An Uplift
Title: An Uplift
Author: Meera Venkatesan
“Life is a wheel. Every
spoke that goes up, has to come down, “ the all-knowing Swami Maharaj told me,
moving his steady palm up and then down. His smooth godly fingers brushed the
tears off my wet face. The swamiji indeed had great powers. How else could he
understand my state of mind with ease and advise me so correctly?
“Always remember that son. Your life too will have ups and
down, maybe a little more than others,” he had said, closing his deep brown
hypnotic eyes. The great swami had the capacity to view God’s books and predict
one’s future, the pamphlet at the bus stop had said.
“Son, I see your name in God’s list. Soon, very soon, he
will come by personally or through a messenger to eliminate your sadness. Keep
your eyes open,” the divine voice said with a divine smile. And with this, the great one had unlocked his
eyelids with a flash. As I sat sucked in by his power, he had splashed the holy
water on my face. His disciples slowly led me away to the donation box. Still
in a daze, I dropped the notes present in my torn wallet, into the donation box
and walked away. For the first time, since I could remember, an alien entity-
hope- filled me. You cannot imagine how accurate he was. He had so clearly seen
the ups and downs of my life.
"You see, Saab ascent and descent are the only constants
in my life. I have seen too many of them, maybe a few 100 every day. I work as a lift operator from 9 AM to 9PM, everyday,
no. I am late today and my supervisor will scold me for sure. However, I do not
mind. I am at peace today."
The man next to me, to whom, I was narrating this story
smiled, as we walked together into the lift. I do not know what it was about him,
which had made me talk so much. I am usually a very reticent person, given to
keeping to myself.
As I was hurrying
into the office building, he had asked me the directions to Block "A".
I smiled and told him that I was the lift operator there. I could take him. As we
had started walking to our common destination, he had enquired about my work
timings with a friendly smile. He smelled of fresh air, the air, I used to
breathe in my village. Maybe, this familiarity had led me to pour my heart out
about the incidents of today.
This, as I said, was strange. I am pushed together, with at
least 500 people every day. I stand so close to them, smelling their breath on
my neck, rarely looking into their eyes. Sometimes the sweet breath of love,
sometimes the bitter smell of anger or the sour breath of boredom reach my nostrils.
I always wonder and fantasise as to what had happened in their life moments before,
they entered into my space, which led to the constitution of their breath. I
make up my own stories about them. If I like the smell of the breath, I make up
a nice story, where good things happen to them. An unwelcome smell will get a
horror story. The only constant in the stories is that I am the hero. I am
always the hero who changes their lives, in ways they cannot imagine, who
brings hope into the hopeless lives, or teaches a lesson to the cunning ones. I
am the Shahrukh, Ranbir, or Salman in each of the movies of their life that
play in my mind. But, none of the people in the lift have ever sensed me. I
have not spoken to anyone either, beyond the cursory question on the floor
number. The multitudes of people enter and exit the lift, like the droplets of
water in a sudden rain, oblivious to the place or person on whom they have
poured.
"My greatest sadness is that, no one ever notices me. I
don’t exist at all, for the passengers of my lift," I heard myself echoing
the words loudly, almost as if carrying the train of thoughts to my mouth.
The man smiled again and nodded his head in the negative.
"No, No, Saab. Wait. I don’t mean that I don’t matter. I
do matter. The people in my lift will be angry if I am not there for a day, but
will not notice me when I am there. Most people often stare vacantly at a space,
at a point on the roof, where nothing exists, never at the existing human. Some
people make small talk with their friends, happy utterances of mundane
greetings. Nowadays most people simply continue to engage with their mobile, in
some virtual worlds, away from all the human beings cramped into the 4 feet by
4 feet space," I smiled at him. He slapped my shoulder and agreed. I
warmed up further.
"Have you ever been in a situation like that Saab,
where you as a person don’t matter? Much like the nuts and bolts that hold this
lift, together, essential, but inconsequential. It hurts badly. The loneliness
of being lost in a crowd. I cry every night waiting for a day when people will
at least look at me. In my home in the village, everyone, all the 500 people
knew me. When I walked on the street, everyone called me by my name and said
"Ram Ram." Here, I live with a million others and no one even knows
my name. Not even my roommates in the room where I stay. Everyone is so tired,
that they either escape into the world of sleep or that of drunken
stupor."
"I could not bear it any longer yesterday. My father had called and told me that my wife ran away with the barber. She had taken my
son with her. She said that she was no longer interested in doing service to an
old incapacitated lady, my mother. Saab, my mother is a very nice woman, but
completely bedridden. That is why I married so early, so that there is someone
at home to look after her," I told him remembering the pain of yesterday.
