To be honest with others is fairly easy, but to be honest with oneself is hard and painful. Let me narrate something that happened to me the other day.
I volunteer with an organisation to teach English to asylum seekers. Recently, in a one-to-one lesson, I was banging on about comparative adjectives and imperatives when I noticed my student (I’ll call her B) was distracted.
“What’s the matter B?” I asked.
“There’s no food today. I have no money. I am hungry. My daughter also hungry,” she replied.
She pointed at the table in the corner of the teaching hall. It was normally well stocked with free supplies from a local supermarket. Anyone who needs food could help themselves. On the day, however, the table was empty.
I was shocked to hear this. It had not occurred to me until then that people seeking shelter in our midst were going hungry. I couldn’t give her some money because our organisation doesn’t approve of it. Moreover, it would have been humiliating for B to receive such largesse from me. I racked my brain for a solution and soon found it -right under my nose.
B and her daughter could have langar at one of the local Gurudwaras. Langar, for those who are unfamiliar with the concept, is a tradition in which a Gurudwara offers a free meal to anyone who enters it. I suggested the idea to B who requested me to accompany her. We fixed a date and time to test out the langar idea.
On the agreed date, a woman teacher and I met B outside a Gurudwara. Having removed our shoes and covered our heads, we entered. Each of us picked up a thali (a steel tray with little moulded sections that segregate items of food) and were served chapatis, dal and raita. Simple but wholesome food.
We finished eating. The ladies were chatting with some others at our table. I took my plate to the washing up area. After washing the thali, I rested it on its edge on the draining board and started to make my way back to the dining area. This is when my trouble began. An elderly gentleman with a flowing white beard and red turban called out to me,
“Oye, you! Come back here. Where do you think you are going? Who will dry the plates?”
Now, I have forgotten the last time when someone spoke to me in such a peremptory tone. This man was treating me like a wayward brat. I was confused and promptly apologised to him for my omission. Going back to the stack of plates, I picked up a few and dried them. By the time I finished, the man had gone from the room.
When I was back in the dining room, he confronted me again.
“Didn’t I tell you to dry the plates?” he scolded me in Hindi, “Go back and dry them.” He pointed an imperious finger in the direction of the cleaning area.
By then I was beginning to get a hold of myself. However, not wanting to create a scene, I smiled at him and said firmly in Hindi,
“No. I am not going back there. I have done a few. That’s enough.”
“You won’t do it?” he said, “then you won’t get any more food here.”
By then the ladies joined me. Thankfully, they were ignorant of the situation. They gushed with praise for the generosity of the Gurudwara and the selfless people who served there. I was distracted and my response was subdued. Although I kept the incident from them, it was playing in an infinite loop in my head as I drove home, like a computer programme with a bug.
I continued to silently rage to myself all evening. I couldn’t understand the turmoil in my mind. Why was I feeling so bad? Could I not just forget the incident? Wasn’t it the result of just an ignorant man having a bad day? But there was no respite. A gale force wind continued to blow inside me. The question that bothered me the most was – why did it affect me so much? Deep inside, I think I knew the answer. But I refused to accept it and looked for a better, lofty solution to my predicament.
If this man could treat me like this, he must be treating many others the same way. Yes! That’s it. I was outraged on behalf of those faceless unfortunates who go there to have one good meal a day. How dare he treats my brothers and sisters so? Time for retribution.
The next morning, I went to an Asian shop and purchased two small sacks of wheat flour. Then I drove to the Gurudwara and was directed to take my contribution to the kitchen. By donating the flour, I had established that I was not a freeloader. By abandoning my waxed jacket for a conventional one, I had rid myself of the shabby (posh to the discerning) look. Back in the dining hall, I met the same old man. He looked a bit peeved and after the customary ‘sat sree akal’, I confronted him.
“You shouted at me yesterday. Do you treat everyone the same way? Doesn’t it go against everything that the Gurudwara stands for? Respect and dignity for all? Universal brotherhood?” I lectured him. His colleagues were beginning to gather around us.
“I am sorry,” said the old man, “the thing is so many people come here and leave their plates dirty …”
“Yes, that’s precisely the point. You can tell them nicely. There is a way to talk (baat karne ka tareeka hota hai) …” and so on and so forth, I continued to harangue him. One by one, all of them apologised to me. They invited me to have some langar, get some prasad. I went up to where the Granth Sahib was being worshipped, took some prasad and left the place. I felt vindicated. I had won.
My victory was, however, short-lived. The storm in my mind continued to rage. I couldn’t escape the real question:
Am I affronted on behalf of all the others insulted by this man? Or is it just the personal humiliation that hurt me more? The alternatives were inseparable, like a mental vichyssoise.
I stewed in confusion for a couple of days and then decided to call a close friend back in India. He was my classmate. As twenty year old engineering students, we used to roam the streets of Calcutta every evening discussing among other things, the delusional nature of human thoughts.
After telling him the whole story, I asked him,
“So why do I feel hurt? Is it because my pride was hurt? Or is it because I was concerned about all those others who may have suffered at his hands?”
“It is your pride, your ego,” he said simply.
He was not the type to mince his words and went on to present his thoughts. It was a clear, painfully trenchant analysis of the episode. He didn’t say anything new and only confirmed what I knew deep inside but was not honest enough to dredge up. The mental soup was beginning to separate into its elements.
My ego took a severe beating because a stranger had managed to see a different me. There I was, in my eyes: a respectable member of society, educated, well read, well dressed in a posh Barbour waxed jacket, gainfully employed for over 40 years. And there I was, in another man’s perspective: a scrounger looking for a free meal, down and out, poverty stricken, a rough sleeping vagabond (just look at his coat), taking advantage of the Gurudwara’s generosity.
I don’t like this other persona he saw. I can’t bear to think what that says about me. So, I will keep that analysis for another day. Yes, the thought did occur to me that the man must have been treating others with similar disrespect. But that was only a weak corollary. An also ran. In all honesty, it was all about me!
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