A POOR MAN
Arif's smile was what made him unique. A real, tired lip curvature that caused people to stop. His smile warmed everyone, even when he was internally starved. He was once informed by an elderly rickshaw driver, "You're wasting that smile." Arif merely laughed. "That's the one thing I have in abundance." One evening, Arif calculated his earnings—twenty rupees—as the sun disappeared behind the smokey horizon. Not even enough for rice. He hadn't had any food since the morning. He nevertheless walked to the small market and purchased one potato and half a kilogram of rice. He saw a girl sitting by a temple gate on his way back. Her face was covered in grime, her eyes were hollow, and she couldn't have been more than ten.
She gave him a look. With hunger, not with words. Arif paused. It felt like the potato in his bag was heavier than before. Reaching down, he took it out and gave it to her. "Won't you cook it?" he inquired. Slowly, she nodded. Arif prayed and ate plain rice with salt that evening. The following morning was chilly. Over the city, fog hung low like a veil. After making his tea, Arif left. It was slower than normal. By lunchtime, he had barely earned fifteen rupees. His feet hurt. He pondered whether Zaid was beneath the same one as he sat by the side of the road and gazed up at the sky. Perhaps his son had secured employment. Perhaps he had forgotten.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he failed to notice the man in the suit. The man uttered, "One cup." With a blink, Arif poured the tea. "This is the best chai I've had in years," the man remarked after taking a drink and raising his eyebrows. "Old recipe," Arif said with a small smile. The man gave a nod. "What's your name?" "Arif." "My name is Mr. Mehra. The new hotel across the street is mine. Arif seems taken aback. He passed the five-star hotel, but he never ventured inside. Mehra remarked, "I need a tea man for my staff lounge." Pay, food, and lodging. Are you interested?Silently, Arif gazed at him. "You seem to need the work." Arif's eyes filled with tears. Slowly, he nodded. He reported at the hotel the following day. The previous evening, he was wearing his cleanest kurta, which had been pressed under a brick. He was warmly received by the staff. A tiny room behind the kitchen was shown to him; it had a fan, a tidy bed, and even a book shelf. Employees immediately waited in line for Arif's chai when he put up a small tea area. Word got out. Even visitors started requesting "the tea from the back kitchen." Weeks went by. Arif started to save money, actual savings. He corresponded with Zaid at his previous residence in Mumbai. No response. Nevertheless, he wrote once a week.As his wife had taught him, he even began teaching one of the kitchen boys how to prepare tea. He was about to close up one evening when a young man came into the staff lounge. He had a knapsack hanging over his shoulder and was emaciated and tanned. Arif pivoted. His hand shook. "Zaid?" The youth let his luggage fall. "Abba... I returned." Soaked with years of suffering and happiness, the embrace was silent. No inquiries. No justifications. The warmth of reunion alone. Later, Zaid talked about illness, embarrassment, and lost jobs over a cup of chai. "I assumed you would despise me for disappearing."Arif took his son's hand in his. "You returned. That is sufficient. Zaid secured employment with the hotel's maintenance staff in the ensuing weeks. Once more, father and son shared that tiny room behind the kitchen, where they drank tea every evening, reminisced about the past, and looked forward to the future. And Arif, a poor man with only a grin, found all he had ever lost in the middle of a huge city full with neon lights and commotion.
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