The old man on Rue du Four

That was another cold spring morning in Paris. Cold for me and Semi. The Parisiens actually looked like enjoying it. They were up and about everywhere with a newspaper in their left hand and a baguette tucked under their shoulders from which they plucked away in gay abandon without breaking a stride. Some even carried blocks of cheese to nibble away from. We were wrapped up in jackets just enough to keep out the bitter part of the pleasant weather. We had the Pantheon in mind when we left our tiny hotel room, but we ended up deviating from our path to try a street breakfast. That is what we did stopping at a boulangerie where we grabbed a few croissants (baguettes were too hard for our liking), and an assortment of pain. The aroma of the wayside cafes and bakeries in Paris is beyond description. I was not a great coffee lover before that visit to Paris. But even I couldn't resist having an espresso at a cafe which actually looked like a pub out of the movies. The seating was out on the pavement facing the street. Parisiens walked about without one unpleasant stare despite Semi's Indian salwar and muslim headscarf. After the coffee and a few pain au chocolat and croissants we got up to explore the surrounding alleys. Every building looked like a heritage building to us - right out of a storybook. Our necks strained from looking up at the 19th century facades. An interesting kaappa adorned the crest of each stucture. We took a turn and found ourselves in a poorer looking quarter of the Sixth Arrondissement, when I felt like rummaging into Semi's bag for the last of the pain. My usual clumsy hands failed me and sure enough the bread fell on the street that was a little wet and grimy from the morning's drizzle. I would have picked it up and taken it away till I found the next bin to toss it into. But right then an old man appeared on the street walking towards us. A wave of unexplained, stupid embarrassment flowed over me and it occurred to me that the gentleman would misunderstand my civility for my cheapness - a poor Indian not willing to let go of a morsel of food. When am I going to grow out of my inferiority? We walked on leaving the piece of bread in the middle of the street. We turned the corner and looked back discreetly. The old man was stooped over picking the bread up with his two hands. We looked on in horror. We had heard of poverty in Paris, had even seen the homeless at Gare du Nord. But this reminded me of the poor of Bombay and Madras. Nothing prepared me for what I witnessed next. The old man in the old worn out jacket was tearing up the bread into small crumbs. He stood up slowly as his old back would permit and .. no, he did not mouth the soiled scraps - thankfully, no. He beckoned pigeons with a low, kind whistle and started feeding them one after the other We didn't understand what he was mumbling. But then kindness is a language you don't need a dvd to learn.