“Yes,” I said. “Your sir is good?” “How is that?” “Your sir, sir—the man who gives you orders—is he a good sir?” I found his remarks amusing, but I found them impertinent as well. Who was he to speak to me in this way? Still, I was in a good mood. I did not lose my temper. I ignored—I simply ignored his remarks. He rubbed the shoe with his brush, rubbed it vigorously. As he rubbed, he began to hum a tune. It was a slow tune, one I did not recognize. Most poor boys sing the tunes—often crass and vulgar—from the latest film songs. But this was a different tune. Perhaps it was from some hymn; or perhaps from some folk song. “Do you like the tune, sir?” “How is that?” “It is an old tune, sir, my mother taught it to me. She would go to the room inside (it is the only room we had). She would sit there, she would sing.” “Sing?” “It was raining outside. She would sit there huddled all night. She would sit there damp and wet. And she would sing.” What strange words he spoke. He was sharing the words—why was he sharing them with me? “My mother, sir, she was a good woman. She is dead now—they put her on a string cot, they took her to the Jumna River. When they took her, people were singing the tune. I had nothing better to do (it is true sir, ha ha)—I had nothing better to do. I went along, I sang the tune as well.” They were strange words. They were odd, they were disjointed. Were they mocking words as well? He was telling me about his mother—why was he doing it? “You work in the office, sir. Do they have water there, do they have soap? Do they have water and soap to keep you clean?” “Water? Soap?” “My mother died. There was so much pain (and so much dirt). They looked for water, sir, they looked for water to make her clean. “The old women came, they came to clean her. But they did not have water, they sent them away. “A man came to the house, a stranger. He had soap in his left hand (it was red in color), he had a bucket in his right. They were happy to see him. ‘Come, come,’ they said, and they pressed their backs to the wall to let him pass. ‘Come, come,’ they said, ‘a nice man is here. He is here at last.’” In this way he spoke—he continued to speak. I had stopped for a shoe polish—a simple shoe polish—and these were the words that awaited me. I was in a good mood; I did not want my mood to be spoiled. I knew that I was being vain, that I was being selfish. But this was my one day of freedom. And who was he to spoil the freedom? 44 theMeadow
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