WORK IS WORSHIP

WORK IS WORSHIP

"This picture, I've got from the facebook yesterday. Looking at it, I thought of writing someting as a comment. And Lo..., the comment has turned out to be a short story, rather a mini story which I've then posted there. I thought of posting it here too...  ...Any ways...here it goes..."

Muttering curses over the recent boom in Shopping arcades, I glanced through the glass window of my own small grocery shop at the market road and found that the old lady is yet again missing today. She has now been missing for almost a week...I thought. The lamp post, under which she used to lay out her paltry collection of vegetables on sale for almost a year, gave a melancholic look.

Sitting under it, she never yelled at anyone to attract attention. Very few people would turn up to the effort of buying vegetables from her as the stocks would not suffice to make a ‘Sambar’ or ‘Aviyal’ for an average family.  The question of how much a profit did she makes at the end of the day often surprise me. But then, soon I found she had a regular customer though. A rich man who comes at 12 noon sharp in a bright red luxury car with tainted windows to buy whatever vegetable was left unsold.   Every day the car would screech to a halt in front of her and then comes out a hand as the front window rolled down automatically, would collect vegetables, exchange money and took off again. She would then pack up the utensils and vanish from the scene in a hurry. None of my customer had any connections with her and thus the old woman ever remained as a mystery for me.

Chandrika, another old lady who have not yet enticed by the high –tech shopping malls and thus remained as a steadfast customer of me just came inside with a small list. Reaching for the list and still gazing down the lamp post I asked her,  “Amma...do you know that lady who used to sit there with some vegetables? ...She is missing for few days...what happened, Eh..?

Staring down the lamp post, she released a long sigh. “She is no more now...my son...She died a peaceful death last week while sleeping.”  Paused for a while, she looked at me and asked sceptically, “You don’t know her...? That contractor Sahadevan...you know...he is her son... Poor lady,  she struggled a lot with a vegetable shop at her native village to bring up her children. All are well off now at various places. But till last breath, she won’t compromise herself. She came to this town last year when Sahadevan built a new house in the town square."

After closing the shop bit early in the evening, I went to the house of Sahadevan to pay my condolences as he was my friend too. There I could see on the front wall of the veranda, a wood engraved huge portrait of that old lady with a caption inscribed below...

“My Mother... Who taught me to live Ethically and Morally... Who taught me the value of Own hard earned money...Who taught me..., Work is Worship.”

 While pressing the calling bell, I saw towards my left in the corner of the patio, one ' bright red luxury car' with tainted windows.