Eyes of Hope...

Some say that the eyes are the windows to the soul…

Among that commotion of a plentiful diner, 2 days back, as some were asking for a second serving of garlic rice with mixed vegetables curry and paneer, others were relishing on their last glass of coke while opening up the wrapped chocolate.  As I walked around, asking them for feedback and if they wanted anything else, they all had this smile of a full tummy which announces a good digestion and a sound sleep in their shelter for the homeless.  Cousins and friends were preparing o empty the food basin to take them back into the caterer’s van and it would have been the usual come-serve-go routine of those weeks.

I have always been seen by many as too friendly or outgoing for I do not mind to speak to no one with a smile, no mater what his/her creed, race or colour.  In fact, back in those days, when I was still a chubby looking walking apple, I had the same approach in primary school, often intriguing teachers and friends, without mentioning the fact that parents will not miss that occasion to scold me so that I do not speak to strangers on the street, but it just never sank in that deep into me.

As I was finishing the round before packing up to go home, on the last table, I was called by one of the tenants.  He looked in his 60s wearing a sun-beaten brown polo shirt and a pair of trousers that obviously talked out the weight loss he incurred over God Knows how many months or years.  His whitish moustache with shy blackish streaks showing up was a typical Mauritian Indian one, which starts broad at he nose to thin up by the upper lip border.

As his voice could not pierce through that curtain of the end of diner conversation, I bent nearer to give him an ear.  He thanked me wit his low voice, as I noticed how his lips were shaking as he chewed out that thanks.  As usual, I would have given a smile and some warm motivational comments and go but two things hinted me that I should stay: His eyes being teary & his quick apology after having thanked me

Intrigued, I just dropped on the chair net to him and looked at him as he stopped.  As I thought that he could have felt intimidated, with that out-of-nowhere apology, I reached out my hand to introduce myself and patted him on the back with the other. He managed a smile and answered my hand shake while looking at my family on the other side of the room as if to ask for their permission before he gave me his name: Mr. Dan Huet (Fictious name).

So we started talking about how he found the food and what he wanted next time, for repetitive food can become boring, although most of the times, there are seldom regular faces that come up at diner time. Then Mr. Huet came back to his thanks:

–        Pa enkoler mo dir ou sa Missier

–        Kifer pou en koler M.Huet

–        Apel moi Dan. Oui, b ou trouver, ou ban indiens. Ek lanner la pres. Pa enkoler Missier

–        Mo pa enkoler Dan! dir moi ceki ou ena dan ou leker!

–        Oui, b lepok lanner la, dimune p pense fete laner. Couma zot pou fer zot ti fete ek zot fami et amis pou noel. Mais zordi, sa finn bien touche moi ki mo truv zot la. Komier dimoune pou ena, ki pou vin gett nou la veille lanner kumsa ? Sa mem missier, sa fine bien touche moi. Pa bisin ou enkoler.

–        Papa, pa apel moi Missier, mo kouma ou zenfan mem. Ki ou lage papa ? Ek oui, mo pou bien enkoler si ou dir moi pa fer coler mem la!  Mais nou bisin realiser ki nou na pa gette couleur lapo ou ki relgiion ki ou eter. Noune vinne la ek bon leker pou partage ou la peine ek ossi partage nou la joie. Nou tou mauriciens. Ki differnce ena entre ou ek moi papa ? Nou pa respire meme lair ? Nou pa mange par mem al bouche ? Nou pa pipi tata par mem fasson ? Difference la li dan lizier sa. Mais ou, dir moi kifer ou la papa ?

–        Mo garson, moi, mwena 74 bananers.  Mo sorti Surinam. Mo ti p reste la ba ek mo garson. Mais mo fien bisin aller. So frekentation pa ti bon. Combier fois mo fien dir li, jamais lip a ecouter.......a la fin, mone aller.  Zenfan quatre-bornes mem moi, mais mo fien all la ba apres maraige.

–        Ah bon papa. C’est bien. Mias kifien arive ou garson ? li ifne gagne movai maniere lalcool ou la drogue ?

As he took an apple on the table, he said:

–        Kan mo mett sa pom la devant ou, ek mo pa repone ou depi kot sa li sorti, ou pa pou gagne doute ? Missier, mo fine fer mo service dan la police, mo konner sa ban zaffer la. Mais mo pa envi ki 1 jour mo gagne trapepr pou kitsoz mo ap fine faire. Same m mo preferer kitt lakaz aller.  Depi fevrier mo la, ek mo piti ti vine cherche moi pou nou realler. Mo fine dir li non carrer carrer, tank ki li enkor frekente sa banela, mo pa pou retourne dan mo propre lakaz !!

Mais garson, zordi moi, kan mo fine truv zot tou la ki fine vini kumsa, ek ki moi mo creole ek ou indien ek lavey lanner, mo fien bien toucher endan moi. Mo fine truv 1 lespoir, 1 grand lespoir. Sa mem mo ti envi remercier zot

–        Papa, nou pa p fer sa pou gagne vote ou gagne lonner ou vinn populaire. Nou fer sa de nou propre leker ek na p dimann rien en retour. En mem temps, si ou ou ena kitsozp ou dir nou ,na pa hesiter ek nou va aider.....Mais la papa, mo bisin aller la, parens p atan moi

I looked over his shoulders and the guys were all waiting for me while wrapping up the last food basins in the van.  During the conversation, though an acquaintance of a few minutes, we talked like siblings as i patted him several times unconsciously, maybe as a vain attempt to take out his sorrow without knowing the door to it.  I felt that persisting inferiority complex as Dan was looking up to me when talking and I tried to bring him up on the same level.  His eyes were one of a kind – that kind where in the darkness of solitude and despair, a glow of hope has rekindled and the light within his soul was making such tired eyes rejuvenating to fight another day. Though not a heavy burden shared upon my shoulders that day, those teary eyes of his stayed long in my memory as I remembered our small talk where everything else came to silence in that commotion…

As many say, doing ‘seva’ as the Hindus put it, is not the mere materialistic part of showing up and giving games, cloth food or shelter to the less fortunate, but it imports the essence of human connections, a skill rarely developed and often squished by either the ego or shyness.

 

That day, as I pushed away that thin veil of tears, I penetrated into his soul, holding his hands for a warm quick dip of mature social interaction in mutual respect and as he came out a stronger being with the hope of a better world burning till the tip of his fingers, I am resolute now that The Rising is as its name goes by…….