A Matter of Perception

A Matter of Perception

The intercom buzzed. It was a call from the tower guard.

“Sir, Mr Mohan Kumar is here to see you.”

“Mohan Kumar? Do I know any Mohan Kumar? Give him the phone, let me talk to him.”

“Uncle, I am Mohan, Raman Kumar’s son. You used to call me Micky. Do you remember?”

“Oh, Micky? Yes, yes, I do remember you. Well, come up. I am on the sixteenth floor.”

Mohan Kumar was the son of my late cousin, Raman Kumar. Till about thirty years ago, all of us, brothers and cousins had lived in a joint family, but then all of us went out to different parts of the country in pursuit of a career. Raman went to Lucknow where he set up a stationery shop. He married a local girl, and soon they had a son. The shop did not do well; in fact, Raman was not made to run a business successfully. He was too simple and both his customers and suppliers took advantage of him. Soon, he was forced to close the shop and take up a low-paid job with one of his former suppliers. It was at this stage that he visited us with his family, and spent about two weeks with us. His son, Mohan Kumar was about eight years old then and was lovingly called Micky by everyone in the family. We never met after that time, but through occasional letters from him, I knew that Raman was financially hard up. His son Mohan also could not continue his schooling after the eighth standard. A few years later, Raman expired after a brief illness. His wife could not survive long thereafter, the grief of losing her husband and the financial hardship proving too much for her to cope with.

All this I knew, but nothing beyond that. I had not seen Micky in the last thirty years and as I sat waiting for him I re-lived the happy days we had when all of us, brothers and cousins, lived together. At the same time, I wondered what had suddenly made him remember me; my long years in the corporate world had made me a little cynical and I suspected a motive even in the simplest gestures.

Soon, Micky was with me. He touched my feet, and said,

“Uncle, I don’t think you would have recognised me unless I told you who I was.”

“Yes, that is right. I had seen you when you were just a child. How old are you now?”

“I am thirty- eight, though I know I look older than that.”

I couldn’t agree more. He was not yet forty but his hair had already gone grey and there were fine lines around his eyes. Perhaps, a by-product of financial hardship and struggle for a livelihood, I thought.

“Never mind. Tell me what brings you to Delhi. What are you doing for a living? Have you got married?”

Over a cup of tea, Mohan told me all that he had been through so far. He was only sixteen when his father expired. The mother also left soon after that succumbing to financial hardship and the grief of losing her husband. During his mother’s illness, he was forced to do all household chores, including cooking and thus he had become a good cook. He got employment as a helper in a local restaurant but left it because of overwork and ill-treatment by the owner. After that, he drifted from job to job until one of his friends suggested that he should try his luck at Delhi, where there were options galore. He had thus come to Delhi with a reference to an elderly widow who had herself migrated from Lucknow about a decade ago. She was now well established in Delhi and was living with her unmarried daughter. She had built up a number of rooms which she rented out to migrant workers from Uttar Pradesh. Mohan was staying in one of such rooms. She wielded good influence with the local police and Municipal officials and was known as Madam not only by her tenants but also by other residents in the locality.

“Well, I am sorry to hear all that you have gone through. But what do you plan to do now that you are here?”

“Madam has suggested that I should set up a tea and snacks stall near the Kashmiri Gate metro station. I am an expert in making tea and samosas and there is a good demand for these in the morning rush hours when people come to board the metro trains for their office. During lunchtime also there would be a good sale. Madam says it will need an initial investment of ten thousand rupees, but that it will be recovered within no time, and after that whatever I earn will be a net saving. I plan to open a restaurant of my own ultimately, and Madam has assured me that she would help me in setting it up.”

I was amused at his naiveté, but why, I thought, should I discourage him?

“That is a good plan. But do you have ten thousand rupees to invest?”

He kept quiet for some time. Then he looked up at me and said,

“Uncle, can you lend me this amount? I will surely be able to return it in six months’ time."

He paused for a few seconds, and then continued,

“Uncle, I keep having a dream where a saint blesses me and tells me that my time has come and that whatever I start now will bring me happiness.”

I was amused at his simple faith, but still, I decided to help him, even though I knew that he would not be able to return the amount.

