Visram salvi

Visram Salvi 

 Had he been alive, Visram Sivram Salvi would have been nearly 100 years old today. My association with him is long and strong enough to write a book. But a blog should do for now. 

 I grew up with my great aunt until the age of 14. Visram Salvi was her servant, recruited when he was 15 years old. He hailed from the hills of Ratnagiri. In those days, they called them ‘Ghati’, people from ghat or hills. My aunt moved from Bombay (now Mumbai) to our hometown. Visram too followed and became part of our family who never treated him as a servant. He was a troubleshooter for the large extended family that lived in one compound. He lorded over everyone like a master, except me, whom he handled with kid’s gloves. 

 Visram helped me build my character. He treated me like a cadet in the army. He taught me how to read clock dials, how to tie my shoelaces, tuck my shirt, not talk while eating, read Gujarati and Marathi alphabet, and fight with street bullies. He worked gruellingly hard throughout the day and night. He took only one break between 1 pm to 3 pm when he ate and took a bit of snooze. I always took my snooze alongside him. His sole entertainment was talking to someone or the other in our family or a neighbor. He gossiped merrily. 

 On Sunday evening, he went out to meet his friends. They met on a stone bench outside a closed shop in the market. That is the only time one could see him dressed in a full trouser as opposed to half. He only wore khakis. 

 When my aunt passed away, I moved in with my parents. Visram moved in the employment of a local doctor. He lived in an outhouse of the doctor’s bungalow close to my college. I often dropped on him. Our destinies separated us as I left town in search of a job. He, too, returned to his homestead in Ratnagiri. 

Nearly two decades passed. I often thought of him but could never connect. On one of my trips to our hometown, I heard the news that he has become blind and is struggling to survive. That is when I decided to visit Visram. 

 I took a late-night state transport bus from Mumbai that took me to village Ladghar where he lived in the subdivision of Dapoli. I recall his address because I was the one who wrote the address on a postcard he used to write to his wife Parvati every month. The bus dropped me off at 4 am in the middle of few hills. It was pitch dark, but I could hear waves crashing, so it must be closer to one of the countless beaches of Ratnagiri. 

What would you call this when the only person who comes down from the dark pathway turns out to be Visram’s daughter! She had got up early to fetch water from a nearby well. We talked in broken Hindi and Marathi for me to understand that Visram lives in a family cluster 800 feet up in the hill and I could meet him only when the sun comes up. 

 When I reached his hut, Visram was watering a Tulsi plant, a habit of my great aunt. I saw a picture of my aunt in a broken frame on the wall of his hut. When I called his name, he recognized my voice instantaneously. He hugged me and wept like a child. He kept repeating, ‘why did you come here? Why?’ 

I spent a day with him, had lunch supplied by a relative nearby. He confessed he has no money and lives on the charity of relatives. I had carried some money that I gave him and assured him he would no longer live on charity from today. I left distraught Visram at the edge of the hill that I climbed down in the evening. 

 Upon return, I wrote a letter to every person who knew Visram; family and friends. Money poured in. After five years, I got a postcard from his daughter that we should no longer send money now. 

 Visram had died in his sleep with a smile.