The Harmonica Man

During my near-miserable journeys in Mumbai local trains, I’ve crossed my paths twice with a man who played his harmonica. His haunting, nostalgic tunes sliced through the weariness of the crowd. For money, a fact that should not come as a surprise to anyone, but what might be surprising is where this “harmonica-money” went: to his children in the ashram that he worked with and for.

Goa was where his life was, that which he wished to forget, for everything in his little Goan village had faded with his mother’s last breath. But he re-lived his childhood in busy moments every day, as he was doing while staring at a Thumbs Up bottle near a food stall on Kandivali station’s Platform No.1. He boarded the 8.53 PM train to Borivali. A big stainless steel cross shimmered with pride on a silver chain near his shirt pocket. He was playing that old Johnny Walker tune on his harmonica, “Aye dil hai mushkil, jeena yahan.” Everyone liked it, most of them smiled at him when he waved a salaam, many offered some coins with a smile and he accepted with another. He leaned against the cold metal wall near me for a breather.

I offered some Ruffles (classic salted) to the Harmonica man, complimented on the tune and asked if he knows “Hai apna dil to awara.”

“Oh no, I used to remember it. Your name is Joseph isn’t it?” He spoke fluent English, with heavy Goan undertones.

“No, I believe we’re meeting for the first time. My name is Rohan.”

“So nice to meet you Rohan, you work?” asked the Harmonica man.

“Yes, I am a writer”

“Good lord, how nice.”

--

They got off the train together, but time was short for Rohan, who was the younger of the two. “In a hurry, see you soon man.” He said and waved. The harmonica man boarded another train, this day’s last train to his ashram in Vasai, where his children waited for the warmth of his stories and his embrace and the little toys he brought for them. It was a hutment, really, but of hope, dreams and happiness. Every morning, the harmonica man woke up to greet another elderly man who showed up at his ashram’s doorstep, whose name he didn’t know but knew that he had a heart of gold. For that stranger brought eight liters of milk to the ashram every day. “Tell me your name sir,” asked the Harmonica Man. “One day you will know,” said the gold-hearted one and left. Each day this story repeatedly unfolded, but a beautiful mystery always remained.

Months passed like the trains that whizzed past stations, one behind another. The harmonica man played his tune for it was all that he could remember. During one evening as he was climbing up the painful steps of the Borivali station, a young man’s greeting charmed him to a smile.

--

“Hi,” I said, half expecting him to remember me and not surprisingly a doubt hovered on the harmonica man’s brow. “Hello, hello son, we meet again.” A polite greet, with strong Goan accent.

“Yes.” I started walking along with him, “Where do you stay?”

“Vasai, Vasai, I have 32 children there, in an ashram.”

“Wow!” Asked Rohan, “Life must be busy.”

“It is nice, I meet a lot of good people like you, there is a lot of happiness in this world.” He said and I received his words in wonder while as his knees visibly resisted his movements. “The lord has shown me the way when I went to him once. He showed me this ashram and my children. I’m happy as I can be.” That old cross shimmered on his dirty clothes and a smile from his heart let everything tainted mingle into something small and achievable in the my mind’s background. All that remained was that smile.

“Have you eaten anything?” I asked.

“Ummm…”

“You know,” I didn’t let his reluctance materialize into embarrassment, “I am eating a vada pav, join me.”

--

A Vada Pav vendor outside Borivali station widened his eyes to saucers when a young man accompanied by an elderly person dressed in dirty, train-smelling clothes stepped up. “I want to pack 40 vada pavs,” Rohan said, “and we’ll have 2 plates of samosa right now.” Rohan then had the tastiest Samosa that he has ever eaten till date.