The Drummer

Every morning On the railway bridge, The marching of many footsteps Would be accompanied By the beating of his drum. Bim-Bom, Bim-Bom, Bim-Bim, Bom-Bom, Would reverberate against The measured strides of government officers, The dejected pace of separated lovers, The fatigued walk of old homemakers, The hurried pace of capped dabbawalas, And the restless run of teenaged college goers. The drummer, He was my favourite beggar. I passed him everyday With the surging crowd On my way to work, And gave generously to him, As he never seemed to ask. When I spoke about him at a party, My friends laughed at my naivete. One of them, the dapper marketing man, Narrated the story of a crippled beggar Found dead with thousands of rupees Tucked in his waistband. He sipped his malt and grinned, “Madam, may I be your beggar?” Another friend, the tough foreign banker, Looked at me over her red wine glass. “Put that money in a mutual fund And teach him to fish,” she said. So I stopped speaking about him, And continued to put a hundred buck note In the top pocket of his clean shirt, Every day that I walked past. I could well afford it And liked him, Liked this old man, Who sat on his haunches, A big drum between his knees, His dhoti gathered in neat folds, No begging bowl in sight, Just beating a rhythm and varying it, As a greeting to a world he could not see, For his eyes seemed to have been gouged out. Then one day, the drummer wasn’t there. I was sure he’d be back. The next day, he wasn’t there too. And the day after. I missed him. How was I to find him? Months have passed, But his drum beats haven't been heard. Now I am saving that useless amount In a mutual fund as advised. But something, some ineffable essence, Is missing from my mornings as I walk to work. I had liked him, My drummer, As I like the rocky beach near my Bandra home, As I like the Sea Link on my drive past Reclamation, As I like the fluttering pigeons when I go to Chowpatty.