Atmaram Khandelkar

The watchman rang our apartment doorbell. There was a man outside who
claimed to have been run over by our car.
We rushed down to see a familiar figure sitting on the ground outside our
apartment block. His right leg was spread out and was crudely bandaged. We
recognized him instantly. He was the hawker whod be standing outside our
school gates daily selling aampapad to the children of our school. We kids had
bought the stuff from him often in the past.
He pointed to my eldest sister and said that shed run our car over his leg a few
days back. He was now demanding compensation.
My sister had recently turned eighteen and had just been given her driving
license. However knowing the poor quality of driving schools in India and the
ease with which licenses were obtained, my father had hired a lady to continue
to teach my sister till she could drive with practised ease. The lady came on
alternate days and it was on her earlier turn that this incident had occurred, so
claimed the aampapadwala. He described the turn off Gamadia road- which
snaked down Carmichael road steeply to meet Pedder Road at the Activity
School. It was at this turn, he stated that the incident had happened. He was
seated beneath the tree on the right-hand side of the road; he admitted he had
his right leg protruding a little out on the road. My sister came hurtling down the
slope at a high speed when the signal at the turn went red. She had overshot so
she hastily reversed the car. But this was done haphazardly so instead of staying
on the left side of the road, the car veered to the right side and ran over his leg.
He screamed in pain, he claimed but no one heard him. The signal turned green
and she sped away.
It took him a day to understand the scope of his damage. He realized he couldnt
walk and that this was a serious injury. Recognizing my sister as an ex-student
from the school outside which he sold his wares he managed to trace her to our
home.
My father turned to question my sister who accepted everything the man said
except that she hadnt heard the mans scream for help and couldnt recollect
him being there. The only way to resolve this was to hear the instructors
version, so we waited for the instructor to turn up. She threw a completely
different spin to the whole incident. She rubbished the mans claims stating she
recalled very clearly the day and confidently stated that as an instructor, she
kept her eyes peeled on the road for people and said unequivocally that on that
day there had been nobody on the street and no one in particular under the tree
at the turn.
By this time many people had gathered around us all. On hearing the ladys
confident assertion, they quickly concluded that this man was out to make some
money. Seeing my sister drive about he was faking the injury or was trying to
pass off an unrelated injury to an accident caused by her. The aampapadwala
who looked to be on the wrong side of fifty, weakly tried to deny this but the
combined venom of all the people was too much for him and he in defeat, picked
up his rudimentary crutch and hobbled away.
But he was back the next day demanding money and the day after that as well.
He would lie outside our house holding his head in his hands and complaining to
anyone whod listen. The lady instructor would cower him down with her strong
words and she would insist that we ignore his claims.
Our family was thoroughly confused. On one hand the mans piteous words
moved us. On the other hand the instructors words reminded us that we could
be playing into his game.

The aampapadwala suddenly stopped coming. Initially we were relieved but then
as a week passed we became worried for him. Every time we entered our
apartment, we actually began looked for him at the entrance where he normally
sat, complaining away. Everyone told us that the man having realized there was
no money to be made had returned to his wastrel ways.
But some nameless sense of dread had taken hold of our family. What if.... he
was right?
That was a tough week we went through. Nobody spoke to the other. The usual
laughter and merry-making we were accustomed to had left us. We now looked
at each other with dark, haunted eyes. This was too much for father.
One day without telling us, he set out to search for the aampapadwala. The man
who had spent close to two decades selling sweets to the school children
seemed to have disappeared completely without a trace. Also nobody seemed to
know where he lived. But my father was determined to find him. He asked
around and found someone who knew someone who knew him. By driving
around town and checking out various sources, father finally traced him to a
hovel in a slum where the aampapadwala lay weak in a deadly fever.
Without a moment of hesitation, my father lifted the man, carried him to the carthe very car that he claimed to have been run over by- and drove the man to a
large private hospital where he could get immediate treatment.
As my father filled out the form, he was asked the mans name. Since we had
always referred to the man as the aampapadwala, my father had no clue as to
what his real name was. Taking a clue from Rabindranath Tagores famous
Kabuliwala, my father, in an inspired moment told the nurse the mans name
was Hanif Mohamed.
The sick man on hearing this opened his eyes and beckoned to my father. When
my father bent down, he whispered to my father, My name is Atmaram
Kandekar, not Hanif Mohamed.
His leg was badly fractured and he had developed a fever. For two weeks he was
kept in the hospital and treated for both. Father would visit him occasionally. He
would be very happy to see my father and report that he was being treated like a
VIP and that the food served was excellent.
He walked out a fortnight later on a pair of shiny new crutches and a cast on the
injured leg. He returned to our house a few weeks later. But he was a different
man that day. His leg had healed completely; he was smiling as he offered us his
aampapad. My father offered him money but he refused it, stating all he had
wanted was treatment for his injured leg. He burst into tears and thanked my
father profusely. My father in turn thanked him.
As I was still in school, I continued to see Atmaram very often after that. He
would always smile at me and force me to take aampapad for free. He would tell
everyone around how nice my family was especially my father who ensured the
best treatment for him. I would squirm in embarrassment and try as much as
possible to avoid him as I didnt want to take free aampapad from a poor man.
The incident had some fallout as consequences. My sister stopped driving the
car, my younger sister wasnt keen to take it up at all and we learnt as a family
to respect the poor. We had been humbled by an uneducated man. He taught us
that dignity and courage was not just the purview of the wealthy. By forgiving us,
he had also shown that he was far a wealthier and better human being than us.
Most importantly, he had in his dignified stand, saved us from committing a
grave sin.