The fables of the one legged rider - Rich or poor

It's 2:00 p.m. The sun is blazing in full glory, hell bent on burning right through the small clutter of clouds, which were trying to shield the people, for just a little while. Soon the sun got the better of them, and battered, tired men, sweating profusely in the heat, started to head back for their homes.

It's a small corner of an important business street, in a small industrial town, where hoards of men and women come every morning, with a sens of purpose, looking up to the day's business. Today was no different. In the midst of the numerous shops, big ones, grand ones, some small ones, and some so small, the owners fight a war every morning just to get in them, were these men, winding the first shifts to their work, hoping for some respite from the heat. A tall, bald man, walks out of an exclusive showroom, more than just grand, recently opened with the paint still fresh, the first of its kind in the city. As he moves out, a BMW X3, probably the only one in the city comes and stops right in front him. The rich man, wearing a blue linen shirt and branded cotton trousers, black, sits in, and the mean machine wheels off.

Our dear rider has just been dropped off at the corner by his fat friend on a Bajaj Chetak. As his friend, rattles off on his not so mean machine, he looks around, at the aghast faces of men around him. The monsoon is late this year, and the water is dripping from the men's faces instead, though how much of it is courtesy the sun or the worries, resulting from bad business in the present times. To make matters worse, a little fellow called AILA, has just paid the neighbourhood a visit recently, and is responsible for all the battered poles, for Shahrukhan's face rotting in the mud (it was supposed to be up on a hoarding advertising some phone, though people don't seem to mind it's fate that much), for the fallen trees, and possibly for a few of the sweat drops.

As he looks on, the BMW passes him, and he admires the exquisite looks. Just as it turns round the bend, a cycle-rikshaw puller comes around from the other end, wearing a torn vest, probably used by someone else and then gifted to him, and a chequered "dhoti", probably one of his few prized possessions. He is done waiting for travellers at the corner, and has now decided to call it a day and moves away from the stand, riding his life support – the rickshaw. He is off to his small shanty, at the other end of the street, that is if it is still standing, after the meeting the little fellow called AILA (if you haven't realised yet, this little fellow is a cyclone that just hit some parts of our country).

Its 2:05, and the shutters on all our shops are down, and the corner suddenly seems deserted to the rider. Most of the corner that is, except that little section, where lies the only veg. restaurant-cum-dhaba-cum-sweets-corner-cum-ice cream corner-cum a lot more on the street. There is only one word that explains this place, "adda".

The rider walks in, looking for his usual table, which has become part of the semblance of reality that he has created for himself in these places, far off from his home. There are three men sitting on the table, with one space vacant for him. For those of you who do not understand, in these kinds of places, one never occupies the entire table, but just one seat, so that a complete stranger may well, and often does, sit beside you at lunch. Believe it or not, many friendships start at such tables, and last a lifetime.

On first look, the table looks like a set of misfits in this place. The first man sitting on the table is an executive from one of the leading banks in the country, or so the card attached to his imported belt says. The second man is wearing an orange collared shirt. The collar is open, probably strategically, to show off a heavy gold chain, thick enough for a dog's collar. Right across him is a man dressed in formals, and by the manner he always agrees to what the fat orange shirt says, the rider guesses that he must be the assistant. The fourth on the table is our rider.

Activity is at its peak, with more people than the place can take, looking expectedly towards the kitchen, hoping to see their order come out. The four men, alas, are still waiting for their turn to place their orders, let alone have them served. Looking at their glasses of cold water, a respite that has helped them relax, all four men are lost in their thoughts.

The power goes out. It is a completely regular feature ever since the advent of that very little fellow we talked about and the people are so used to it by now, that almost nobody reacts.
That is, except the orange shirt. Looking at the fan, as though it might just start running, scared of the look from him, he remarks ,"kya bekkar jagah hai, generator bhi nahi hai".

That is just a start, to his unending brickbats. They must be a regular feature, because the assitant mutely agrees, without offering any explanations or remarks. The other two men, are not that aware, and thus explain to him, that since some electrical work is on, the generator can't be switched on.

Then ensues an unending list of problems with this place. Most of the good dishes are not available, the menu is too small, there is no attention to "customer service” and so on and on and on and on. By now, the other two have also realized the story, and are silent, looking forward to the food they have just ordered. The orange shirt hasn't though, because he is still busy commenting. The rider wonders why the orange shirt didn't go to a five-star if he wanted so much of customer service, and if he is here, why can he let everybody eat in peace.

Amongst these thoughts, the rider sees the old waiter at the place, the one he has come to recognize too, bringing his order, the rider smiles. The orange shirt suddenly starts shouting an order at the old waiter, and manages to offend quite a few people on his way. Once the old man brings the order, he shouts again, and sends half of it back, because he is not in the mood for it anymore, and orders something else, about which he complains later, that he was not told by the old man that half a dish can also be ordered at this place, though it would only have taken the reading skills of a second grader to read the same on the board right in front of him, but then, may be that was too lowly for him, and may be the assistant should have done it, the lesser - mortal who only knows how to agree, and it is his fault after all. To his credit, the old man shows the orange shirt the board, which does seem to amuse the rider and the banker, though the assistant refuses to look up.

When the old man, finally moves away with the empty plates of the four men, the orange shirt comments " kya fakeer aadmi rakhe hue hain?", loud enough for the old man to hear. At this, the rider has had enough, gives him a look which couldn't mean much else than anger, and would have been easy to decipher even for the extremely dumb orange shirt.

He then walks too the old man, hands him is bill, holds him and tells him, " Dada, aap gareeb sahi, par fakeer wo hai, Dil ka fakeer".
With a smile from the old man, the rider rides back on to the road, questioning, which ones of us are really rich, and which ones really poor?