in an office at a meager wage. He would at least earn a few coins by serving tea and water to the employees.But after a few days, the milkman told me that his son was fired. They said he just sat around doing nothing. When he asked his son, the boy replied, "Can’t they get up and get a glass of water themselves? They act like they’re kings."The boy then returned to wandering aimlessly around the village.Some time later, he got another job in a company that was constructing a building. His job was to count the bricks delivered by the tractors. It went well for a few days, but then he lost that job too. The supervisor said he wasn’t counting the bricks, just giving any number by guesswork. The boy told his father that the supervisor wanted to put one of his own men in that position and used it as an excuse to get rid of him.When the milkman told me this, I said, "Why are you so concerned about his job? Let him continue with the family tradition of farming."Hearing this, he laughed as if I had committed the outrageous act of trying to cool down the sun by splashing water on it.Then, in a deep voice, he said, "Sir, I’ve managed to survive because, along with a small piece of land passed down from my ancestors, I also kept a few cattle. If I had relied solely on farming, I would’ve been out on the streets long ago."I stood there, gaping at him. He continued, "Sir, while you’re still debating whether or not to take your hand out of the quilt to grab a cup of tea in the morning, I’ve already taken the oxen to the fields and turned the soil into mud. When will these kids ever do that? The school has filled their heads with God knows what. They’re not only ashamed of the ox and plow, but they’re also embarrassed to stand with us, their own parents."I had no answer. I hid my face behind the newspaper. He left.But a few days later, he begged and managed to get his son a job packing boxes in a factory. The shift was twelve hours long, with no time to even lift his head, and his neck would stiffen from the strain. Barely two months had passed before he quit and came back home.Perhaps this is what he meant when he said that Sheru had come back again.I quietly asked, "What happened this time?"He replied dismissively, "What could have happened? He’s just stubborn, keeps butting heads with every job and runs away!"He left, but I was left wondering who was truly "stubborn"? Is it Sheru, or is it the education that didn’t make him capable enough to study further, crushed his will to take up his father’s work, and didn’t teach him how to commit to any job? Or is it the times we live in, which make the poor even poorer and the rich richer? Or perhaps it’s me who is stubborn, the one who named him Sheru? After all, his father was already teaching him to grovel the moment he was born. (End)
