Wealth by the Dumpster

It was weird. Waiting to interview a rag picker. Usually my guests were well suited and often had a couple of degrees next to their name. But this one, didn’t even have a last name.

Rustam, they called him. A 63-year-old man who talked to people half his age by titling them, ‘Sir’. Unfortunately, respect in this country came with money; not age. Being a reporter, this was my first opportunity to talk to someone who was not throwing money at a problem.

“Chacha. Main Shyaam. Mere senior ne baat ki hogi aapse. Interview ke baare mein.”

“Of course beta. If you don’t mind, can you conduct the interview while I go through this garbage? I have to clean this mess up as early as possible.”

Stunned is an overreaction. Pleasantly surprised, yes, at the extent of English this man spoke.

“Uh… Sir didn’t expect you to…”

“Speak English?”, he replied. “Don’t blame you.”

“Kachre ke saath angrezi kuch jhachti nahi.”, he said grinning.

As impressed as I was, I still had a job to do.

“It says here in my notes that you have been doing this for 16 years. What about before that? Can you tell us a little bit about your history?”

Rustam started mulling. He gradually replied, “Well… in another life, I was a car part manufacturer from Baramati near Pune. Held a degree in Automotive Engineering from IIT Chennai. And owned a giant car parts company…”, he said in a soft somber voice.

And suddenly he got all excited, “… but today look at me”, he said smiling, “… a couple of clothes as my wardrobe and small memorabilia I find here in the garbage; that’s what I own.”

I was confused. More than confused. But I continued anyway.

“Rustam ji, if you had so much, why are you here? And why collect such garbage?”

He looked at me. “Humanity throws away beautiful things Shyaam.”

He picked up a mug with the picture of a beautiful looking couple on it. “Look at them. So happy. You know you would think that these memories are worth fighting for, even if the person is no longer in your life. Apparently not. Because in the eyes of the beholder, there’s no value to it. Let me tell you Shyaam, the older you get, the more you realize that this is the only true value. The currency that you earn in your mind. Slowly filling those vaults with bundles of memory.”

He paused. Reminisced. Went on.

“Just one day, try picking up garbage with me. It’ll show you what we’ve become. Kya aap jaante hain 2 hafte ke bachche mein aur ek bubble wrap mein kya fark hota hain?”

“Kya keh rahe ho Rustam ji…”, I didn’t know what else to say.

He laughingly continued, “Kyu? Agar dono ko saath mein kudhe mein feka jaa sakta hain, toh you know one starts doubting human intellect, because one doesn’t believe that human decency can stoop so low.”

The conversation went quiet. I went quiet. A voice inside me started again.

“Kya aap khush hain?”

“As happy as one can be. My conscience is clear. My belly is full. What more can I ask for?”

“A lot”, I said.

A healthy laugh swept across his face. “Maybe you’ll think like me one day. Maybe you won’t. But until that day, it is wise to label me as a crackpot to society.”

“I agree. But crackpots do need to be heard occasionally.” I concluded.

“Just to bring back some order.”

“Good luck finding that”, he said smiling as he continued to dig through his garbage.