The Caterpillar

By Aditya Singh

The Caterpillar begins with a teaser and continues as the author coaxes his super-wealthy host to divulge more of his life story. The host shares the pitiful beginning of his life and how his indomitable determination and wit are what see him on the way to school. The journey from the garbage heap to the luxurious edifice, the tides, and ebbs of life, the “rags to riches” story runs parallel with the spiritual and philosophical development of the protagonist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 16Leaves
• Release date: Apr 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9788119194230

Book preview

The Caterpillar

The Caterpillar

Aditya Singh

(Richard)

First Edition, 2023

Copyright © Aditya Singh, 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

This book can be exported from India only by the publishers or by the authorized suppliers. Infringement of this condition of sale will lead to Civil and Criminal prosecution.

Paperback ISBN: 978-81-19194-25-4

eBook ISBN: 978-81-19194-23-0

WebPDF ISBN: 978-81-19194-00-1

Note: Due care and diligence has been taken while editing and printing the book; neither the author nor the publishers of the book hold any responsibility for any mistake that may have inadvertently crept in.

The publishers shall not be liable for any direct, consequential, or incidental damages arising out of the use of the book. In case of binding mistakes, misprints, missing pages, etc., the publishers’ entire liability, and your exclusive remedy, is replacement of the book within one month of purchase by similar edition/reprint of the book.

Printed and bound in India by

16Leaves

2/579, Singaravelan Street

Chinna Neelankarai

Chennai – 600 041

India

[e-mail]

www.16Leaves.com

Call: 91-9940638999

Prologue

The letter to good fortune was lying near the railway track, where a small crowd of vegetable and fish vendors, daily wage earners, and other seemingly not-so-useful people like me were busy inspecting the identity of the sliced body that ran over by train wagons. I stood aloof from the crowd at a little distance, waited for the people to be more engaged with the slain body, and kicked the bundle bag to roll it far from the spot when all the eyes were looking down at the mutilated body. The bundle rolled and rested in the bushes near the railway track. I slowly crawled on my knees to the bushes, picked up the bundle bag, and tip-toed to the slope. I heard voices from the crowd calling it death by suicide, whereas some claimed it to be a tragic accident. The siren of the police jeep silenced the chaos, and I escaped the spot through the wild bushes, knowing it was the right time to vanish. I slid down the slope to reach the agricultural fields and hid in the crops. The jute bundle bag, secured from the eyes of the mob, had the road map to El Dorado that changed my life overnight.

The teaser was alluring enough to stimulate an author like me. I urged my host to go on and divulge more of his story to satisfy my appetite. The sexagenarian man sitting opposite me with a cigar fixed between his lips with an aristocratic perfection was confessing to be a rag picker once, it seemed a joke to me at first but his voice had the hallmark of purity. I lifted the drink served on the centre table and just smiled at my host. You seem to be at a loss of words dear author, said he, drawing my attention. Nope, just thinking, I said busily. What?, inquired my host. Why would someone confess his dark truth to me? I am no pastor or bishop of the church, said I, expressing my suspicion about his story. Wait for a while, said the gentleman and went inside his house. I continued to enjoy the wine and the ambience of the ultra-luxurious drawing room, the walls were decorated with expensive paintings, and the bookshelf was adorned with classic literature and other decorations that repudiated the statement of my host. I concluded the statement to be an attempt to get my opinion before giving it the shape of a novel, Is he thinking of trying his hand at the quill and paper business? I wondered. My thoughts were ripped apart when my host placed an envelope on the centre table. What is it? I inquired. Your remuneration for listening and then writing my story, came the reply. I picked up the envelope and took out the cheque inside it for fifty thousand rupees; now the matter had started to make sense to me. There is one condition, my friend, that I expect you to agree with, said my host, pouring wine into his goblet. Condition? I asked, seeking to learn the terms and conditions of the deal. Nowhere in the novel will you mention my name and also keep it a secret from the rest of the world, said my host, comforting himself on his master chair. I found my tongue to be glued with suspicion and wonder; many fine lines of doubt crisscrossed my mind. I wanted to reason out the purpose behind all this madness, and at one point I thought of surrendering the deal and walking out of his villa silently. I was preparing myself to resign from the deal when my host fettered my gait, asking, Do you want to know why I want you to listen to my story? The gentleman was looking straight at me with a smile on his lips. Yes, was the only word that my tongue could utter as I had begun to doubt the mental condition of this super-rich host. I don’t want the tale of my success to remain a secret to the world, said the host. Okay, I made a short reply thinking it would probably be a wise decision to listen to the story of my ‘Billionaire’ host. The dusk had matured into the dark when my friend began his story. I relaxed on the reclining settee and focused on the story.

Chapter 1

The tragic birth and the Slum

Iam one of those people who are not born but are rescued. I, too, was rescued from a heap of garbage before falling prey to the greedy canines of hungry terriers. I must have been the undesirable result of a desirable moment between two starving souls who came together to quench their desire for pleasure.

The slum, my first shelter on this planet, was in a mufassil. The wandering clans would find their shelters in the adjacent field to an abandoned post office by the British, which later became their permanent settlement. The business of picking rags and selling them for recycling was becoming popular, and the majority of the slum dwellers chose to pick rags.

