Ever since the question had been asked, it had lingered; heavy, unresolved, almost unbearable. And now, standing at the edge of departure, the monk was expected to answer. The girl spoke again, her voice softer this time, but steadier. Why do people die? The monk did not respond immediately. He closed his eyes, as if searching for something beyond language. Then he opened them, not with certainty, but with a quiet acceptance of the question itself.
"Every city has its invisible citizens; the ones we pass by daily, exchange a few words with, and then quietly forget. Ours sat behind a modest tea stall. We called him, half-affectionately and half-dismissively, the 'Tea Old Man'," said the speaker from the podium in a rusty voice. He then narrated.
The guy's real name was Shafiq, but everyone called him the "Tea Old Man," because of his grey hair and his tea stall. He carried a catalogue of illnesses: diabetes, asthma, joint pain, an infected leg that refused to heal. He would sit in a contorted position - his left leg pulled onto the chair, his head resting on his knee, one hand gripping tightly as if he could physically contain the pain.
For two years, I knew him. Living alone in the city, I found myself drawn to his stall after lunch breaks. At first, it was curiosity. Then habit. Eventually, something deeper - a quiet, unsettling need to understand how those at the margins perceive the system that so visibly excludes them. He became, in our eyes, a case study, a living narrative of poverty, resilience and quiet despair.
Sometimes we would pool together small donations for his medicines. He, however, saw something more in these interactions. He memorised my routine. He began to wait. Our conversations shifted. They became heavier, more personal, more desperate. Could I help his son find a job? His daughters had already been pulled out of school - how would he ever marry them off? The rent had piled up, and the landlord had begun to threaten eviction. Each question was not just a request; it was a quiet admission of a system that had already failed him.
After every fuel price hike, every inflation surge, we would return to him - almost ritualistically - asking how life would now change for him. It was our version of catharsis.
His favourite stories were about failure. He had lost his business four times. Each time, he insisted, he needed only a small investment to start again. Each time, he trusted people. Each time, they took his stock on credit and never paid him back.
"Had my parents not named me Shafiq (the affectionate)," he once said, with a bitter smile, "maybe my life would be different. If I were named Chengiz Khan (a ferocious warrior), no one would dare take my money from me."
Despite his failing health, he could not stop working. Taking a day off meant no income. No income meant no food. No medicine. No rent. So, he chose pain - daily, persistent, consuming pain - because it was the only option that allowed his children to eat.
We call it strength when a man works through illness. We call it perseverance when he sacrifices his health for his family.
We would sit and talk about Shafiq's massive conundrums; knowing none can help him come out of innumerable problems. But one day as usual we went to listen to him on the stall and could not find him. Silence prevailed in the stall.
The Tea Old Man had a sudden heart attack. He no longer had to worry about the bills, rent, petrol, electricity, education, marriages, medicals, etc. He died due to heart attack. As we left the stall that day without having tea; we could listen to a whispering noise in the air telling us perhaps death came to his rescue. Shafiq did not have to choose between pain and hunger anymore. Maybe death was the only way he could rest in peace. The Monk stood up, wrapped up his jute mattress and left silently.
from express tribune https://ift.tt/g3byAe9
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