A Martyr

I had penned down this story about six years ago.It was in black and white and now its in bits and bytes.

“Aaj k liye bas itna hi hain;ab kal ana”, this was the evening of the second day.
Next morning, even before the morn’s rays had touched the face of the earth, he was there. The bitterness of life had already made his bones so cold that even at chill of a December eraly morning temperatures, his body wouldn’t have responded.
As the sun woke up the old town of Gwalior, and as the day came out of the misty veil of fog and dust. The painful wait started again.Today was the last day of “bharti” (recruitment) in government job as class for employees, chowkidaars, and sweepers et al.

Hari baba,as known to his little village on the outskirts of Gwalior was also there.Fifty something, mellow eyed, needy yet patient villager, Hari had been coming to the recruitment venue, in Gwalior’s Cantonment area for the past 3 days in need of a job to last his few remaining days among mortals.
Today was the last day of “bharti” here, the vacancies will be now declared after six months. Hariya was sitting flaccidly under the amaltaas tree. The crowd around him was an amalgamation of people from all walks of life, such is the craze for a government job in this country.
A lady in her forties whose son had married her and kicked her out was gossiping fervently about her chances. A pregnant lady, whose husband had been paralyzed was looking wishfully at the kids playing around and there were also a couple of graduates whose parents couldn’t afford to get them fake degrees were also there among others for the pension able job.

Hari was there listening to the tittle-tattle of the crowd.“Money is only thing that works here”, he heard someone say. He was there but his mind had wandered afar. He had moved over disgust and dejection, his thoughts had moved the time when he first heard a similar statement and many times after that.
He had heard it when at a government hospital where his son, diagnosed with malaria was killed due to the organ racket. The boy’s both kidneys were stolen and sold. When he reported the murder of his newly wed daughter by her in laws because of you-know-what, the inspector at the police station laughed and said lets settle the matter under the table and forget it.
His memory wandered to his beloved wife,Lataji, her hardworking rough hands and how they held his when she was on her deathbed. He never did shed a tear on her body, because she had borne a lot and was at a better place.

But today he missed her.
His train of thoughts was broken by the loudspeakers booming out the fateful roll numbers. The day wore off, some prayers were answered some dreams were shattered.
He couldn’t care less now, he had seen it all and now such petty disappoints did not bother him, he sat throughout the exercise as lifeless as a stone.
As the crowd dispersed and night fell on the grounds, A peanut vendor, while packing his wares asked Hari ,out of sheer sympathy “Its over, now go home, Baba!”

That night a pyre was burnt on the cantonment grounds, an honor for only the martyrs of the battlefield. Hari Baba was cremated with such honors. A befitting ceremony for an ordinary life martyr.