By G VENKATESH

Choti choti bathon ki hain yaadein badi [Little incidents leave behind abiding memories], so crooned the plaintive-voiced Mukesh, a singer like no other, for Rajesh Khanna in Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Anand — one of India’s finest films of all time.

The song sure echoes an allusion to a romantic encounter. But, it also applies unfailingly well to incidents of the other kind — the seemingly mundane, too. It appeals to the heart and mind of a convention-hater, or a counter-current thinker, who seeks exceptions to rules, no less.

The venue of the incident — I’ve just related — that lends inspiration to this piece is Kolhapur, located about 600 km away from bustling Bombay. I connect to it with due apologies, of course, to Shiv Sena, a love for alliterations and, of course, counter-current thinking.

Tea Fare

What I narrate happened six years ago.

Bang in front of the famous Mahalaxmi Temple, on what is named Babu Jamal Road — a Hindu place of worship on a street with a Muslim name — is sure food for thought for the Bajrang Dal and the Vishwa Hindu Parishad [VHP]. Here, you’ve Bhushan Snack Home serving, what in my personal opinion is, the best tea I have ever tasted outside of an Irani joint, at a throwaway price of INR 2.00.

Compare this [after sipping it, obviously] with the “not-so-good,” the “so-so,” and the “chalta hai” [it's passé] varieties that Mumbaikars slurp in Mumbai for INR 5.00 and above. You’d be pleased.

Yet, neither the price nor the quality of the tea is the focus of this piece — for my opinion is purely personal and, thereby, subjective. It, however, holds an exemplar — simple and profound.

My mother and I had two teas and handed over a 5-INR-coin to the young lad, who had brought the cups out to us. He promptly returned the balance — two fifty paise coins and held them out in front of me. I looked at him and said, “Thoo tev” [You keep them]. “Kashaa-saati” [For what?], came the response. I would not know the Marathi word for “tips.” Hence, I repeated, this time, more emphatically, “Arre, tev re.” “Nako, nako” [No, No], he said. He looked as if he had committed a Cardinal Sin. He quickly placed the coins down on the table in front of me.

I sipped my tea, thinking hard. I had discomfited him, unwittingly. I looked up. Right there, in front of me, was the framed photograph of Goddess Mahalaxmi, in the sanctum sanctorum of the Temple, the City’s resident deity. Yes, the Goddess of Wealth was right there, but the craving for wealth was not in attendance. The forceful “No, No,” underlined not only reluctance, but also firm conviction — not to accept tips. This, even after serving excellent tea — for almost nothing. INR 2.00.

Contented Mosaic

Kolhapur City, I concluded, without second thoughts, may not be blessed with as much wealth in currency notes and coins as Mumbai is. But, Sri Mahalaxmi, the Goddess of Wealth, has conferred upon it a sublime diktat: that contentment through material wealth alone can never be attained.

The boy, whose name I would wish to know, during a second visit to Kolhapur, is one among possibly the many that keep infrequent virtues — such as honesty alive — in this iniquitous and by-and-large corrupt republic.

I would not know how notable this piece would be, but I considered it my responsibility to put down a few words, nay thoughts. Of one of the many incidents that remind us as beacons of hope in the rough seas of life captained by cynical sailors battling with the tides of doubt and scepticism.

I returned to Mumbai. I was greeted with the news of the Common Admission Test [CAT] — the examination which decides, the fate of your admission to one of India’s prestigious Institutes of Management. Of paper leaks and/or the money that changes hands in a jiffy.

I could not now help but recall the simple pleasures of flavoursome tea and the virtues of the young boy.