Mickey Mouse is here.

 The pavement was retiring for the day. It was quater to one. He tried to gather his tethered jute sack to fight back the biting cold. 

Those were the days, Mumbai used to be the chic Bombay; crowded with elite crowns. Migrations few with migrants who could be counted on fingertips. There was ample space for one to live, lie and procreate for a herd, on the pavement. Symbiosis  prevailed over dark parasitism. Blood suckers were few with blood donars dominating the life scene. Darkness was only symbolic of the setting sun and not of absence of hope. The blanket of starry sky, glossy moon, lamposts and few but prominent lights from overworked nightlamps, offered direction and company to a beggar like him. It felt safe on the pavement, with no fear of a drunk amir driving over you while you enjoyed a snore. Rules ruled Bombay. 

Drawing the jute sack, that doubled up as his safe deposit in the day, the downtrodden tried to sleep. The mosquitoes were giving him a tough time today. His crippled ears seemed to be oozing old monk for which these crusaders were buzzing over him. He slapped himself hard with his decayed fingers. But to no avail. The existing fingers couldn't stand up for the missing ones. Yet, they were successful in shooing off two or three of hundreds of intruders. 

Tomorrow is Monday, go to sleep, you rust! If you don't rush in time, the seat at the entrance of the Babulnath Temple will be taken up by Zinga and his crippled gang. He muttered himself to sleep. 

Walkeshwar, God's own little country in Bombay, boasted of wealthy affairs and extravaganzas. Here, children were born with diamond studded silver spoons. Residents here could savour cashews in their lame aloo ki sabji, too. Generally, not found lumbering on the road, Mondays saw the affluent walk to the Balbunath Temple. Darshan, followed by alms distribution helped them seek redemption. So much was the charity, that each garib could collect his weekly ration. 

He hobbled his way at 7am towards the entrance. Face covered to avoid people's glare, yet some flinched as they saw his broken nose. Some pinched their own, to deseminate the odour emanated from his maggot infected wounds. Leprosy was raking his flesh and bone. Sitting at the threshold of God's kingdom, didn't help either. 

On one such Monday, a posh vintage ambassador classic came to halt in front of the temple. An old lady in white chiffon, adorned with pearls, stepped out with a small girl in pink. The beggar had not seen this naive butterfly here before. She ambled in close association with the lady who seemed to be her grandmother. He smiled remembering a fraction of his depleted memory. Pink frocks and pigtails brought spammed memories to his shrinking brain. He wiped a lone tear, and continued clinking the few coins that decorated his grotesque tumbler. The tumbler a perfect reflection of his body.

"Dadi, I will give coins here." Without waiting for an approval, the little girl rushed towards the beggar. 

"Ha ha ha ha... How funny is your nose! Are you Mickey Mouse's brother?" The girl enjoyed herself, and he joined her in her antics. For the first time in years, somebody had spoken to him in a human dialect. 

"Yes, he is home sleeping now. Would you like to see him?" He presented the temptation to continue the conversation. 

"Yes yes... Please take me to him, uncle. Uncle? What is your name uncle?" She asked innocently. 

Name. What was his name? Years and nobody had called him in that way. 

"Gafoor, gudiya is running temperature. We need to take her to the doctor." He recalled his wife calling. 

"Gafoor that's what my wife and my mother called me. That's all I remember." He looked at the pink butterfly. 

"Oh, my name is Chandra. I will give you this dairy milk  if you take me to Mickey Mouse." Saying thus, she handed him a chocolate bar. 

"Chandraaaa.... What are you doing with that filth? Stay away!" Scared, Chandra ran away but not without winking back at Gafoor. 

Now every Monday the chocolate bars continued to be bestowed on Gafoor, and he kept dodging the plea to meet Mickey Mouse under some funny pretext. 

"Today Mickey has loads of homework."

"Today he has loose motions, he ate lots of jalebis yesterday. "

"Today he has gone to meet Uncle Donald."

The fake promises continued with real chocolatey bars. 

One fine Monday, as Gafoor waited for the ambassador, only the lady stepped out. She seemed worried and remorseful. The same story continued the next day. But never had the ambassador stopped here on a Tuesday. Again, the distressed lady alone. 

Gafoor for the first time clambered the cobblestone staircase of the temple. On inquiring with the Pujari, he found out the girl was admitted to Harkisandas hospital for typhoid fever. Her condition was intoxicating and she was delirious. Gafoor cursed the Almighty standing in his cold territories. As he lamented the fate of the pink butterfly, something struck him and he dashed to his safe deposits. 

The air at the hospital was sombre. Nurses walked in and out with stoic faces. Doctors occasionally were seen discussing the fate of some dying human. Workers scrubbed the marble floorings and glass doors. Here, people mourned too in sophistication. As the security guards were closing the gates after the entry of a VIP, they saw a huge Mickey Mouse waving out to them. The mouse staggered towards the gate, and begged to see a girl called Chandra from Walkeshwar suffering from typhoid. Thinking him to be a buffoon, the security hurled expletives at him, lathi charged him, but the admant mouse refused to bulge. With folded hands, he pleaded he could save the girl. 

Helpless, he sat on the pavement. Thirst, hunger abandoned, he just prayed them to let him in. Somehow, the night guard had mercy on him. The mouse was allowed to see the delirious girl. The fatigued parents had retired to the reclining chairs in the lobby. People who saw the mouse, believed it to be some kind of therapy in the children's ward. 

There she lay. He spotted her through the rectangular glass on the wooden door. Laborious breathing, tubes attached all over, his pink butterfly was fading. 

"Mickey has come to see you, my Minnie!" The mouse performed antics and entertained his sleeping beauty. 

"Wake up, my pink fairy! Mickey has Dairy Milk for you." He kept offering temptations. The attempts failed. Each crushing itself like humonguous waves dying on boulders. Finally unable to bear the atrocities of fate, Gafoor brought his own head out of the costume. He cried bitterly but much better than at the death bed of his daughter. He had failed her due to his drinking habits. Her fever was never cured. 

"Gafoor, you killed gudiya. You killed your own daughter!" His missing wife's voice piecered his ears. Nobody could trust him while he had again lost his faith in God. 

"Gafoor Mickey!" The sweet voice touched his soul. Wiping half shed tears he saw his pink butterfly smiling. Was he delirious too? The little girl signalled him to give the chocolate bar. Before he could do so, 

"You rascal!! How dare you touch my daughter. Security throw this leper away! I will sue you all!" This was the elites' way of expressing gratitude. He didn't mind being kicked and dragged out of the hospital. The salvation he longed for was granted. 

Back to the pavement, the safe deposit empty, he dusted it to cover up his wounds. For sometime he wouldn't be allowed at the Babulnath temple but there was no dearth of God's manmade paradises. There was no dearth of sins for which people seeked salvation. There was no dearth of food for a leper because Gita said, 

Karam karo par phal ki chinta mat karo... 

The chocolate bar was the best fruit Gafoor had received so far.