Sodhu Lal is a cobbler. He sits under the big peepal tree at New Road, and sews people’s shoes. He has been living in Kathmandu for the last 20 years. But of late, he is quite sad, and he has decided to leave the city forever.
He lives in a small, rented room in Koteshwar. In the evening, he picks up his things: last, thread, needle, cutter, paste, soles and straps of leather, and takes a bus for Koteshwar at Ratnapark.
Today, the bus is quite empty. It’s old, government-run bus. The leather on the seat is all torn, and sitting is not very comfortable. Yet, he thinks, the bus is as old as himself, and so, he takes it. He goes to the last long seat, and occupies one corner.
With a few passengers, the bus starts. At Saheed Gate, two rough teenagers get it. They smell of smoke, and the way they talk suggests that they are spoilt.
They walk straight to the rear, and sit on a seat just in front of Sodhu Lal. For some time, they talk all obscenities they know, but after sometime, Sodhu Lal hears one of them whisper, “Look! The leather has torn off here. Bring out the scissors. Let’s cut flaps for making catapult straps.”
“O no, that’s wrong,” says another, whispering.
“What wrong? This is a public bus, and so, it is ours as well. Come on, bring out the scissors.”
So, they cleanly cut a few flaps of leather, and get down at New Baneshwar.
Sodhu Lal feels extremely bad. He proceeds to that seat, takes out a strap of leather from his bag, and starts sewing. He tells to himself, “This is public property, and so, it is mine as well. I need to set it right.”
Since the bus is moving quite fast, he cannot work quickly. After finishing this work, he looks around to see other seats. At a few other places, he can see similar damage. He immediately sets to work. Even by the time the bus has reached and stopped at Koteshwar, he is still working.
Seeing the man still busy, the conductor shouts, “Hello; we have reached the end. Why don’t you get down?” But Sodhu Lal continues. The conductor informs the driver about the impertinent old man.
The driver, who is of Sodhu Lal’s age, looks. He is surprised at the sight. He goes near to him and gently asks, “Brother, what is that you are doing?”
Sodhu Lal looks up. There is no anger on the driver’s eyes. Instead, there is a feeling of strange love and appreciation. He says, “Brother Driver! This bus is my bus too; I did the little I can.”
The driver is speechless. For the past twenty years, he has been driving the same bus, but this is the first time he has found such a man who has such great value for public property. Driving the bus, he has been to forests where people steal wood; to rivers, ponds and wells where people throw rubbish; to public parks, where people go for picnic and leave it dirty; to temples and historical sites where they spit and throw nasty things; to schools and hospitals where they mindlessly damage furniture, write nasty things on the wall and steal away things. He silently remembers how he has driven many times through reservation areas and national parks, and how he has seen hunters killing animals and birds and carrying them home.
“Brother! This city needs people like you. If all had this sense of love for public property, it would be a different place,” he says.
“But I am leaving this town tomorrow. Today is my last evening,” says Sodhu Lal.
“But why?” asks the driver.
“You know, because, people in this city do not behave like responsible citizens. I will go to my own village.”
The driver thinks for a long time, and says with tears, “Do not leave the town; Brother. After I finish my round duty in the evening, let’s take this bus and to to different places—you, I and my conductor boy—and tell people about public property. One day, people will understand. Do not leave this town, please.”
Sodhu Lal thinks deeply for a long time, and says, “Your words and your love bind me. I am with you.”
And every day, they take rounds to various places and tell people the importance of public property, and the duties they have towards them.