How a coconut plucker changed a Malleswaram retiree for good

Do you know the name of your vegetable vendor? Your milkman? Your postman? Perhaps not. More often than not, we prefer hiding behind that annoying excuse - "our busy lives"- to cloak our monumental failure to connect with and contribute as denizens of a community, as social beings.

However, we can learn from Prakash Aroor and his story of how a chance meeting with a coconut plucker made him take the plunge.

A retired mechanical engineer, whose one-time boss had been the now infamous "King of Good Times" Vijay Mallya, Prakash Aroor lives a quiet life with his wife, Usha (one of the key brains behind those ubiquitous "Gulmohar Readers" at Orient Longman publishing house) in Bangalore's upscale and abundantly green neighbourhood, Malleswaram. Three weeks back, when Aroor answered a knock on the door, there was a man standing outside with a handful of coconuts.

As Aroor would soon get to know, his name was Sadashiva, one of the many coconut pluckers in the city who would come around every three-four months carrying the fruits of their labour, quite literally. He would scale the heights of a mid-sized skyscraper and pick coconuts from trees, particularly those dotting many a posh residential enclave of Bangalore, such as Malleswaram, for a few hundred bucks per tree, and then distribute the shares equally among the households.

When Aroor met Sadashiva, the latter was carrying about three-four coconuts. As he paid the doughty man, Aroor noticed something amiss about his left eye. It appeared to have severe cataract.  

Concerned, Aroor asked, "Why don't you go see a doctor?"

Sadashiva shrugged. He hardly had money to spare for a condition he was born with. There were more pressing things such as paying for his children's education. Apart from plucking coconuts, he would do other odd jobs to make ends meet, so that his kids kept going to school.

Aroor was impressed. He cared deeply about education as an idea, and saw it as the only means to a truly better life. In no time, he saw himself engaged in a hearty conversation with the coconut plucker with the bad eye.

Sadashiva had one son and a daughter. Though the daughter was "healthy", the son was born deaf and mute. Sadashiva sent him to a special school run by an NGO and it had free meals and no tuition fee. But he still needed to buy the books every few months, the stationeries, and also the hearing aid was old and needed to be replaced.

He was plucking coconuts to give his son and daughter something he didn't have for himself - an education.

Aroor was touched. Though a part of him wondered if Sadashiva was an elaborate crook, a man with a readymade sob story to extract a few quids from a gullible retiree. But there was something defiantly proud about Sadashiva that made him think otherwise. He asked him which class was his son in.

"Class VIII. He is a good student. I have to buy him books."

It was then, on the spur of the moment, that Aroor handed Sadashiva Rs 1000. "Buy your son his schoolbooks, but come and show them to me."

Aroor knew men would just take money over any excuse that they could rattle off their tongues and then go splurge it all on hooch, or gamble it away. A little money never helped anyone, but only pulled a thick blanket of self-congratulation on middle-class guilt towards those worse off.

He wanted to ensure Sadashiva bought only books.

"Bring your son the next time you come."

Days passed, and there was no sign of Sadashiva. "I wonder what happened to that coconut plucker", he mused to his wife, and at the back of his mind, something gnawing rose and fell. "Did he really buy the books?"

Three days back, Sadashiva returned, with a bunch of books. Also, Rs 200, which the coconut plucker said was "left over" from the Rs 1,000 meant for purchasing his son's schoolbooks. "It cost only Rs 800." He said, like a gritty accountant, too sure of his math.

Aroor was left dumbstruck. Here was a man battling grinding poverty but he had such searing honesty and such a defiant air about him. Not an ounce of self-pity, no wallowing in sorrow. For anything, Sadashiva was proud of his job. He was after all a top-notch coconut plucker and reasonably sought after in Bangalore.

The books were spread out on the dining table, their colourful covers screaming out for attention. Aroor's mind was made up.

"Sit here, please," he asked Sadashiva.

"Let's talk." 

And a talk it was.

