The many ‘Saarus’ amid us

Hemant Chopra

BEFORE you conclude ‘Saaru’ to be some kind of a psycho-neurotic fixation, let me tell you that Saaru, alias Sansar Chand, was a balding, middle-aged cattle trader, lame in one leg and having an eye for a good animal. Widely respected in the villages around for his astute judgement, the animals that he brought from the cattle market were invariably class representatives of their breeds. 

I ran into him in my second posting, and by virtue of belonging to the same gotra, was bestowed by the family with the title of  ‘gotra brother’. Fresh from college as a strapping young man, full of idealistic spark and who had yet to ‘unlearn’ much, Saaru and family saw in me a good prospective groom! They were not averse to the idea of me exchanging garlands with the only daughter of a local wealthy family.

But I was more interested in the animals that he bought from cattle fairs. Freshly calved Holsteins and Murrahs that glistened after a bath and an oil massage — animals that he sold at a handsome profit. He took good care of them, for the time they remained unsold: feeding them the best of concentrate and fodder. ‘Buying a pregnant animal is like betting upon a closed fist,’ he would say. Some of those lovely animals, who came from distant places, became travel-sick. 

But during my stint in the area, he did not once call me to tend to a sick animal. That honour was bestowed by Saaruji upon my illustrious predecessor, who drove to his farmhouse, 80 km away, shredding my ego and trampling upon my professional pride.  How could one be so courteous and yet so unfeeling, I wondered. Each visit used to send me into a downward spiral of anger, resentment and rejection. I wallowed in them, imagining the day when all his animals will suddenly fall sick and he will have to call me. But it never happened. I tried to shut him behind an imaginary window in my mind, closing it again and again with a padlock, but each time he managed to wriggle back and occupy centre stage. I tried avoiding the family, but it was easier said than done in that small place with large, beaming faces. 

Years passed and this habit of expecting someone to treat you in a manner you wanted never went away. It rages off and on, the battle against disappointment, of being ignored, of not getting your due. Now, it is not one, but many Saarus, as the spectrum of life widens. As I look around, I see them lurking in cyberspace; in ‘likes’ and ‘comments’; in that feverish desire to be ‘recognised’ and ‘applauded’. 

But like an upset stomach after eating chana-bhatura, I have learnt to expect him and to wear him out by running the gauntlet in the shortest possible time; to watch him with caution as he prances about; to conclude that life is a game of averages, involving a fair dose of hard work, talent and chance. Every day is a distilled drop of this average, meant to be enjoyed fully; to enjoy to the hilt the company of Saaruji. 

Thank you, Saaruji, for being such a good teacher over the years.