Bhambhu Bawra

Bhambhu Bawra, mad Bhambhu, was a sweeper in the streets of Kharkhoda. He was not mad like other mad people who lose their minds - he had lost his heart. It was lost in his journey of life. He was now 28 years old and his heart, not the organ that pumps blood, but the real heart that fills with countless joys, sorrows, colors, tears, electricity, was lost. He remembered having a mother, and putting his head in her lap, he remembered that velvety tenderness that spread behind his eyelids then, he also remembered his daily trifles, daily sweeping with his tall broom, frequent insults by the people, but he didn’t remember what happened in the middle of his life, nobody knew that middle period of his life. Manu, who became his friend, took Bhambhu’s hand in his hand and could feel the warmth, the kind of warmth that has become alien in the world of logic. There was a film of tears that floated perennially in Bhambhu’s eyes. Manu used to look into his eyes and saw meaning in those tears, that something inside him knew, but that was not known in words. There was one thing Bhambhu was very particular about. Whenever someone died, he used to go to the funeral pyre and sit there for two to three days even after everyone was gone. If the funeral was of some old man, he used to repeat ‘Baba, mar ga’, ‘Baba, mar ga’ - ‘Baba is dead’, ‘Baba is dead’, while continuously silently sobbing. When Manu used to sleep in the night, before sleeping, he would say a few lines of prayer for Bhambhu, for Bhambhu’s well being. One day, Bhambhu visited a funeral pyre and was not seen afterwards. Nobody knew what happened to him, nobody even cared, but Manu’s heart still aches for his friend, he still keeps Bhambhu in his prayers…

© Manan sheel.