It did not sound so painful, now that I had told him. "I had searched
around me to share my sadness of the loss of my love and faith with someone,
anyone. No one was there to listen to me, no one interested to hear about the
heartache of a 24-year-old immigrant from the village, toiling in the city for
sustenance, whose life had come crashing down. I had married Asha 6 years ago,
but I had hardly stayed with her for 6 months Saab. I could not get leave more
than that."
The man had nodded in understanding.
"This was the reason, I went to the Swamiji. I saw the advertisement
about him. It said that the Swamiji is the father for the fatherless, the
friend for the friendless and I needed a friend. The swamiji stays very, very far
away, though. I had to take two buses from Majestic and I came very late to work
today. "
"So, you think that God's messenger will come to you
today, as the swamiji predicted?" the man asked in a voice clear as a
temple bell. I smiled sheepishly. My stomach growled in protest at this moment.
I had skipped breakfast and lunch today and hunger was catching up. The growl
snapped me out of my narration.
"Wait a minute Saab. Where do you want to go? We been
standing and talking in the lift for so long? Oh God, my supervisor will kill
me today! You could have alerted me," I told him a little reproachfully.
What did the man think, standing and chatting with me like that! I had work to
do.
“Relax. It is ok. You wanted someone to talk to; I had 10
minutes to kill, before I went to work. Take me to 25th floor,” the
mad said with a smile. I couldn't believe! I had actually forgotten that I was
in the lift. It must have been the shock of Asha leaving me. Thank god no one
noticed, otherwise the alarm would have gone off by now! Surprisingly, no one
had called the lift either. I put my hands together in a quick prayer.
“But 25th floor is closed from a long time, from forever.
The button is disabled in the lift.... ". I turned to the button panel and
the previously disabled 25th floor was enabled. Hunger was masking
my thinking. I rubbed my eyes and pressed 25 anyway. I turned to look at the man
in the lift and noticed him for the first time. He was in full black. There was
a look of absolute calm on his face, unlike most other people, who were always
waiting to get off the lift and get on with life. The one-minute or less of
empty time in their life seemed to be a burden on them. This man was relaxed, as if he had all the time in the
world. The lift stopped and the man stepped out. I rubbed my eyes again. My
eyes fell on the black bag in the corner where the Saab had left it. I called
out to him as he was turning around a corner. He stopped, smiled, and said,”
Keep it there. I will be back in a minute. Maybe I will come back with the
messenger,” he smiled and walked away.
I turned back and went down to the 10th floor where the lift
had been called. The bag had an odd smell; i noticed now, a smell of chemicals,
like cooking gas. What could it be?
The lift had stopped and eight people got in. They told me
their floor numbers and returned to their mobiles. I pressed the numbers on the
lift panel. For the first time in many years, I did not notice the people. My
mind refused to move away from the man who had spent 10 minutes in the lift
talking to me. I thought again of the man, his face, the clarity in his eyes.
My gaze moved to the bag again.
One of the passengers noticed my gaze and followed it to the
bag. "What is that?" she asked me. I replied that an unknown man had left
it there and got off on the 25th floor. “But 25th floor
is closed!” the madam exclaimed. Two others also started looking at me and then
at the bag. The madam’s floor level came and she got off. A tall police man who
worked as the security head on the fourth floor got in. I pressed his floor
number instinctively. The normal silence filled the small space.
Suddenly a phone rang inside the bag! It was a peculiar
ring, not like that of normal cell phones, ominous and chilling.
"Whose is that?" asked the tall man. I replied
that someone had left it
"Do you mean you don't know whose it is? Don't you know,
you should not allow unknown people to leave behind objects?" he demanded
"I know whose it is Saab. That man in the black coat
left it. He got off on the 25th floor. I even talked to him. He is not unknown,"
I replied curtly.
The security man bent down to pick it up and suddenly
straightened. "Wait a minute. 25th floor is closed and this bag
smells like chemicals. LPG. Stop the lift," he commanded. "Something
is wrong." I pressed the button for the next floor, my heart pounding.
What was this? What was happening?
"Why? What happened? What do you think it is? "Someone
whispered nervously.
The lift stopped, but the door did not open. I pressed the
door open button. Nothing happened. The door remained shut like jar of an airtight
coffin.
"Open the door, you fool. Open it right now, "the
madam behind me shouted.
