| Waiting at a busy traffic intersection near my house, I recently noticed a man in saffron muttering prayers loudly on the pavement. Eyes closed, shaven head and his face a mask of piety, he was oblivious to the stares of the commuters waiting at the crossing. Just as the light turned amber, a passer-by dropped a couple of coins on his lap. |
| Instantly, he opened his eyes: "I'm not a beggar, my son. I'm a seer, a mystic. Please take your money back!" The man sheepishly took the coins and began walking away. |
| "Come to me whenever you want to see what lies ahead," boomed the seer, "I can often see the future!" All the bored commuters heard his majestic pronouncement with interest. As the light switched to green, I saw he'd attracted quite a crowd of interested people. |
| In the next few days, his saffron-clad form became a fixture on that pavement. People started whispering that he was truly wise, even though he was so young. Whenever I passed that way, I'd see him in deep conversation with different people. So I decided to have a chat with him to see what he was all about. |
| "Where have you come from?" I asked him after the initial pleasantries had been exchanged. "Who knows? People much more learned than you and I can't say where we've all come from!" he replied. |
| When I asked him how he could tell the future, he gave me a lecture on what one could see if only one would see, not with one's eyes, but with one's mind. All my efforts to find out anything about him met with similarly vague replies. When I stood up to leave, he boomed, "Don't you want to know what the future holds for you?" |
| I said no. "There's one thing I'll tell you "" you'll definitely see me again!" he prophesied. |
| He was right about that. A rainy morning a few days later, I was at the petrol pump near that same intersection when I saw a familiar man in regular clothes, smoking a bidi and drinking tea. |
| After he finished, he went behind the pump and returned in saffron clothes. He saw me looking at him, and came forward sheepishly: "So you recognised me?" he asked. I nodded. As if to make up for his evasive answers when we last met, he told me his story. |
| His name was Bhola and he was from Haridwar. "I came to Delhi last year following my father's death. Sitting in the station, head shaven and still full of grief at my father's demise, I was mistaken for a sadhu, holy man," he narrated. |
| That's when he had the bright idea of telling fortunes, and establishing his credentials by dressing like a sadhu. So he returned to Haridwar, learnt some prayers and chants from the sadhus who sat by the Ganges, and returned to play his trade on Delhi's pavements. |
| His fee is nominal: on an average, he charges about Rs 20 for each consultation, but thanks to his authentic get up, he attracts enough clients to make two ends meet. |
| "I stick to vague but safe predictions. For instance, I predicted you'd see me again because you said you lived nearby, and I had every plan of sticking to this pavement till some policeman got wise. So the chances of your seeing me again, even if only from your car, were good!" |
| I asked him what he'd do when more people like me saw through his disguise. He shrugged stoically: "It's a big city. And there's no dearth of pavements...I'll survive!" |
Disclaimer: These are personal views of the writer. They do not necessarily reflect the opinion of www.business-standard.com or the Business Standard newspaper
