I saw him yesterday. Sitting on the pavement near the Sheraton. Feet gray with dust. Shirt torn at the shoulder.
He was eating rice. Just rice and a thin soup. Someone’s charity. Each bite slow. Deliberate. Like it mattered.
I stood across the street for maybe ten minutes. Couldn’t move. Something about the way he ate.
His eyes were different. Not crazy-different. Different like water is different from ice. Same thing, different state. No tension in them. No yesterday. No tomorrow. Just the white rice on the plate.
I’ve seen that look twice before. Once in my son when he was six months old. Once in my father the week before he died.
A woman offered him chicken curry. He shook his head. Pointed to the rice. She looked confused, walked away.
When did I last eat something and only eat it? Not think about work. Not plan the evening. Just eat.
I tried to remember. Couldn’t find one meal.
My phone buzzed. Didn’t check it. Kept watching.
He laughed suddenly. A real laugh, from the belly. At nothing I could see. The laugh of someone who doesn’t need a reason.
A rikshawala stopped near him. “Pagol,” he said to his passenger. Crazy. They drove off.
Maybe. Who knows.
I went home. The apartment felt smaller. The AC was on but I was sweating. Sat on the sofa. Got up. Sat down again.
My wife came in. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You look strange.”
I didn’t know how to explain. A man eating rice had broken something in me.
That night I couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about his empty plate. The way he’d watched the sunset after. Not taking a photo. Not checking the time. Just watching orange turn to pink turn to dark.
I got up. Went to the kitchen. Made tea. Let it get cold. Drank it anyway.
In the morning, I walked past the same spot. He was there. Different shirt, same torn. Eating biscuits this time. Two Britannia glucose biscuits. Taking small bites.
I stopped again.
He looked up. Our eyes met for a second. He smiled. Not at me. Just smiled. Then went back to his biscuits.
I walked to the office. Thirty-seven emails waiting. A meeting at ten. Another at two. Lunch somewhere in between, probably at my desk, probably not tasting it.
That evening I tried something. Sat with my dinner. Rice, dal, begun bhaji. Put my phone in another room. Just ate.
Lasted maybe two minutes. Then my mind started. Did I lock the car? What time is tomorrow’s meeting? Need to call the plumber.
Came back to the rice. It was cold by then.
My son asked, “Baba, why are you eating so slowly?”
“Trying something.”
“Trying what?”
“Just eating.”
He looked at me like I was the crazy one. Went back to his cartoon.
Next day, same spot. The man wasn’t there. Day after, not there. I felt something close to panic. Where did he go?
Fourth day, he was back. Same spot. Eating an egg. Boiled egg, no salt. Peeling it carefully. The white bits falling on his shirt.
I bought him another egg from the tea stall. Walked over. Held it out.
He looked at the egg. Looked at me. Took it. Said nothing. Put it in his pocket.
I stood there. Wanted to ask him something. Didn’t know what. How do you ask someone how to live?
He went back to his egg.
I went back to my life. Meetings. Emails. Traffic. AC. Dinner with the TV on. Sleep at midnight. Up at six. Repeat.
But something had changed. Some days now, I catch myself. Mid-sentence in a meeting, I notice I’m not there. I’m thinking about something else. I stop. Come back.
It doesn’t always work. Most times it doesn’t work.
But sometimes, for five seconds, ten seconds, I’m actually here. Actually listening. Actually tasting my food. Actually feeling my feet on the ground.
Those seconds feel like drinking water after days in the desert.
Last week I saw him again. He was sleeping. Afternoon, full sun, sleeping on the hot pavement like it was a bed.
I envied him. Just for a moment. Then felt ashamed of the envy.
But the envy was real.
He has nothing. I have everything. But he sleeps in the sun like someone without a care. And I lie in my air-conditioned room at night, mind racing, wondering if I locked the door, if I paid the electricity bill, if I said the wrong thing in the meeting.
My son asked me yesterday, “Abbu, why do you always look worried?”
“Do I?”
“Yes. Even when you’re smiling.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
That night I dreamed about the man. In the dream, I was sitting next to him on the pavement. We were both eating rice. Not talking. Just eating. The rice tasted better than anything I’ve ever eaten.
I woke up hungry.
This morning I walked past his spot. He was there. Eating a banana. Very ripe, almost black. Eating it slowly, like it was the first banana ever created.
I bought myself a banana from the same vendor. Stood across the street. Tried to eat it the way he was eating.
Focused on the taste. The texture. The sweetness.
Lasted maybe thirty seconds before my mind wandered to the client presentation.
But it was thirty seconds.
Tomorrow I’ll try again.
Maybe that’s all we can do. Try. Fail. Try again.
The man is still there most days. I don’t talk to him. He doesn’t talk to me. But I think of him as a kind of teacher now.
A teacher who doesn’t know he’s teaching.
A teacher who teaches by just being what he is.
A man eating rice like rice is enough.
Maybe it is.