As Sadashiva spoke, Aroor became misty-eyed, which he could hide behind his glasses.

Gopala, Sadashiva's son, needed the hearing-aid replacement, which cost around Rs 4,000. For starters, Aroor decided he would certainly arrange for that, and shot a message to his WhatsApp group buddies, for others to pitch in.

But he also had slightly bigger things in mind. What about the girl child, he thought? She's in Class IV, he was told, but would Sadashiva let her have any education beyond primary schooling? Would he even have the resources? 

He sprang to action. By now, the WhatsApp messages were pouring in. A number of his friends offered Rs 1000 each, so the funds for the hearing aid were taken care of. But did Sadashiva have a bank account? An Aadhaar card? A PAN card? Did he avail any of the government schemes? Was he even aware of them?

Questions were rushing through Aroor's mind faster than he could keep up with. The big points stuck. On a scale of urgency, it was a) hearing aid for the son, b) Aadhaar card, if required, c) medical assistance, if needed, d) daughter's education beyond Class IV, for the time being.

He made a mental note of the points. Being an integral member of a community club and social assistance organisation, the Canara Union Charitable Trust in Malleswaram, he was used to arranging for funds to provide medical and other aids to those who applied. But Sadashiva's family needed a more long-term commitment, and they weren't even asking for any help. This would be a voluntary involvement on Aroor's part, he realised, happily.

"When are you making me meet your son and daughter? And your wife?" Aroor asked.

Sadashiva was taken aback. Then he grinned a toothy grin. "I thought you wouldn't want to. You're big people. Why would you want to go to a poor man's home?"

Aroor shrugged. There was no malice or even a hint of accusation in Sadashiva's voice as he said those words, biting though they were. They chatted for a little longer, ate a bit together, and then he left, promising to come back in a couple of days to collect Rs 4,000 for the hearing aid.

Meanwhile, Aroor discovered Sadashiva already had an Aadhaar card, a bank account and other documents that verify one's existence to this immense bureaucratic machinery called a city. Just that the bank account had little money to talk home about, and the Aadhaar card was used more as an identity kit, rather than a means to avail the so-called government schemes.

Later that day, Prakash Aroor took to Facebook and posted a photo of Sadashiva sitting at his dining table, along with a hearty note. He wrote down the gist of what all transpired between the two of them, and mentioned what all broad objectives he had in mind.

Finally, he added: "Anybody willing to join me?"

***

Prakash Aroor's post got several shares and likes, especially after his son, TV journalist Shiv Aroor, posted the same on his Twitter, a little touched himself. It was then that it got over a thousand retweets, and brought along a string of tangible offers from friends, acquaintances and perfect strangers. Some charitable trusts got in touch, an ear doctor offered a cochlear implant for free, while others suggested means for transparent and effective disbursement of monetary assistance.

It has only been a day since his Facebook post and Prakash Aroor has more on his plate than he can single-handedly manage. At 73, he is remarkably fit, but he should be helped to help Sadashiva. While Aroor would open a joint account with Sadashiva at the soonest, there will be more work to do in days and months and years to come.

How often do we respond to the pop-up ad on our laptop or mobile phone screens that say "sponsor a child's education"? It almost feels too "First World" to be doing that. Though, most of us have someone or another in our lives, no matter how remotely connected to us, who is being a little more responsible than ourselves, and responding.

We can't all be Prakash Aroors, since we won't all come across a tough cookie like Sadashiva. The plucky coconut picker of Malleswaram, whose honesty was more brilliant than anything else Aroor had seen in quite a while. Nothing leaves a more lasting impression than true grit and kindness.

Maybe if we open the tightly shut windows of our hearts, we too would meet our Sadashivas, or our Prakash Aroors.

Who knows?

[Note: The writer saw Shiv Aroor's post and decided to do a story. She spoke at length with Prakash Aroor over the phone, despite bad networks. She hopes to meet Sadashiva someday.]