The year was 1950. I was just a twenty-five-year-old graduate from Kochi, my home town, travelling in the third-class compartment of a Bangalore-bound train to look for a job.
Except for the degree certificate in my hand and ten rupees donated by a close friend, I was totally broke. The ten rupees of those days was equivalent to about three hundred rupees of today and would enable me to keep myself body and soul together for at least a couple of weeks, I thought. But circumstances willed it otherwise. There were three other passengers in the compartment – a half-naked young man in a torn, dirty loin cloth, an elderly man similarly clad and a grey-haired, old woman – the latter two obviously the young fellow's parents. Ticket-less travellers, I felt sure. “Bound for Bangalore?” I enquired.
“Er ..Yes,” stuttered the young man, “ to look for some work. Severe drought in our village.... Crop failure ....No food. We have not eaten anything since yesterday morning. With what money we had saved we bought the train tickets.” Starving! Yet travelling with tickets! Honesty in poverty!
I had ten rupees in my pocket, my degree certificate and for contact the address of a Kochiite working in Bangalore for any help. But this country yokel and his parents would starve in the gutter until he found work! With that thought, I handed the ten rupees to the young chap. All three of them thanked me tearfully, and alighted at the Bangalore city station.
The contact address I had was the Central Muslim Association (CMA) in Arcot Srinivasachar street and the name of the contact was Muhammad. With no money in my pocket to pay for bus-fare I had to walk the distance. I located the C M A. The gate-keeper there told me that Muhammad was a peon working in the Association's hostel. A peon? What can a mere peon do to put me up and help me find a job?
But, when he learnt that I was from Kochi, he not only put me up in an unused little room in the hostel but also got me some food pinched from the C M A kitchen every day till I landed a clerical job. I never looked back after that. Today, thank god, I am on velvet.
