“Every morning a large pile of newspapers, in English and Tamil, is delivered to me. During my travels abroad I stay in touch with news from India. I do this by going online to read news articles and editorials in magazines and papers.
I was born in the year 1931. When I was about eight, World War II broke out. Daily life, however, remained fairly unaffected initially, particularly for us in the southern tip of the country.
The only source of information about the outside world was the newspaper. The agency that distributed newspapers was run by my cousin Samsuddin. Along with Jalalluddin, he was a big influence in my early life. Samsuddin had great affection for me and encouraged me in so many ways, that he became a guiding light for me. Samsuddin’s newspaper agency was the only one in Rameswaram. There were about a thousand literate people in the town, and he delivered newspapers to all of them. The papers carried news about the Independence Movement that was heading towards a crescendo at the time.”
These news items would be read and discussed among everyone. There would also be news from the war front, about Hitler and the Nazi army. The Tamil paper Dinamani was the most popular of all. The way the papers reached Rameswaram was quite unique. They came by morning train and were kept at Rameswaram station. From there they had to be collected and sent to all the subscribers. This was Samsuddin’s business and he managed it effortlessly. However, as World War II raged, it affected the newspaper delivery business in a strange way.
The British government had placed a number of sanctions and rations on goods. Something like a state of emergency now prevailed in the country. Our large family felt the difficulties acutely. Food, clothes, the needs of the babies of the household, all became difficult to procure. As the difficulties of the war continued to affect us, Samsuddin came up with a proposal that excited and delighted me. One fallout of the conditions was that the rail stop at Rameswaram station had been done away with. What would happen to our papers then? How were they to be collected and distributed to all the people of the town? Samsuddin found a way out.
The papers would be kept ready in large bundles. As the train chugged down the Rameswaram–Dhanushkodi track, they would be flung out on to the platform. And that is where I came in. Samsuddin offered me the enjoyable job of collecting these bundles of papers thrown from the moving train and then taking them around town for distribution!
My enthusiasm knew no bounds. I was only eight, but I was going to contribute in a meaningful way to the household income! For many days I had noticed the amount of food on my mother’s and grandmother’s plates becoming lesser and lesser as they divided the portions between all of us. The children were always fed first and I don’t remember any of us ever going hungry. Obviously, the women were compromising on their nutrition for us. I readily accepted Samsuddin’s offer.
However, my new job had to be fitted into my regular routine. My studies and school had to continue as before. The delivery business had to be accommodated amidst all these other activities. Among my siblings and cousins, I had shown an early aptitude for mathematics. My father had arranged for me to take tuitions from our mathematics teacher. However, my teacher had a condition that we students needed to reach his home at dawn after having taken a bath. So for a year, which was the duration of the tuition, I started my day while it was still dark outside, with my mother shaking me awake. She herself would have risen before me and got my bath ready. She would then help me bathe and send me on my way to my teacher’s home. There I would study for an hour and return by 5 a.m. By then my father would be ready to take me to the Arabic school nearby.
After my lesson was over, I would sprint to the railway station. Soon, the engine smoke would be visible in the distance. The horn would be tooted loudly and with a thunderous roar, the train would pass through the station. I had worked out the best spot from which to keep an eye out for the flying newspaper bundles. Like clockwork, they would be tossed out on to the platform. The train would then huff and puff away, Samsuddin’s person in
the train would wave out to me, and my job would begin. I then picked up the bundles, divided them up into batches according to the neighbourhood in which the papers had to be distributed and off I went. For about an hour, I tore around Rameswaram, delivering the papers to everyone. Soon I began to identify people by the papers they read. Many would be waiting for me, and there would always be a friendly word or two. Some would tell me to hurry back home so I would not be late for school! I think most people enjoyed being handed their papers by a cheerful eight year old.
Our town being on the east coast, by the time the work was over at 8 a.m., the sun would be high up in the sky. Now I headed back home, where my mother waited with breakfast. A simple meal would be served, but how hungry I was! My mother made sure I ate every morsel before sending me off to school. But my work did not end there. In the evening, after school was over, I would do the rounds of Samsuddin’s customers again, collecting dues. Then I would meet him, so that he could work out the accounts of the day.
At that time, sitting somewhere near the sea, with the breeze blowing in, Jalalluddin or Samsuddin would finally open up the day’s paper. All of us would pore over the black type of the Dinamani. One of us would read aloud the news items, and slowly the larger outside world would enter our consciousness. Gandhiji, Congress, Hitler, Periyar E.V. Ramasamy: their words would hang in the evening air. I would trace the photos and words with my fingers, wondering what it must be like to be out there in the larger world with all of them.
Maybe, I thought to myself, one day I would go to the big cities like Madras, Bombay and Calcutta. What would I say if I ever got to meet people like Gandhiji and Pandit Nehru? But such thoughts were soon interrupted by the calls of my playmates, and then the call for dinner. There was homework to be done, and even an eight-year-old has only that much energy to spend. By 9 p.m. I would be fast asleep, as the next day more studies and the life of a working man lay in store.
This routine continued for about a year. In that one year of running around with the papers, I grew taller and browner. I also learnt that I could now judge quite accurately the distances I could cover at a sprint with a bundle of papers in my hand. Hence, I could time my arrival at various localities at the same time every day. I could calculate in my head the amount owed to Samsuddin by each of his subscribers, and could reel off the names of those who had not paid up that day. Mostly, I learnt that to be a working man meant you had to be up and ready to face the day, whatever else may happen to you.
Homework, tuition, prayers, all carried on, but the Madras–Dhanushkodi Mail would not wait for me—I had to be present at the station at the correct time and at the correct point to collect the bundles as they came flying in. It was my first brush with taking up a responsibility and seeing to it that I kept my word to my cousin Samsuddin, no matter what. It was also the most enjoyable time and I loved every moment of it, often notwithstanding the intense tiredness every night.
My mother often fretted and fumed at my taking up this additional work and the toll it was taking on me, but I shook my head and smiled at her. Knowing that my earnings were somehow helping us all, and that she was secretly proud of me for having taken on the role of a working man at the age of eight, kept me going with a smile on my face.
A working man at the age of eight!
(An extract from A. P. J. Abdul Kalam’s memoir, My Journey: Transforming Dreams into Actions.)
