Noor Ali: The Touchy Guest

 

Baramulla bus stand used to be a noisy and crowded place. The din of buses backing in and pulling out, the whine of engines and the hustle of people loping around to board the buses, made it a cacophonous place. It was getting dark as I walked home from the college. The roadside vendors had set up their stalls which were illuminated dimly by smoky kerosene tapers. A visually challenged person was lingering near the bus stand. He was well dressed and his hair was parted neatly. He tapped the gravelly ground with his slender white cane. Concerned for his safety, I approached the gentleman.

 

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I am visiting Baramulla,” he replied confidently.

Having broken the ice, I introduced myself.

“Call me Noor. Noor Ali,” he responded.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

“No place really,” he shrugged.

“You can stay at my house.”

“Good people all around. I can feel it,” he commented.

“I am from Ajmer and am visiting Baramulla, but have no particular purpose in mind. I can go back whenever I choose,” Noor Ali added.

I assured him that he could stay as long as he liked.

 

Rattan and Shiv Ram were not amused as I introduced the guest and announced he was staying over, at least until the next day. However, Shiv Ram, aware that serving a handicapped person was meritorious for the soul, soon set about making arrangements. The drawing room was converted into a guest bedroom. The heavy chairs were moved well away from the divan. An extra pillow, a blanket and glass of cold water, appeared, as if by magic. Shiv Ram served a sumptuous dinner. We talked about Moin­ud-din Chisti, the Sufi saint of Ajmer, and his message of coexistence and social service.

 

“Paanch Hazaar Kilo Kheer Pakti Hai (Five thousand kilograms of porridge are cooked at one time),” Noor Ali spoke proudly about the cauldron at the shrine. The cauldron at our local Jambab Sahib’s shrine seemed small by comparison.

 

The next morning, after a bath, Noor Ali yelled from the bathroom, “Mirror, Mirror!” A bit surprised at his request, I located one and handed it to him. The fragrance of body powder, sprinkled profusely over his chest, wafted across the bathroom door which was slightly ajar. Holding the mirror in his hand, Noor Ali knitted his eyebrows and gazed intently into it. He then combed his hair with deliberation and care. His eyelids separated slightly as he raked the comb over his thinning mane. Expecting to receive the mirror back, I waited by the bathroom.

 

Sensing that I was standing close by, Noor Ali became very annoyed. He tossed the mirror towards me.

 

“Why are you waiting here? Why? Why?” he shouted.

 

“No. No. I am not helpless,” Noor Ali exclaimed.

 

He grabbed wildly at his cane, hurried out of the room, down the verandah steps and sallied agitatedly on to the road. A cyclist who was riding by had to turn abruptly to avoid colliding with him, but landed in a hedge; a writhing and scratched-up angry young man. Some very caustic words about blind people sailed through the air.

 

I watched from the verandah in dismay, but was somewhat amused by the hilarity of the situation. Shiv Ram was sorely disappointed. The children were baffled by the outburst.

 

“Handicapped people do not want to be seen as helpless. We should help without hurting their self-esteem,” I tried to explain.

 

We had coddled Noor Ali and attended to his every whim. That might have offended him. Unobtrusive help, apparently, was not our strong point.