Sarathi

What, would you say, creates a good man? It is one of those questions that nobody really has an answer to but everyone loves to make an attempt at answering. I don’t know, of course. I don’t think the question really interests me much, either - making my own attempt at answering, I’d say it takes nothing. Every man is born good. The true question, in my opinion, is this: What preserves the goodness in a man as he goes through life? In a life that is designed to make one regret having done the good thing, in a world that is built by selfish hands and scheming minds, can one hope of meeting true goodness? I suppose not - at least, I had believed as much; to an extent that each time I did encounter a true, good-hearted gesture, an authentic noble deed, I chalked it up to the doer’s foolishness, naivety or innocence.

You might call me a cynic, and I might call myself a realist. Indeed, ‘realist’ might well be a term cynics invented to wiggle out of a tight spot. This argument, of course, has no end. Every once in a while though, one comes across people who change one’s perspective without uttering a single word in the way of argument. Their biggest argument is their own way of being.

I first met Sarathi on the day that I moved into Maple Apts. I’d been to the place a couple of times before, when I had checked it out to see if it was to my liking. My set of likings was not a very large one - the standards of what constitutes a good lodging are not very high for a bachelor in his early twenties. Add to that, the fact that a close friend had already taken up lodgings in the floor above and what you have is a deal that has been sealed even before the talks began. My visits to the flat were almost a formality - just so that the owner doesn’t take me for a fool. Anyway, after a visit or two to the flat and a quick discussion about the rent and other terms with the owner, I was all set to move in.

I arrived in a small carriage vehicle that carried my belongings. As I got off, a thin, dark man walked up to me. He was probably in his forties, with a moustache and cheekbones made more prominent by his hollow cheeks, wearing a shabby security guard’s uniform with his blue shirt untucked and his sleeves rolled up.

“Sar, keys sar” He held out a bony hand, riddled in a web of veins. In his palm, was the key to my flat. Having finished my degree just about a year back, I was still not used to being referred to as ‘sir’, or in this case, ‘sar’ and I felt a little embarrassed.

“Thank you”, I said, and took the keys. I did wonder, if just for a little while, how he knew what flat I was moving into. He was just the watchman, after all.

A few months into my stay at Maple, I understood the importance that this man held in the apartments and why it was no surprise that he was expecting me the day I arrived. The watchman, he was - and he took the job quite seriously. I had never met any watchman more watchful than Sarathi, but that was not all. He was the ‘sarathi’ of the place in its true sense. Not only did he know all the residents who lived there, he knew also, the maids, the plumbers, the electricians and any other living being that had had the chance to walk through his gates more than once. Being the security guard of the apartments was only one small part of what he did. The best way to describe his job is that he was the go-to-guy for anything pertaining to the apartments. He was the building manager, the parking supervisor, the mail manager, the local yellow pages for finding help, and when he found some time from all of this, he was also the ever-available help around the house himself. Indeed, several times during my stay already, I had seen him walk out of the neighbours’ houses with his sleeves rolled up, forehead dotted with sweat and hands covered in dirt, oil, grease, paint or whatever else that was the refuse of his current assignment.

The amount of dependence people in the apartments had on him was unusual, but it was not unheard of. Often, in such situations, a man is all that he can be. If one doesn’t limit oneself to his job, one can open up other avenues of income as well, and at the amount of money that Sarathi would probably be making as a guard, other avenues of income were definitely welcome.

I was aware of this and yet, I found this wiry watchman infinitely fascinating. As averse as I am to treating people without respect because of their occupation, often, an occupation invariably turns out to be a pretty good estimate of one’s personality and respectability in general. Hence, even if I would always be the first one to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone, I would also be the first one to point out that it is, after all, only a doubt. Indeed, I had met several people in my life before, whom I trusted, not out of instinct, but out of this principle, and was met with nothing but dishonesty, greediness or pettiness in return. The point of the matter is, even though I would not like to concede that a security guard is a relatively measly job, I would have to admit that when I look for peers, I would not turn to my building’s watchman; as wouldn’t most of us.

