A merry bunch of freeloaders

Surinderjit Singh Sandhu

IN early 1960s, I was in class V, when a senior colleague of my father started living in our street in a rented accommodation. His son, five years younger than me, was pampered at our house, and so, he would visit us three-four times a day. He was an innocent kid, and would often say, Ajj barhe amb aaye, oh vi mufti (We got many free mangoes today), or ajj mithiaian aayian oh vi mufti. His father was a superintendent, and subordinates often kept the supply line flourishing. Everybody started calling him ‘Mufti Ram’.

In those days in college, we came across friends who would never spend a penny, but whenever tea was ordered in the canteen, such spongers would appear like the characters in a magic show, take tea and vanish into thin air at the time of payment. There was one such jovial fellow, belonging to a rich family, but never spent on his friends. He was called Johnny, as he had styled himself on Dev Anand  (Johnny Mera Naam was a blockbuster in those days). He was referred to as ‘Makhi’. He never carried any money. He has a flourishing business in Chennai now, where he had gone 45 years ago with Rs 12,000 and no references. Once we met at the Delhi airport. He was accompanying a Chief Commissioner Income Tax and the Home Secretary of Tamil Nadu. I took him aside and asked if he still lived by the principles of muftkhori! He laughed loudly and asked me to look at his ‘friends’ and decide if he still needed to spend money. He took pride in using other people. 

My tayaji was a senior Army officer and every year he would visit us. He disliked civil officers and even I was not spared. He thought us to be the most corrupt and incapable people, unworthy of any respect. He would take a nap in the afternoon, usually when an old hawker would push his cart, shouting ‘Ajnale di basmati lai lao 15 rupye kilo’. On day one, tayaji murmured why he was disturbing people at that hour. The next day was Saturday and, incidentally, I was present when the vendor came. Tayaji asked me harshly, ‘Yaar, don’t you pity this old man who comes here daily, tires himself and his throat? I have never seen him selling even 1 kg basmati.’ He paused for a moment and told me to tell him not to come again and waste his time. I was unnerved at the suggestion. Tayaji looked at me for a few seconds and then barged out. ‘Bhai saheb, zara gall sunna,’ he  signalled the old man to come closer. I also got near the window to hear what tayaji had to say. He asked him if he knew who lived in that colony. Not waiting for a response, he added, ‘Eh mufatkhoran di basti a, itthe apna time na kharab karo, ik paiya basmati vi nahin kisse ne karidni itthe, kite hor ja ke vecho eni vadhiya cheez (It is the area of cheapskates, don’t waste your time here, nobody will purchase even 250 gm of basmati, go and sell this precious commodity elsewhere).’ I looked around. Thank God! Nobody else had heard what tayaji had said.