"The Inheritance of Loss"

 1.

Someone nudged. I turned around and screamed. Her calm eyes caressed my confusion. "Back off," I shouted, despair ringing in my voice. She refused to budge. 

"Please take her away from me," I pleaded with the dhaba-wala, who seemed rather amused by my reaction. 

"It's almost done," he said without looking up. I thought he was announcing my order was nearly ready, even though at that moment, with her  breathing fire down my neck, food was the least of my concerns. But, before I could say anything, he was next to the enormous creature with kohled eyes and flared up nostrils. While one hand gently rested on her back, the other sweetly fed her freshly-made soft chapathis smeared in ghee. Overwhelmed by this gesture of spontaneous bonding, the trauma that had gripped my being earlier, quietly departed.

Feast over, he patted the beast and then folding his hands in reverence backed away. She snorted with contentment and joined the evening traffic on the busy road, her delicate hooves wandering off into the swarm of street lights. "She is just a  cow...why are you so scared of her?" Rambuhari chuckled as he said that, adding, "This one stops by daily on her way home and waits. She is like a mother to me." His voice had reduced to a whisper as the last sentence coyly uncoiled itself.

Rambuhari, once an orphan, was no longer so. 

2.

It was a short walk along one of the most scenic roads which ran parallel to the Bay of Bengal. And at the end of it stood Baghira, a cozy dhaba-style eatery. Complete with woven cots, a couple of tables and benches, this was where one could see Rambuhari, the cook from Bihar, chopping vegetables, kneading the dough for chapatis/parathas, chalking out the menu of the day on the display board, all with the artful particular deliberation of one who cooks because he enjoys it. Bahadur, his assistant from Nepal kept the premise respectfully clean and helped with the chores. When business was slow, like everyone else, the duo took refuge in smartphones. 

Since most of the regular customers were aware that it was only the two young men who ran the entire show there, waiting while sipping on some hot  lemon tea or masala chai was a good way to osmose into the enveloping simplicity of the place. A sense of patience blended tastefully with the aroma of spices. Speeding cars, screeching bikes and blasting sounds of horns from the road against which it leaned, magically receded into the background on entering this 10x12 ft. pure-vegetarian two-walled space. 

3.

Stopping by Baghira on our evening walks for a cuppa or a quick bite of something delicious from the menu-of-the-day had become a twice-a-week ritual for our family. And, if we had visitors, dinner made and served by Rambuhari was a foregone conclusion. For, in a touristic town like ours, dotted with Italian restaurants, burger houses and cafés, a nondescript place like this, with its regular non-gourmet home-style desi food felt heaven-sent. The sight of chapathis being served while still  ballooned up often invited many oohs and aahs and wows and brought a broad smile on Rambuhari's face. Even to us chapathi eaters from Northern India, the luxury of having them served right off the stove was rare and capable of inducing salivation.

4.

A war broke out between the landlord and the team which ran Baghira, finally  taking an ugly turn. The duo suddenly turned 'outsiders', which in this case translated into 'out-of-state people', and the landlord tripled the rent by default. Financially, it became unviable to run the small diner which had a maximum seating capacity of eight. Moreover, unrealistic overheads were slapped onto them, just because...

A few days ago, on our daily constitutional, we noticed an unusual amount of activity at Baghira. "We are leaving", Rambuhari announced with nary a sigh in his voice. "Why?" we asked. He shrugged his shoulders. Of course, we knew. 

Human beings have an uncanny almost brutal way of processing 'loss' in general. If we could become immune to the horrors of the ongoing Russia-Ukraine war and the enormous humanitarian crisis it entails, if we could easily circumspect and then circumvent  the unprecedented terror unleashed in the Middle East and the debris of bodies which continue to pile up, what import could the absence of a tiny joint at the end of the road hold?  

'What will happen to your mother?', I wanted to ask Rambuhari. But he left before I could.