This was precisely why I found Sarathi amusing. He came across as a peer. He was humble, of course. His humility was actually much more than what I’d demand out of someone. Some people use humility as a tool to generate respect out of people without having to directly demand it. Their humility then becomes just a deceitful way of demanding respect. Usually, when I come across humility where I did not expect it, I tend to check it for this doubt (yes, I’m a cyni.. er, realist). Sarathi’s humility, on the other hand, though definitely was uncalled for, rang puzzlingly true through and through. It confounded me. He needed to behave like a subordinate because he was expected to, but he needed to do it only when it was necessary. However, his humility was not a skill acquired for one’s job, it was part of his personality. It was not that of a subordinate - it was that of a cultured man.

A cultured man, he was. As a child, on Sundays, I would often wake up late in the morning and stumble out in the living room, groggy and lazy, to find my father seated in his chair next to the window, wearing his reading glasses, immersed deep in his newspaper. At Maple, every morning when I walked out to my bike to go to work, I’d pass Sarathi as he’d sit in his chair, with one leg swung over the other casually, reading his newspaper with his reading glasses on. As I passed him, he’d look up with a smile and wish me a good morning. On occasions when he had some matter to discuss, he’d spring out of his chair and stand up to talk to me. When I had seen him sitting like that with his newspaper and his reading glasses, I just could not talk to him as if he was any lesser a man than me. The fact that he’d call me ‘sar’ and treat me with respect made me cringe even more.

I often wondered what security company did Sarathi belong to. All the apartments nowadays have security guards that are supplied by independent companies on contract. These guards work in shifts and in cycles. Every few months, one would find that the shifts or the guards themselves have been switched out for another. I feared what would happen if Sarathi was switched out of Maple. So many things depended on him. The apartment association head too, would take his help to keep her matters in order. He would be the source to report problems and progress on problems that were being solved. Not only was he efficient in keeping track of these things, he was also honest - a luxury that one comes to value almost as much as one’s own life in today’s world.

One night, I returned quite late from work and I saw that the night duty guard had been switched. I felt a small pang because I had seen the night guard around as long as I had seen Sarathi. If the cycle of switching was up for the night guard, it surely had to have been up for Sarathi too. The next morning though, as I walked to my bike and saw the same wiry, dark figure sitting in his chair as he read his morning newspaper intently, I realized that Sarathi didn’t belong to a company - he belonged to Maple like the shade belongs to the tree.

After my first few weeks of stay, I gathered that Sarathi also washed the vehicles of the residents. That was expected because in most small apartments, the day watchman usually also washes the cars and bikes of the residents for a 100 or 200 rupees per vehicle. I was mildly surprised though, because Sarathi hadn’t approached me for so many days, offering to wash my bike. This surprise was misplaced and I realized it over my stay when, at every festival, I’d have the maid, cook and other workers around the apartments knock on my door, fishing for ‘bakshish’, and Sarathi would always be conspicuously missing in this barrage. Money to him, it seemed to me, was not an objective, but merely a consequence of actions.

Finally, I asked him to start washing my bike as well. Of course, I didn’t have to point out which one was mine - all that passed was that one sentence between us and from that moment on, for the entire span of over two years that I lived there, my bike used to be washed in the morning. I never had to tell him what time I leave in the morning so that he could wash it before that. He already knew and had worked that into his schedule.

Over the days, I slowly got used to the answer, “take Sarathi’s help”, for whatever I would ask of my landlady - where do I go to pay the electricity bills (I didn’t want to set up an online payment system because I still was not sure how long I’d stay in this apartment)? Where do I find a plumber? When will the next maintenance charge be due? How do I find a cook? After a few questions, I stopped asking them - I would just go ask Sarathi and he’d have an answer. The trust he inspired in the residents can be understood by the fact that those people whose maids couldn’t find the time to come to their houses when they were at home, left the keys to their house with Sarathi. In the beginning, I was not sure I was alright with this arrangement but as the days passed, I began to trust the system myself.

Sarathi maintained a notebook which he would use to record any and everything that needed recording for him to be able to manage the place best. It had pages filled with the phone numbers of plumbers, electricians, milkmen etc. It had a few pages that tabulated that quarter’s maintenance payments. Another section was dedicated to the notices that the association head wanted to circulate and which he would take to each door and get a signature upon. If the text of the notice was not enough to explain the situation, Sarathi would provide more information.

When Sarathi was not to be found at his chair, the notebook and his reading glasses placed on top of it was the sign of his presence - that he was just a shout away.

