RICH, was what the world knew me as, probably even before I was named Shobhit, though my first name was always useless with the last name being Raizada,. My father, a billionaire, had enough money to feed all the slums in Delhi, yet he never realized this , and hence was happy feeding a family of three, my mother, me and himself.

My life had been royal in many ways, a mansion so big that could put a mall to shame, a car so grand that was the envy of the rich and famous, a battery of servants that could be made into a small army battalion.

Amongst all this was him, someone who cared for me more than my father.

He was from Bihar and claimed to be matric pass, the first from his village to do so. He was named Chotu by his parents, but my father did not like that name and rechristened him Ramesh, when he came to work for him. He was 21 when he entered the Raizada mansion and has even since been a part of the house, the servant quarters to be precise.

My father’s love for me was proportionate with the number of servants he had kept for me. Ramesh was one of them. I saw a lot more of him than my father; he knew a lot more about me than my father. Slowly, I had become a lot more like him that my father.

Yet, three years back, he was thrown out of the house—his inability to distinguish between red and green cost him his job, a job where he had spent his lifetime.

I loved him a lot and was very fond of him. So on New Year’s Eve, four months after he left the mansion, I decided to go and meet him. I could not have started the year without a wish from him.

He now lived in one of the slum areas in Delhi, he did own a house of his own. As I walked into the by lanes of the colony where he lived, some of which were narrower than the corridors in our house, people looked at me with curiosity in their eyes.

As I was searching for the doorbell, a woman appeared and asked “kon h…” My appearance had stunned her, she probably did not expect a man who looked and smelled so rich to be at her doorstep. I hesitantly asked for him, my Ramesh baba, and she, without saying anything pointed inside. Without even asking for permission I entered their mansion, a small, rather very small room, a small kitchen and probably a washroom. There he sat, looking many years older than what he looked just four months back.

Shobhit beta! Shobhit beta! Shobhit Ji.

 The Ji seemed like a sudden realization that he was no more my driver. His eyes were wet. He did not expect me to be there. He had his hands folded now and I knew if I did not react, they all would do the same so it was my turn to say hello. I jumped forward and hugged him.

I was made to sit on the charpai, the only one in the house and after much request Ramesh baba sat next to me. I put his hand on my head, he did not pull it away. A childish voice spoke… Uncle hamare saath khana khake jana.

I was surprised. A house too small to accommodate even the dogs of the rich, a house which smelt aweful, a house with a man who looked 200 years older that he was, yet a house with only love and compassion for me!

I could not say no. I just kissed the boy on his forehead!

We had the dinner, Ramesh baba’s daughter in law spread the newest bed sheet in the house for me to sit. The feast started.  Two vegetables, chapattis and curd, some salad, mainly of cucumber and onion was served in the best plate that was in the house.

I ate like I had not eaten for days. The food was tastier than any food I ever had tasted.

The dinner was done. And I was to leave. The idea of staying back came to my mind but I preferred not to… I did not want to be the 7th person in the room.

Ramesh baba’s grandson was reciting A  B C D. I went to him. I asked if he knew how to write. He smiled and said that he knew a little. I asked if he wanted to learn how to, he answered in affirmative, excitedly.

I held his hand and together we wrote HAPPY NEW YEAR….

In the worst handwriting, he wrote it twenty times and finally with a red crayon, the only crayon he had. I smiled and kissed him again on his forehead.

I tore the page, folded it and kept it in my pocket, and left. As I stepped out,  I searched for the doorbell again, and then realized there was none.  I walked through the lanes of the colony, leaving my car, just walked, walked the stretches, walked through the differences between rich and poor, walked from one mansion, full of love, to another mansion, full of everything except love.  

I got a message, a voice note from my dad wishing me happy new year and blessing me for the life ahead, which I heard, deleted and kept walking.

I had with me a bigger wish, that torn page, it was the best gift I had ever got in my life!