Did I ever tell you about the bum called Oscar? In my 20s (during my Bandra era), I used to live in a dingy studio apartment on the ground floor of Church street, behind Stanislaus School. Every evening when I returned from work, a smelly old homeless man would be sitting at my doorstep. Oscar. Always wearing 20 layers of moth eaten clothes, he’d be munching on some god forsaken sandwich, bought with pocket money from the kind priest across the street. Why he always chose to sit on my porch of all porches, I have no idea. Tired and grumpy, all I would be able to muster was a half annoyed-half polite order, “Please get up Oscar, I need to open my door.” He’d then move at a sloth’s pace, gathering his tattered bindle while finishing the last bite of his sorry meal. After about 78 seconds, I’d finally make it inside the pigeon hole. On some days when work wrapped late, all I’d walk up to find in his place would be a soiled, square piece of paper, with strings and crumbs strewn about.
I wasn’t particularly a happy camper back then, waist-deep in quarter-life-crisis. Living a hand-to-mouth existence and stuck in the wrong career, I’d often drown my sorrows in 17 hour-long, uninterrupted slumbers. My paper-thin walls would let in noise from the constant foot traffic outside and never-ending Catholic neighbours’ banter. All those times when I snoozed through it all in my dark cave, Oscar was probably sitting guard outside, grinding his gums over a greasy snack. The bum was a natural butt of jokes. School kids would often pass by and deliberately push his buttons. They’d chirpily wave out, “Good evening Oscar” and he’d immediately get triggered and blurt out, “Aye-maa-ka-bhosda-bhenchuth”. Hearing the kids break into peels of laughter, I’d grin into my pillow and snuggle back to sleep. (Years later I heard the same gaali in Netflix’s Sacred Games over and over again, but it lacked the same gravitas).
Now, a decade later, I’ve moved up in the world. By one notch to be precise. From advertising to filmmaking, from the ground floor to the 1st, from congested Bandra to spacious Versova, from a studio apartment to a 1 bhk, and from Oscar to a rotating roster of guards at the fancy front gate, who always need reminding that “Baba I live here, let me in!”. After about 130 seconds, I finally make it to my sanctuary: no more dust, no more depression, and no more Oscar. I’m not a nostalgic person, so it’s a wonder that I suddenly decided to write about him so. The last time I saw him was about 8 years ago: I was passing by in a rickshaw and spotted him, sleeping on a pavement with his mouth wide open in the middle of loud traffic at Hill Road. I felt a tinge of sadness and said a silent prayer for him. Every now and since then, whenever I’m street-shopping there, I ask around about him. The shopkeepers have a vague memory and most residents have moved out. I think Oscar must have moved on too, all the way up into Heaven, poor thing.
I never got a chance to extend a helping hand beyond a glass of water. I took cues from the apathy of the neighbours and their discouraging sermons, “Don’t give him any money, that bugger’ll waste it on liquor. Don’t humour him, he’ll never leave you alone” etc. etc. I remember him being shy around me, but strangely obsessed with my doorstep.
Today, I look forward to a different kind of Oscar (Best Original Screenplay, mind you!), but the OG will always be on my mind. I hope he’s laid to rest in peace and wish for a kinder world for other Oscars out there. I could have and should have done more by him. In my pursuit of the golden statue, I mustn’t forget to pay it forward. As some say on Oscar night, it’s always nobler to be thanked than do the thanking… I’d like to do both!
And God replied, “Whatever you did for one of the least of my brothers, you did it to me.” – Matthew 25:35