I would frequently have late nights at work and would return after Sarathi’s shift was over. The difference I would feel in returning to the apartments when Sarathi was not around would be evident in the air. The building seemed like a child sitting still, afraid that any movement might get it into trouble, waiting until its father came back to take care of it again. With him at his chair, ever watchful, always humble and helpful, coming back felt like coming home. Often, he would be standing at the gate, and he would spot a resident coming from quite a few metres away on the tiny lane. He would immediately spring the gate open and hold it until the resident drove or rode in. One would simply have to smile no matter what state of mind one returned home in - because Sarathi would be standing there, with the happy grin of a friend who had been expecting your visit.

Apart from the fact that normally, security guards in the city tended to be aloof and indifferent to residents because the paycheck didn’t come from them, in contrast with Sarathi, the night watchmen seemed even worse. The new watchman who had been appointed would always be dozing, even as early as 9 pm, and when he was awake, would always be on the lookout for an opportunity to ask for 10 or 20 rupees for ‘chai’. The fact that his ‘chai’ came in the form of tobacco leaves rolled in a piece of paper made his shameless begging worse. However, no matter how these people would be, I would often see Sarathi talking to them with the same calm, respectful and humble disposition that he would have when talking to me or other residents. Although they spoke in Tamil or Kannada (depending on the night watchman’s language of comfort), I could almost make out that Sarathi would be giving diligent instructions to the watchman about particulars that he might need to be alert for during the night - like a parent talking to a babysitter.

One night, when I returned late, expecting the cold reception of a closed gate that I would have to get off my bike to open and then come back to close after I’d parked, I was pleasantly surprised to find it being held open by a smiling Sarathi.

“Night shift?” I asked. It was surprising - night shift had always been the job of the rotating watchmen.

“No sar. Night watchman not come, sar.” He answered with a smile.

A smile. He had been on duty all day and instead of walking away to go to his family at night, he had waited for the night watchman, and upon finding out that the watchman probably wasn’t going to come, he had stayed back to fill in for him lest his building got left without a guardian - and he was smiling.

Over the next few weeks, I often saw Sarathi at night. The new night watchman, apparently, was taking complete advantage of the niceties that his day-time counterpart could not help but extend out of nature. Selfishly, I used this opportunity to try and resolve an issue I’d been facing. Whenever I’d return later than usual, I’d often find a bike parked in my spot that I’d have to drag around to be able to park my own. I couldn’t do anything about it because I needed Sarathi to see the bike so he could identify whose it was and then talk to that resident. Since he was often around at night now, one night, I pointed the bike out to him. Just like that, the bike never bothered me again.

On the first extra night duty, I was concerned who would be around by day. Sarathi, of course, had solved the problem in the only way he knew - by doing the right thing, even if at his own expense. After a whole day’s shift and the extra night’s shift, the next morning, as if nothing out of place had happened, I found Sarathi at his chair, his reading glasses on and his paper taut in front of his face. This never changed over the several extra shifts he had to do.

Sometimes, I wonder, what unknown forces hold us back even when we want to extend the warmth inside us to others. I had established for myself, beyond any doubt, that this man was a good man. I saw him every day and he helped me with my life in numerous, indispensable ways. In a manner of speaking, he ran a part of my life - making sure I got milk delivered, had a clean bike, paid my bills, knew when my maid was going to take leave and the most important of all - making sure I came back to a smiling face. Even though all these things were true and I was aware of them, the exchanges between us never went beyond a single exchange of sentences. My sentence would either be a question or an instruction and his, respectively, a solution or a nod of acceptance. Rarely, if ever, would the exchange extend to another sentence and never did it extend because I felt that I should be more human to him. I was always the master, always the instructor and always the resident. I always had chores for him to do, which was fair, because I would pay him for them. What was unfair was that on all the other occasions, when I could have still talked to him, asked him how he had been, if he had needed something, I just walked past him to my apartment and entered my own selfish world. For almost a year of my stay there, I didn’t even know that his name was Sarathi. I found that out when I heard someone else call him by that name. I was hit by two simultaneous realizations - that I hadn’t known his name was Sarathi and that I hadn’t bothered to find it out until I chanced upon it in this way. I was so ashamed that a couple of days later, even though I knew the answer, I asked him what his name was. He sheepishly told his name, and there wasn’t a trace of any negative feeling that would betray an emotion which demanded to know why I hadn’t bothered with it all these months.

