The Last Word

More Learned than Educated, You were!

Rajen Kumar
May 2012
He was as much a regular at the Coffee House in Connaught Place as we, a group of young journalists, were. He would pull a chair and be an uninvited and unwelcome intruder. A mix of attentive listener, irritating interrupter, he took our snubs in his stride. He blatantly laughed off our comments on his below the mark attire and his footwear - bathroom slippers. 
 
Nobody knew why an uneducated boy in his mid-20s chose us as his company. His presence became a ritual. Over the time, we accepted his presence as a necessary evil. We gained nothing from him. He alone knew what he did from us?
 
He introduced himself as if with pride.  “Sir, I am Sominder, working as an assistant at a dry cleaning shop close by.”  Familiarity turned into peripheral friendship. Offering him a cup of coffee, dirt cheap those days hardly made holes in our pocket. His English was no English at all. We often snubbed him not to speak a language he didn’t know.
 
Strangely, the more we checked him, the more determined he became to break into his tragic English. Over the time, though, we assessed a marked improvement in his spoken English. His bathroom slippers started becoming an eyesore and on being pulled up one day, he looked straight into our eyes and confessed: “I am too poor to afford shoes but let me learn things.” He melted our hearts.
 
His interventions, we would marvel, were thoughtful given his humble status. Rain or sunshine, he always chose to be cheerful. Time flew. We were friends by now. It wasn’t difficult to make out that he was an avid reader of newspapers, and could match our knowledge in politics. His spoken English too was acceptable now.
 
But he still wore the eyesore: bathroom slippers. On days when he wouldn’t turn up, we felt something amiss but soon got engrossed in animated gossip. Lo behold! Came a day when he turned up, well dressed and in shoes. His offer was of a confident host: “Friends, today coffee is on me. I have left my job with the dry cleaning shop and have become an LIC agent.”
 
He flashed a smile which bore testimony to his pride. His invitation didn’t surprise us. We knew he had that ‘it’ in him to go places. He took to enlightening us on the benefit of getting our lives insured. Most of us were convinced and started ‘buying’ LIC policies from him. He had become ‘Journalists’ Agent’.
 
His trips to coffee house became infrequent. He had to call on the prospective clients. He was in a profession alien to ours but he evoked an element of appreciation. I distinctly recall a day. He called me up: “Rajen, your LIC installment is due. When should I come to collect the cheque?” cautioning, “Let me tell you, your policy would lapse tomorrow.” I had no choice.
 
Our friendship blossomed. I introduced him to many journalists who bought LIC policies from him. Came a day when he turned up with his wedding cards. “I am getting married. Your family has to come.” My family did willingly. He looked radiant. Soon after, he told us that he had become a member of the “Chairman’s Club’ of LIC. He went from milestone to milestone.
 
His birthday fell in April. Without fail, he would call me up: “Rajen, I am wearing a neck-tie today!” And I would greet him with a “Happy Birthday.” Only he knew why only on his birthday would he get into a neck tie?” From cigarettes he had moved to smoking cigars which would dangle from his fingers.
 
Sominder had three daughters. The doting father would say: “I want the best of education for my daughters. At least, they should not miss what I missed in my life.” I learnt that all his daughters were rank holders. “My eldest daughter is keen on medicine and will surely be a doctor,” he once confided in me. He was not just anybody but Mr. Sominder Prakash, the doer.
 
In later years, he was stricken with cancer of the throat. He visited my office to take the LIC cheque with a gadget fitted on his throat. “What happened Sominder”? He replied with a raw smile, “Doctors say it is cancer, curable by surgery. But they add ‘if you want to live get it operated upon though you won’t be able to speak and if you want to speak then you have six months to live.”
 
I was speechless. Rather hesitatingly I asked him, “So, what have you decided, Sominder ?” His reply was curt and candid, “I have told the doctors that I don’t want to live life as dumb. Only six months? No problem but I must live and speak.” I was at a loss of words. Here was a friend, my life insurer who was as equally determined to face death too!
 
Three months later, came the news that Sominder was no more.
He lived an exemplary life. He proved that illiteracy had nothing connected with education. He set an example that one can make a mark in life from humble origins. I miss his April calls. I miss sharing coffee with him, his chat. His voice was his bread and butter. He chose not to live without it.
 
It was a decision. It was his decision. How many take such decisions to ‘live’ a life, not linger? 
 
 
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