“Well, I will give you the money, but invest it wisely. And don’t be in a hurry to return it. I will be more than happy if it helps you to settle down.”

I gave him the ten thousand rupees; he thanked me profusely and took his leave. He gave me his mobile number and promised to keep me informed of the progress of his project.

A month passed and then two months but there was no news from him. I did not even know whether he had set up his tea stall or not. I once tried the number that he had given me but the computerized voice told me that the number was no longer functional. My anxiety was not about the money that I had lent him; I had never expected it back. My only anxiety was that the boy should settle down, having drifted all these years from one failure to another.

It so happened that a year later I had a meeting with a client in an area close to Kashmiri Gate. I then remembered that Mohan had a plan to set up his stall opposite the Kashmiri gate metro station, so I decided that after the meeting I would take a chance and see his stall if at all he had set it up. My meeting was over by 4 o’clock and I drove to the metro station. I was pleasantly surprised to see a café with a sign proclaiming “Mohan’s Café; tea, coffee, snacks”. So after all he had achieved his ambition of setting up a restaurant! I decided to enter the café and congratulate him.

I expected Mohan to be sitting at the cash counter, but he was not to be seen there. Instead, a formidable-looking matron was occupying the counter and keeping an eye on the customers and waiters. I walked up to her and asked,

“Where can I meet Mr Mohan, the owner?”

She looked up, a little surprised at my query.

“I am Mrs Mohan. Tell me what I can do for you.”

I was surprised. Could it be that Mohan had married this lady? Or was it the cafe of a different Mohan?

“There was a Mohan who had migrated from Lucknow, and was planning to set up a tea stall here. I am his relative and wished to meet him. But if I have come to a wrong place, do forgive me.”

“No, no, you have not come to a wrong place. Please take a seat and have a cup of tea. Mohan Ji will soon meet you.”

Obediently, I took a seat and a waiter kept a cup of tea before me. Shortly, a man with a cook’s apron emerged at the door connecting the dining area to the kitchen, and as I caught his eyes I recognised him to be Mohan. He did a hurried Namaste and disappeared into the kitchen. Presently, the waiter who had served me tea came to collect the empty cup and whispered to me that Mohan would come to my house on the following Monday, which in Delhi is an off day. I finished my tea and left the café.

I was terribly sad at the shape the events had taken. It was clear to me that the Madam had manoeuvred to get her unattractive daughter married to the simple and naïve Mohan who was reduced to being a lowly cook while his wife called the shots. What a sad end to Mohan’s dreams and ambition of becoming the proud owner of a restaurant! Life apparently chooses some people to be forever doomed to drudgery, while some others, without any perceptible merits, enjoy all that life has to offer!

On Monday, Mohan turned up early, with a packet of snacks. After normal greetings, the first thing he said was that he was sorry he had not yet been able to return my ten thousand rupees.

“Oh Mohan, forget that. Just tell me how you ended up marrying Madam’s daughter.”

“Uncle, Madam kept telling me that I needed to marry and settle down. She told me that if I married her daughter she would set up a restaurant for us which we could run, and she would return to Lucknow to spend her remaining years there. I saw the point in what she was saying. And that is how it all happened.”

“Well, I feel so sad for you. You deserved better. I see that you are just a cook in the restaurant you are supposed to be owning. But anyway, there are some things which are not in one’s hand, and one has to live with what fate dishes out.”

Mohan seemed genuinely surprised at my words.

“Uncle, why are you sad? I tell you I am very happy. I am doing work which I like and which I have done most of my life. Moreover, the wife takes care of running the café; she deals with the corporation guys and the police. She also handles finance. I don’t have to worry about anything. What more can anyone want?”

Mohan left soon after that, but I kept thinking about his words for a long time. I had been so worried and sad about him, but here he was, supremely content and happy with his life. I looked at my own life; I was still working full time at the age of seventy and was often beset with worries about my Income tax and the dwindling bank balance. Mohan’s words, “I don’t have to worry about anything. What more can anyone want?” suddenly made a lot of sense. I realized then that happiness was nothing more than a matter of perception.