A couple of times during my stay there, my parents came to stay with me for a week or two. On their first visit, Sarathi determined, merely out of observation, that out of all the people and houses they could be visiting, they were visiting our house and that they were my parents. It took him half a day. After that, my parents became eligible for exactly the same privileges that I was privy to, with the added respect that comes with age. On their subsequent visit, upon their arrival, Sarathi helped them with their luggage till my door.

It was these small things that he did - not his real duty or the chores he so happily ran for everyone in Maple for whatever sum of money they deemed was worth the effort and never asking for more - these small, good-natured, cultured, kind-hearted gestures of his that made all the difference between a cold building and a living home with a soul. During afternoons, when children would run around the building, playing or when a maid would come in with her child, Sarathi could be seen playing with the children, keeping them entertained. The parents also trusted him to make sure he would keep them safe. He would get a twinkle in his eyes when he played with the children - as if he had finally met those who would understand him.

My job made me travel often. Whenever I’d return home during the day when Sarathi was around, he’d greet me with a smile - a broader smile that said, welcome back home, I missed seeing you around during these days. Sometimes, I’d turn around to pay the cab driver and when I would turn back towards the gate, I’d see that my luggage was gone. It would already have been placed at my doorstep and Sarathi would be back in his chair, reading a magazine. He would not be sheepishly buried in it because he was shy - he just didn’t expect any gratitude for what he had just done. After all, what is a thank you between family members?

It has been a while now since I left Maple. I shifted into what people regard as a better, more up-scale, ‘gated community’ kind of place. There are several multi-storeyed blocks here and a whole army of security personnel who guard the entire campus. The security guards at my block change almost every fortnight. There are cold, impersonal notices which tell me whom to call if I have a problem with wiring or plumbing. These notices also remind me to pay maintenance charges. Each time I enter through the gate, I am greeted with a suspicious glance because the fact that I live here isn’t written on my face - it is stuck on my bike in the form of a sticker. Until the security guards spot this sticker, I am just another suspicious intruder. The campus here actually does have an official manager. I got into a row with this manager on the very day I moved in because he had forgotten about the email that had informed him about my arrival. Also, I had committed the crime of moving in on a Sunday which is his day off - he had just happened to be around but was in no mood to perform duties which he was not going to be paid for. Yes, my flat is better, bigger, airier. From the outside, I am better off. However, I am a stranger in my own apartment complex and each time I come back home, I have a routine where the guard checks my vehicle to make sure I belong there and I check my parking space to make sure nobody is encroaching upon it. Every encounter from the gate until I step into my home is filled with indifferent hostility and careful suspicion because, well, how can one give a warm welcome to a sticker?

A few days ago, I realized that I had forgotten to pay my electricity bill. Instead of going and paying it myself, I took this opportunity to go see Sarathi. I parked my bike outside the gate and walked in. I was a little apprehensive because good things are notoriously short-lived. I was almost sure that in Sarathi’s place, I’d find a stranger sitting there. That for whatever reason, Sarathi was not around anymore and that Maple had gone from being a warm home to another cold building. As I entered, though, I was pleasantly greeted by the sight of the same wiry, dark frame occupying the chair. Sarathi was sitting there, turned away, talking to someone. The moment he saw me, an expression of surprise and happiness bloomed on his face and he sprang up so quickly that he almost knocked his chair over.

“Hello Sarathi. How are you?”

“Hello sar!”

“Sarathi - I forgot to pay my bill. Will you..”

“Yes, yes sar.”

“Thank you.” I handed him the bill and added 30 rupees to the amount that was due, for Sarathi.

“So, how are you Sarathi?” I asked. I wanted to be human this time. I thought I owed it to him - but this question stumped him. He didn’t know what to say to this because he just never expected it. So I quickly added, “How’s the old place? I heard someone new has come to stay?”

“Yes sar. Family, sar.”

“Family huh. Good, good.” After a pause, I decided to take his leave. “Ok then, Sarathi!”

“Ok, Sar. Sar, come and collect receipt tomorrow sar!”

“Sure!”

I waved at him and walked away. I wonder if, subconsciously, I had deliberately forgotten to pay my bill this time. I am still fascinated as ever, by him. He is surely not naive, foolish or innocent. He is, simply, and quite impossibly, just a good man. I still don’t know how that goodness preserves itself in him, but I am grateful for every moment that it does survive.