Specs Number

Aligarh Eye Centre, recently renamed Okhla Eye Centre, reminds people living in the Jamia Nagar of their association with Aligarh city, where Aligarh Muslim University, the almamater of many, is situated. It's touching to now a landmark hospital of the area, Al-Shifa Hospital. A month back when my wife was recuperating from post-Covid black fungus infection, I visited this eye clinic with her. We were waiting for our turn. Suddenly, a very old woman — frail and wrinkled — emerged from the doctor's room. She was livid and accusing the doctor of befooling her. Her allegation was that the doctor was not changing her specs number despite the fact that she is unable to see certain things. A young girl, who was accompanying her, was trying to calm her and convince her that she must return to home and come some other day. For a moment, she agreed and then again proceeded to argue with the doctor. This time, everyone remained silent. Then, one of the nurses and the girl grabbed her by her hand and took her to a corner. They offered her a glass of water and convinced her that as she could see the glass and the water in it, it meant her specks were allright. "Okay, okay," the old woman said this much. And then left the clinic with the young girl. Being ultra curious now, I asked the nurse who was the lady and what ails her. She said, "She had one sole son. She had raised him well after the early death of her husband. She used to care for him like a child even after the son was now father to five grown up kids. The girl accompanying her was her youngest granddaughter. Last month, Covid engulfed er son. No one in the family informed her that he was no more and he was sent to graveyard directly from the hospital. She now thinks that she is unable to see her son in the house because the number of her specks has to be changed and visits our clinic almost daily. It takes her around an hour or more to realise her loss and come to terms with grief. But, the next day, the love of the son returns. Poor lady!"

Part-time Job

By Mohammed Anas I lit my fifth cigarette of the day and was just about to sneak out of the house, my son screamed, “Papa, you are again forgetting to give me my school fee. My class teacher says it’s the third consecutive month I haven’t submitted my school fee and that I would be expelled this time.” Hurt, I paused for a moment, pumped and smoked out a deep puff. “Please beta, tell your teacher to be patient for one more month. I am going through a harsh time, which will end soon and you will submit four months' fee next month. I promise,” I pacified my Class 3 child who was indebted Rs 6,000 to the Aligarh Public School in Aligarh, UP. He showed little resentment, more obedience and started getting ready for school. With another cigarette, I resumed my daily morning street walk. Ever since I became unemployed a couple of months back due to Covid-19 pandemic, it was in my daily routine to leave home early in the morning to visit friends so that I could avoid my wife and children making demands for something or the other. At the end of the street, Hashmat runs his cigarette, machis (match box) and gutkha khokha (kiosk). No sooner did I approach his outlet; he shelled out a Gold Flake packet and headed towards me. With Gold Flake between my fingers, I moved towards Basharat’s residence, which had become an adda for my entire ilk — the unemployed, married with children. We discuss how small towns are getting devoid of employment value and traditional occupations are weeding out day after day. How the government policies and the invasion of MNCs and their pre-conditioned requirements of multi-skilled, young and smart-in-every-sense workforce has rendered people like us — dim-skilled, not-so-young and smart-in-few-senses — wandering in smoke and dark. Moreover, the corona pandemic has forced the companies to junk out staff in bulk. We lit more cigarettes and wrestled over whether we could ourselves generate some employment. The more smoke filled the room, the more we discussed and got confused. When cigarettes went out of stock, bidis (hand-rolled cigarettes of leaves) were ready to burn themselves for us like an enforcement battalion on the war front. But who can help the losers? Done up with frustration and hunger, I sought my friend’s leave for home. After borrowing another packet of Gold Flake from Hashmat, I was turning into my street when a bicycle almost rode over me. The rider apologised and quipped, “Hope I haven’t hurt you much, Khalid.” “Oh, it’s you, master saab (teacher). Hope your school is doing fine.” I picked out a cigarette and looked forward to a conversation with master saab who was both a smooth-talker and a compulsive philosopher. “Did you find a job?” he asked. “Can you help me find one?” “Sure” “Alright, tell me.” This time, my eyes lit up too. “Quit smoking” “You were going to suggest a job. You are back to your sermonising business.” “Quit smoking is a job, believe me. It can serve many of your necessities.” “How come?” “How many cigarettes do you smoke everyday?” “Around 30-35” “Ok. And if I am not mistaken, a cigarette like your brand costs a minimum of 10 rupees. It means you smoke away Rs 300-350 daily, which amounts to Rs 9,000-12,000 per month. Doesn’t it seem like a part-time job income that can at least bear the school fees of two of your children?” Master Saab made his point and took his way. I could merely give him a dumb-founded gaze with cigarette in my hand burning untouched. I remained standstill until I heard my son screaming, “Papa, look at my new T-shirt.” Alighting from his school van, my son hurried towards me with a T-shirt, carrying some anti-smoking slogan. “Some of my teacher’s friends came and gave us these T-shirts. They also told us that people who smoke die of cancer.” My son’s face wore a worried innocence. I took his hand and slowly stepped towards my home. I didn’t tell him that I had thrown away the packet of death sticks behind.