Sometimes you don’t have to hunt for stories to write about. They are waiting for you, at the right moment and place. That’s why one has to develop the tendency of observing life minutely because a story could be coming the very next minute.
I have in the past helped the needy in whatever way that I could. On one such dull morning, many moons ago, during my art school days, I ventured out of the house to get some materials for a campaign that I was working on. In the crowded marketplace, I met this fragile old guy probably in his late 60s. He was wearing a white cotton sadra and pyjamas, was barefoot and limping. I could see a dressing bandage on one of his feet; the wound looked fresh and bloodied. I would have ignored him but he asked, in Gujarati, if I could escort him to the foot-over bridge, to crossover to the other side of the suburb. Since it was just a few furlongs away, I held his hand and started the walk to our destination. When I looked at him carefully, reality struck me hard – he was blind. On further probing, I found he had hurt himself while walking and a good Samaritan had paid for the medical bill. I asked him where his family was and he replied he was alone in this world and there was nobody to care for him. And what about food? He said, if he was lucky, he would get some wheat which he would crush and make some chappatis for himself. I was on the verge of breaking down completely. Just then we arrived at our point and I left him there, bidding goodbye. Knowing his condition too well now, he must have asked for help even to climb the bridge. While I took my way back home, trying to forget what I had lived a while ago.