It was my first day on the track. My immediate senior and leader of the band of rag pickers commanded me to pick items like jute bags, disposable plates, and polythene bags, which were also included in the pick list. The bottles of Bislery mineral water were a jackpot among the ragpickers. I had a good day up until I got hungry in the late afternoon. I went to the leader and expressed my wish to go home, but he denied it and ordered me to fill the sack. I refused to obey him and started to walk back to the slum. They chased me down and warned me not to disobey the leader. I remained adamant about my decision. One of the lieutenants of the clan leader dragged me to him, slapped me, and finally twisted my wrist to suppress my mutiny. I shrieked with pain, the oppressor cupped my mouth with his palm, and he threatened to throw me under the moving wagons of a running train. His fierce look dried my soul, and I timidly nodded in surrender. The day ended after the items collected were sold at the ‘Kachra Godam’, a large concrete house roofed with corrugated tin. The leader placed a 25-paisa coin on my palm. I followed the troops to the slum. The day ended with a bitter experience yet with a reward for my hard work; 25 paise meant a lot in 1969.

I became a regular member and gradually mastered the technique of killing hunger. Dai would give me stale chapatti with sugar rolled inside it—the only meal that I had to survive on until the evening. The ultimate struggle was for food, not for money; people struggled for money when they secured their bread, shelter, and clothes, and we had none of these necessities secured at our end. The money was earned to buy food at the end of the day. The routine continued, and I excelled in my skill at picking rags. The season changed, the Monsoon had replaced the Summer, the heavy showers relieved the heat, farmers returned to the fields to sow the seeds, and the dried ponds, canals, rivers, and other water bodies got life. The monsoon brought happiness to many but brought an ebb to our rag-picking business, the railway tracks were no longer safe during the Monsoon as the electric wires have been introduced. The high-voltage electric shock had already killed a farmer and a rag picker from a different slum. It was one of the rainy days of the Monsoon. It had been showering heavily since morning, restricting us from going to the railway tracks. The rain stopped later in the afternoon, the day was already wasted so none took an interest in going to the tracks that day. I had a free day on my hand and wanted to go out in the mufassil to see how people live there as I had never been out of the slum; my venture was restricted to the railway tracks only. I went to Dai and expressed my desire to go to the market area. She first denied it but finally consented and put me under the command of Bihari, a senior member of the rag-picking business and also said to be the richest because he had a bicycle. Bihari, paddled his cycle with me riding on its carrier on the PWD road, and soon entered the road leading to the heart of the semi-town. Bihari stopped the bicycle near a temple and asked me to get down, he inspected the surroundings and gave me a mild push to join the queue of beggars waiting for alms. I resisted as somewhere down my consciousness I felt it to be wrong to beg but his fiery red eyes overcame my resistance and stalled me in the serpentine queue of beggars. It was one of the auspicious months in the Hindu calendar when the rich Hindus organize feasts for the destitute. A pot-boiled, bald, aristocratic elderly man clad in a white half-shirt and silk dhoti was serving the puris and sabji but what brought water to my mouth was jalebi, I stopped regretting being forced to stand in the queue and kept waiting for my turn. The rich man came closer as the queue advanced ahead and now could take a full view of him, his neck was garlanded by two golden necklaces, and the hands serving the puri had diamond studded gold rings in the fingers, one of his ears had a diamond stud pierced on its lobe. ‘How is he so rich that he donates food to others and why am I so poor to stand in the queue for food’ was the question that tormented my peace for the moment. The rich man came closer, stood near me, and said: take this thali, son. Startled at his call I stretched my hands to receive the food. He was about to place the disposable plate with food on it but something on my palm stopped him, he bent down and inspected my palm from a closer distance and looked at my face and whispered you will become super rich someday. Like you?, replied I with a question. Yes, said he in a serious tone, and he placed the plate on my palm and an extra jalebi on my plate. The taste of puri and sabji faded with time, but his words and that extra jalebi secured a cemented place in my memory forever; the belief that I was born different from the people with whom I was growing up and the extra jalebi placed on the corner of my plate made me believe that I was lucky amongst all. The rich man who professed my future to be rich was a wealthy Marwari businessman and also a famous astrologer. The Mufassil in West Bengal is famous for its shellac industries and the Marwaris from Rajasthan had gathered here almost a century ago, they made the shellac popular in the business and became prosperous themselves. I became a regular visitor of the temple and would often take a tour of the surroundings of the rich edifices built by those Seths. I began to dream and was determined, to be honest about my dreams to become wealthy someday in my life. My rag-picking job had just become a means of survival and the dream was the purpose of living. My desperate hurry to steal time from the job and wandering alone in the lanes did not escape the eyes of my teammates and came the day when the leader confronted me demanding a reason for my hurry to go home.

What the fuck do you do by going home early? asked one of the lieutenants of the clan leader

I play, replied I with an immediate alibi.

You are lying. I received the response with a slap on the cheek.

The leader did not stop with a slap and started to push until I fell on the soil. The kicks rained over my tender belly and delicate spine, and the torture stopped when Dai came to my rescue. She charged with her stick and hooted them away. He won’t go with you anymore, roared the voice, lifting me from the dust. She wiped my bruised face with the torn corner of her rugged saree, and the pain went away. This was the first time I realized I had a protector over me; before this incident, I only knew of Dai as my guardian, but that very moment brought me to the realization of having a mother who cares. Tears rolled down my cheeks, but I didn’t know whether they were from joy or pain. What blew off the dam of the deposited pain deep down in my heart is still a mystery to me, but to an extent, I believe it to be the love that fell over me like a shadow of a banyan to a