On a cold winter afternoon in Rajasthan, I sat down on one of those cold steel benches in a hospital where I was visiting a relative. I was handed the task of getting some medicines for him from the hospital medicine counter. While I waited for my name to be called for collection, Mahal Singh came and sat next to me.
We didn’t talk straight away. He was probably in his late 30s or early 40s, I guessed. Or maybe even younger. Hospitals have this weird way of making people look older than they are. The lapels of his jacket were dirty, the sleeves were greasy, the t-shirt he was wearing inside seemed like it had been white once upon a time. He was balding but not quite bald yet. He looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept in days.
Mahal Singh looked the type who liked striking up a conversation. I was right. Why are you here, he asked. I’m visiting a relative, I replied. Talking to strangers in hospitals is strangely comforting, I find. You swap stories of suffering, and often, you find you are in a better situation than the other. You wish each other well and move on. That momentary connection makes you feel human in an otherwise sanitised place.
Why is your relative here, he carried on. I told him. But more than wanting to know about my relative, Mahal Singh was keen on talking about himself.
I’ve been here four days now, he said. I nodded.
It turned out, he wasn’t there for a family member or a close relative. He had been in hospital with his next-door neighbour. The 35-year-old had fallen off a ladder and punctured his lung. The man had no family in Rajasthan, so Mahal Singh got him to emergency. The doctors asked him to stay because an attender is always needed in hospitals in India. So, here he was, four days on.
He was tired, he said. But he did not complain. He was a bus driver, drove luxury buses, taking tourists around Rajasthan. February was peak tourist season. He earned money only if he drove the bus.
I asked him about his family. A wife and three kids, 8, 6 and 4. Just then his mobile rang. It was his youngest. Mahal Singh put on his baby voice and cajoled the child he’d be back home soon.
He turned to me. That was my son, he said proudly. He then took out a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it. It was his expenses, he said. I looked at it -- date-wise, he had made a note of all he had spent. It’s for my neighbour’s family, when they arrive, he said, I don’t want to cheat anybody. There was 60 for lunch; ₹10 for chai; ₹2,000 towards medicines that Mahal Singh had withdrawn from an ATM. He was an honest man.
We have to help each other in times of need, he said. If we don’t come to our neighbour’s rescue, who will? The point of this life is to help others, and if I can do that for just one person, that’s my life’s purpose fulfilled, he said.
I looked at Mahal Singh closely. This man, who was exhausted from days of being in hospital because he was looking after his neighbour, taught me a life lesson. Did people like him even exist, I wondered. If they did, where were they? I hadn’t come across anyone like him before. He had put his livelihood, his family on hold to help another. He didn’t care if he had worn the same clothes for four days or that he had slept on the floor in the hospital corridor, away from his wife and children. He didn’t care about the cold nights or the meagre food he ate. He was there, just there, in that hospital, in that moment, helping his neighbour, being there for him. That was all he cared about.
Mahal Singh’s phone rang again. It was his neighbour’s brother. He had arrived from Mumbai and was waiting for Mahal Singh in reception. We walked together to meet the brother. This was Mahal Singh’s chance to do a handover and get back to his life. But the neighbour’s brother wouldn’t let him go. You know all about my brother’s condition, doctors, medicines. You have to stay here, he said.
The slight shrug of Mahal Singh’s shoulders told me he agreed to stay. He looked at me as if to say, what choice do I have?
It was nice to meet you Mahal Singh ji, I said. Ditto, he said. And with that, I walked away.