Who will watch the watchman?

We called the building watchman in Mumbai, “bhaiyya ji”. He was indeed a big brother for everyone. It would be more accurate had we called him “grandfather ji”. The building itself was decades old, and bhaiyya ji was older by several more. His tasks were many- managing the water-pump, washing cars, dealing with electricians and plumbers, and yes, providing security cover.

At his age, he couldn’t hurt a fly, much less, be a match for potential robbers. From time to time, there was talk to get a “younger” watchman. But then, can you hire a younger grandfather, just because yours is too old?

The stillness of the night was punctured with the sounds of a rhythmic tapping. It was bhaiyya ji- he used a staff, more to support himself, and to incidentally announce to thieves and robbers, he was awake and alive, up and about. The tapping was loud and clear, till it slowly receded, and all was quiet. Soon, the tapping resurfaced. He had completed one lap around the building. Along with the tapping, at times, he hurled loud abuses. No one knew with whom the watchman had an altercation- may be, with ghosts and spirits. As a child, it was scary. You pulled the blanket over the head and hoped the night would pass quickly.

Despite the watchman’s rounds, one morning, all the clothes were missing from the balcony. The watchman was summoned. He looked around curiously, joining others in the investigation. “You see these footprints on the grill? The thief stood here. You see this? Look! The dust has come off from this spot! That’s how he dragged the clothes through the grill!” He had cracked the puzzle, with the effortlessness of a Sherlock Holmes, and was pleased as punch. Only, the thief was missing. That was a minor detail. No one had the guts to ask him, “Bhaiyya ji! By the way, may we ask you a basic question, may we? What were you doing sir ji, if we may ask, when this entire operation was in progress?”

Stolen clothes were just the appetizer. The main course came later. One morning, father and I came downstairs, to find the car was gone! An entire Fiat car had vanished into thin air, much like a PC Sorcar magic show.

You could not fault the watchman. He was simply a “watchman”. He watched. His job description did not entail any “doing”.  He was like the sun, a “saakshi”, watching all goings on- the good, the bad, the ugly, in an aloof and distant manner.

After this episode, a question arose- may be, we need another watchman to watch over our watchman. It was a philosophical problem. Who will watch the watchman? The first watchman required a second watchman, to watch the second, you need a third, leading to an infinite regress conundrum. The topic was parked once the stolen car found its way back.

The watchman had no family that we knew of. The entire building was his family. Once, every few years, he announced, “I am going back to my hometown, my “mulluck”. I may stay back for good.” The threats were empty. We had heard it much too often. Sure enough, one night, we heard the rhythmic tapping and the familiar insults. He was back!

Mumbai has no space. Its residents are packed tight, like groundnut “chikki”, and boast of “mansions”- spanning 500 sq ft and a maximum of 700 sq ft. When space is such a premium, how much space does the watchman get?

Bhaiyya ji’s home was the landing beneath the stairs. Under the slope of the stairs, his possessions were minimal- a coir-strung bed, a stove, and a cooking utensil. The wall was packed with tiny boxes with wires sticking out- electric meters for each flat.

It was here, bhaiyya ji spent his days, weeks, months, years, decades, half a century, a century, perhaps more. By the turn of the millennium, my parents moved out of Mumbai. There was no opportunity to go back.

Who knows? Bhaiyya ji may still be tapping the ground with his staff. He was indeed a guardian angel in this big, bad world.