"It is not opening..., "I whispered, my finger
still pressed on the door open switch. Someone pushed me away roughly,
screaming," Move you stupid fellow. "I leaned back against the wall.
The man hit the alarm button. Someone else started
banging the door. Another took out his mobile to call. "There is no signal,"
he lisped just as the ominous phone rang again.
"I think it is a bomb," the security stated, as if
he knew it. There was no question on his face, just a statement.
The lift was filled with the stench of fear, silence, and
gas. Everyone checked his or her cell phones. No signal, which was usual in the
lift anyway. Oh god! How was the phone ringing, when no other phone was
receiving the signal!
Everybody turned to me, one by one as if on cue. Around 10 pairs
of eyes were looking only at me,
noticing me, studying my face, my posture, my clothes, the beads of sweat on my
forehead, trying to understand my thoughts. For the first time in so many
years, everyone was looking at me. It was so ironical, I could have laughed.
I had cried in
longing for so long for this attention,
for this moment when my fellow human beings will see me as another human. In
all the stories I had built, around the people in the lift, there was a scene,
when i was the centre of attraction of all eyes. This was the final winning
scene, where I walked away with my heroine. My heroine was always my wife, Asha,
in every story, until today.
I had prayed every
day to turn my story into reality. Was this God's way of giving me my dream,
before my death? So was the strange man in the black coat, a messenger of God,
the one that swamiji had promised? Was all this happening on my request to God?
An inexplicable guilt filled my numbed heart. I was unable to control the guilt
moving to my face and broadcasting itself.
"Tell me, what is it? What is your game? Are you a
suicide bomber?" shouted someone.
I was trembling by now." I did not do anything, sir,
madam. I work here. I have worked here... last ten years. You see me every day.
I came for duty... just now. That man, black shirt left the bag on the 25th
floor. I told him to take it. He didn't." I started crying, the tears
mingling with the sweat to stream down my face. I could not understand my own
words. Had I just said them or were they played in my mind?
"He is
lying", the tall man whispered. I could feel the power of the curses in
their collective hearts crushing me, dooming me.
People banged on the lift door again, willing it to open. Some
started crying. I was completely paralysed.
I do not know how much time had passed. I had just dissolved
into my world till the sound of the cursed phone filled the air.
"Pick up the phone," someone shouted at me and
pushed me towards the bag. I moved forward, trapped in the miniscule chute in a
sea of humanity. "Don't," the tall man shouted." It is a bomb."
." Pick it up, you moron," the man shouted."
If we are to die, let us die fast, but you die first."
I unzipped the bag with trembling fingers. Every eye in the
elevator was on me. I picked up the phone carefully. It looked strange not like
the normal phones.
"It looks like a walkie- talkie," the security
whispered. I pressed the talk button, scrunching my ears for the explosion to
follow.
I heard a voice instead, a static filled voice.
"Hello, hello, you there, why aren't, you picking up
the phone? The lift has a serious problem and the lift door is jammed. Passengers
are stuck inside. Where are you, Huh?
".. In... Inside the lift Saab. The bag is inside the
lift. I am the lift operator." I managed to whisper
"You are the lift operator! Why is the bag inside the
lift?" said the surprised voice. "Aren't you the lift maintenance guy
who went to the 25th floor?"
"No sir. He left the bag in the lift and we are all
struck here. We can't get out," I said.
"Ok man. There is a serious problem with the door. We
may have to cut it open. The gas cutter is with the lift maintenance person, in
his bag. I do not know where he disappeared! All of you please be calm. We will
make sure you get out at the earliest. And the alarm is not working either"
I nodded my head, and breathed rather than mentioned my
agreement. I switched off the machine and closed my eyes. All eyes were still
on me.
I longed to become a chameleon and melt into the surroundings
again, the lift operator whom none knew. Was this God's way of showing me that
some dreams are best left as dreams? On the other hand, was it just another incidental
storm, a series of unrelated occurrences colliding on the same path to burgeon
into a cyclone? Was the man, God's messenger- of divine origin- or a lift maintenance
technician, of human origin?
Slowly, the people looked away from me, one by one. The
series of eyes in transit, on the way from one destination to another in life,
for whom, the wait in the transit was never worth the wait. They looked away in
guilt, not wanting to weigh their conscience with the burden of wrongly
suspecting a lift operator. The familiar, blessed silence of the lift returned
to reign. The people returned to their normal rituals such as staring vacantly
and looking at their mobiles.
I too returned to my position of hollow loneliness. Life
returned to normal.
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