my heroes

This is what I wrote based on an event that occured sometime around in Dec 2004.
I submitted this piece for the college magazine too but it never got published.
Thoughts expressed reflect my state of mind then. Narration is true.


“ With due respect to all you connoisseurs, Devdas is not my hero.
Nor is Tughlaq of Girish Karnad. No O Henry character either”. This was what i argued when it was his third story. My partner was on with his third narration of something that was of high literary value and was what i thought – pessimistic. I admit that i am not an expert of Sharat chanda,O henry or Karnad literature,so the above comment may look illiterate. 'I have very childish notions of a hero' , I say , so my hero may be Mithun in his typical movies,or may be like Hamid of Idgaah (by premchand - the story in class 8th syllabus) or may be like Morpheus in The Matrix.

What goes against this is that there is lot more real than what my child perspective can notice.Can we have heroes like this in real life? Reel or literature appeals if it can draw parallels with life apart from entertaining.

Much of this the literature movie thing.Let me come straightforward to it. I do believe and state that there exist real heroes.
I have seen and met them.

Location : A small station called 'Laar Road' ,where the train is waiting since we woke up. Because of some disruption ahead it is already delayed by some four or five hours.Amod and me, moving around on the platform, are having some mundane discussions.

Time: Mid December – damn chill morning.

I thought someone is indicating or perhaps calling me,but didn't care to find out. The next time I pass that very location,someone from inside asks me to look at that very thing. Its a human body , a human being , an old lady, shivering badly, so much so that she is unable to speak. Just trying to raise her head up and making some squeaky kind of sounds .She has one cloth on her body , that also not wrapped properly .Nearby she has her belongings – one or two utensils,some hay,a plastic bottle etc.She is in a viable-diable age and the cold knows this.But it seems she wants steal a little more life.

To be honest , I have had the habbit of escaping situations like these, attributing the escape to some sound reasons/logic or excuses.
I tend to get disturbed because I have had a very few such encounters.
And perhaps that is obvious.I have seen people who have faced 'lot of life' and are numb enough to have a nice night's sleep after this.The actual thing that makes me sick is not the truth before me but the dilemma within me.I have been installed with the lofty ideals of compassion,responsibity,courage....within me . All these stand together and condemn the child in me who needs security, comfort and a bed-of-roses-kind-of-life .This time ,owing to the equations and equilibrium of the two halves within ,I stop and decide to do something. “We should do something”, I say, though it means “Please tell me what to do”. This because my head cannot find logical ways to do it but it believes that there must be somehing that can be done.

Amod says “The question is not what should we do. The question is what can we do.?”

The question is genuine enough in itself. But the fact that this question arises is pathetic.We are getting perhaps the best education in the country, are physically and mentally sound and economically – not in a crisis at least ( if not too independent to spend our fathers' money). Still we cannot save a dying person if she is destined to. There are things beyond our control. We can feed her-OK, but we cannot take away her poverty .We could give her clothes ( though this would be highly awkward ) , may be she will survive the cold, but who will protect her from disease.Our powers are limited and this is real word .

We two, standing near her make other passers by curious. I see people people gathering while all this is going on in my head.I decide that I will keep standing. At least that will attract a crowd and may be someone will come up with an idea.This works.

Every onlooker has something to say. Everyone showing that the commentator is more manly than the previous one .More numb. Numb,number,numbest.

Two among the crowd – perhaps students - a bit elder than me are different – dynamic and courageous. It doesn't seem that they might have given as much thought to all this as i have done.Active enough, they get a matchstick from somewhere, gather the nearby hay, and iginite. In the meanwhile , I ,(thinking its time for me too to act) ,cover her limbs properly with her cloth .Everybody concludes now that she will feel better and at least not die .They (the two guys) offer her some tea, which she does not accept perhaps because she is still scared and confused. They share a laugh with the lighthearted comment - (translated as) “This happens only in India”.

These are my heroes. No warriors, not leaders, not celebrities either. They are common people with uncommon attitude. They inspire us. They give us hope. This is all I (if not we) need .Give me a hero who gives me hope. Give me hope .