Neha watched Bal from the wings. For the past three months, Bal had been appearing on TV every Saturday night, moving up the popularity charts and inching closer to a life of fame and riches.

Neha had watched him regularly from the wings, her hands always clasped, as if in silent prayer. Bal was Neha’s protégé. His ingenuous manner and ready smile had won him a great number of fans across the country, making him the favourite contender for the award. His high-pitched singing voice and a seemingly endless repertoire of folk songs had pushed his popularity to stratospheric levels. A few weeks ago, no one had heard of him, not even people from villages close to his. Now, it would be difficult to find anyone in the country who wasn’t rooting for Bal. His weather-worn face had smiled its captivating smile on magazine covers, newspapers and billboards across the entire nation. In board-rooms, bed rooms, men’s rooms, all kinds of rooms, things were not complete if Bal was not mentioned, his current rating discussed, debated or commented upon.

And to think, Neha had found Bal by an incredible chance, tucked away in an unknown village in the Bundelkhand region on the border of Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh. Neha worked in a television company as an assistant producer, and though the talent scouts for the programme were scouring the country for AP’s (award probables), she had referred Bal’s name personally after stumbling upon him during her visit to the Khajuraho temples. She was on a break and was driving to Khajuraho from Delhi with her boyfriend. On an impulse, they had decided to take a tea-break on the edge of a bright-yellow mustard field. It was here that Bal had floated into their lives, his melodious voice caressing the green and yellow expanse of the fields. Since then, Neha had always thought of his voice as mustard flavoured – earthy and overwhelming. Mesmerised by his singing, they had weaved their way through the fields, cameras in hand, towards the nearby temple which seemed to be the source of the voice.

Neha had found Bal sitting outside the temple gate, singing a soulful bhajan. She had taken some pictures of the old man and then had dropped a five rupee coin.

“He won’t touch it,” a small boy had said. “He has touched money only once in his life, and he hasn’t forgotten the thrashing he got for it!” the boy said, following up with a request that Neha take his picture too.

Had touched money just once in his life! Neha had been stupefied. He was perfect for the show. She had called her office on her cellphone and immediately mailed Bal’s picture and a small video to the Producer.

“Go ahead,” came back the text message. And ahead she had gone. She had stopped at the village for two days. She made friends with Bal and pieced together his story from conversations with the temple priest and other villagers.

“There’s nothing special about him,” the priest had said, as he recounted Bals’s tale.

Bal couldn’t read or write; he had never been to school. He didn’t have a family or any recollection of ever having had one. He had lost them in a famine sixty years ago, when he was three years old. He was sort of adopted by the priest; he was more a property of the temple than a living person. He grew up in the temple premises, sleeping on the stairs that led up to it, and when it was cold, he slept with the cows. Being a dalit boy (though if you asked Bal, he wouldn’t understand the term, used to, as he was, with the original word achoot – an untouchable), he was not allowed inside the sanctum sanctorum of the temple. In return of two meals a day he had to sweep the temple premises, feed the cows, cut the wood, water the plants, plaster the floor outside the temple with gobar — a mix of cow excrement and water — and guard the slippers that devotees left outside the temple. Any lapse on his part meant either a sound thrashing or a missed meal, depending on the severity of the transgression, the evaluation of which depended on the mood of the priest. Bal didn’t mind it too much. This was the way life was. He enjoyed listening to the bhajans and aartis sung at the temple and picked up the tunes.

When he reached the age of fifteen, Bal committed a blunder that changed his life forever. He had been given a one-rupee coin by a brahmin girl. In his excitement, Bal had forgotten himself, had looked into the brahmin girl’s eyes and had smiled his famous smile. The girl had complained and Bal was thrashed within inches of death; hell hath no fury like an upper caste girl affronted. Bal’s fractured legs had never really healed and he had walked with the help of a stick ever since. But he still had his smile and his lilting, high-pitched voice. He had been disowned by the temple but having nowhere else to go, he had become a fixture outside it and sang his songs. The priest had continued to give him food, and sometimes he would receive clothes from a visitor. The Lord understood his needs and provided accordingly, Bal felt. He was happy singing praises of the Lord.

Neha watched Bal from the wings, biting her fingernails, her hands clasped. The emcee, a famous film actress, introduced the finalists. It was Diwali night – an appropriate moment for the award ceremony. The programme had created television history, attracting a record number of viewers.

Bal hadn’t understood what this was all about. He was under the impression that he was to sing bhajans to entertain people. Bitiya, as he called Neha, had arranged for his stay at the local dharamshala near her house. Neha had grown extremely fond and possessive about him and would have been very jealous if another bitiya had emerged. The other girls were all beti, only she was bitiya. One of the first questions that Bal had asked her was “Are you a brahmin girl, bitiya?”

Neha had tried to explain to him that she was of no caste. That she had adopted Buddhism and didn’t believe in the caste system or God.

“Not even Ram?” an incredulous Bal had asked her.

One evening he had introduced Ram back in her life. In his indescribable voice he had sung:

Jaise suraj ki garmee se tapte hue tan ko mil jaaye taruvar ki chchayaaa…
Aisa hi sukh mere mann ko milaa hai main jab se sharan teri aayaaaa, mere Ram.

She had understood then, as the tears had rolled down her cheeks, that Ram was not a God or a warrior-hero, but simply a feeling.

Bal stole a look at Neha in the wings, flashing his smile. She smiled back and raised her eyebrows.

The actress explained the criterion for selection to the audience. Everyone knew the process by heart, but she built up the suspense. “And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, the winner of the award. But first, to remind you what the winner gets: a car, presented by Mr Khan himself! a cheque for rupees five lakhs, presented by the head of the Mahtani group, free air tickets to anywhere in India for three years by the Tourism department, a digital gift hamper by India’s leading IT company, and finally, a house presented by Mr Amani, the richest person in the country!!

“Ladies and Gentlemen, and now, the moment you all have been eagerly waiting for – on Diwali night, when Goddess Lakshmi showers her generous blessings upon everyone, the award – judged by our eminent panel of Mr Misra, CEO of the Indya Bank, Mr Awasthi, CEO of Om advertising agency and Mr Motial CEO of Micro Software Solutions – goes to someone who has felt only a one-rupee coin in his entire lifetime! Imagine that! Living a life on a rupee!

Neha started clapping excitedly from the wings and smiled at the irony. As soon as Bal received the award, he would become eminently unsuitable for it!

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, The Poorest Person in the Country -- Mr Bal!”