The Lord's Trustee

The Lord’s Trustee

(This was published in Marine Lines December 2018)

It was a February evening when having witnessed the beautiful sunset near the war memorial I walked back to this small bar on Jalandhar Beach in Diu. On the counter sat an old frail man with two women and the three chattered incessantly about small little things. I wanted to get high and hence ordered a Feni which I gulped pretty quickly for my normal drinking pace.

Once I had been hit by the alcohol, I sauntered over to the threesome and told Mansukh and his two wives that I was a client who had visited his bar and restaurant almost two decades back. This set the ball rolling with the old man retorting, “Those were the good old heady days. Life is still wonderful. My daughters are married and sons have migrated to Europe. I have shut down the restaurant, given the guest house on lease and run the bar to pass the twilight of my life with these two dames,” he said.

Just as I walked out, memory took me back several years when I had first visited Jay Shankar Guest House, Bar and Restaurant recommended by local bureaucracy and the ‘firangs’ whom I had met as I moved around sozzled trying to make up for the days being wasted in dry Gujarat without a decent drink.

The place had been boisterous and the middle aged lively Mansukh had spared a few minutes from the busy routine to interact with me.  The meeting had ended with him refusing to charge anything for the sumptuous meal that I had of mind blowing tuna and pomfret. He only took money for the beer that I had guzzled.  The logic given by him was, “The food is cooked at my home and is given by Lord Shiva while the alcohol comes after paying to the government for the bar license.”

The story of his life as he told me that evening continues to rebound even after so many years. Mansukh used to be a small time vegetable vendor who mainly sold potatoes at the local vegetable market in the pristine island of Diu. A leader of the vegetable vendors, he was living a quiet contended life with his two wives and six children in a small house overlooking the Jalandhar Beach, an out of the world location for a travel enthusiast. Life comprised potato sales, afternoon siestas and an evening devoted to his favourite deity Lord Shiva.

But enhancing his income remained a concern which was eventually addressed by an acquaintance who told him, “You have a house at a prominent location. Diu is full of travelers. Why don’t you start a small eatery? “

From the next day Mansukh kept a huge ice box containing soft drinks for sale along with small packets of biscuits and wafers. The tourists shuffling between the Diu Fort, Jalandhar and Nagwa beaches on bicycles usually halted at his small shack.

It was a July afternoon when a white American or European tourist on a bicycle halted and said, “Can I have some Pepsi and food?”  Now, Mansukh’s knowledge of English comprised bare minimum vocabulary and all he could speak of the Queen’s language was ‘Yes’, ‘No’ and ‘Thank You’.

Since he only understood the term Pepsi, he promptly said yes and handed over a bottle to the visitor. After a while, the visitor again asked, “I wanted some food and Pepsi.” Mansukh again said yes and handed over another bottle. This irked the visitor who peeped inside the house to see whether anything was being cooked. All he saw was Mansukh’s family sprawled on the floor.

The annoyed visitor handed him the money, scowled at him and probably abused him.  This left Mansukh in tears as he tried to understand what had gone wrong and where.

Sitting close by was another of his customers having her soft drink. She was a French native named Stephanie who was pursuing a course in Hindi in Paris and was observing what was going on. She walked up to Mansukh and asked him, “Didn’t you understand what he wanted?” Mansukh told her his part of the story.

“It was Stephanie who persuaded me to start a small eating joint. She taught me the bland cuisine that the Europeans liked. From thereon our enterprise took off. For the next few months she would market my outlet among the foreign tourists. We followed a rule. My wives cooked and my children served. There was no extra hand to help run the joint that slowly became a restaurant,” he had related.

She also helped him set up a guest house that was a rage among the foreign backpackers. The rooms were neat, came cheap and there was the cuisine that they wanted. In addition was a stock pile of books and magazines in several languages which many of them left back.

“Then at one point she asked me to marry her. I refused saying that I could not go in for a third matrimony and more kids,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

So Stephanie left after a few more months but before she departed she got an Israeli friend of her to keep helping Mansukh. His Jay Shankar Guest House was soon granted a bar license and it became Diu’s sought after place.

But throughout his walk to prosperity Mansukh never failed to thank his Lord. Neither did he give up his vocation of selling potatoes. Perhaps this was the drive that had led him to walk into the office of the local revenue department one fine day and transfer his entire property in the name of Lord Shiva.

“I am convinced that all this belong to the Lord. I am just his trustee managing the things. Who would have thought that I would get so much in terms of money, popularity and love? It’s the Lords work,” he had said while sending me off that September evening 17 years ago.

How much he was adored was visible from the visitor book that he had maintained at that time. The comments from his clients all over the glob were amazing. They were full of wit, fun and spoke of the loveliness of life.

I wanted to know whether Stephanie maintained contact with him after all these years. “Yes she does call off and on,” he said with eyes that still sparkle at her name.

“Where are your visitors’ books? I want to re-read them,” I said.

“They are lying dumped somewhere. I do not have the energy left in me to even sort out the books,” he said with remorse.

A friend recently told me that he has taken to writing the name of his Lord hundreds of times on a piece of paper every day. The clock of his life has clicked away. He continues to run the small bar with minimal clientele. Old timers like me who have witnessed his hay days do go to him once in a while to see the Lord’s trustee at work.

This piece was penned during my last visit to Diu around three years back. I hope Mansukh and his old dames are doing well. I crave for a visit to him very soon.