Before we get to why Baba was crying, let me tell you the circumstances under which we met. The skies were overcast and the street play actors were just warming up. Members of the activist group Disha had gathered to voice their protest against reports of an attack on members of Sahmat in Lucknow.

When I was given the assignment, I shook my head in dismay. See, I wasn't quite sure how the youngsters playing cricket in the field or busy Mumbaikers cutting across the maidan to catch a train could be made to stand and watch a street play formore than two minutes. I also wasn't sure how many of them really cared about ``fascism raising its ugly head''.

The last street play I had seen was in a small slum in Delhi and it didn't leave much of an impression on me. The audience had been indifferent to the purposeful enactment of an amateur theatre group, trying to tell them all there was to know about family planning. By the time the actors got to the hum do, hamare do bit, the women were tucking their saris, picking up their scrawny children and leaving.

After that play, I was quite convinced that street plays didn't work. Because the street people I saw the play with were not interested in knowing that better things were just a protest away. Hakim Baba changed all that. Both he and I were watching Disha perform for different reasons. For me it was an assignment, for him it was a break from trying to convince people that he actually had miraculous herbs in his little potli.

So, on that overcast evening, we found ourselves standing side by side.The play began with a game of Antakshri. I ran my eye over the sparse crowd. It was a group of curious onlookers who had just stopped by to check out what was happening. For the first few minutes of the play, the crowds came, they saw and they went. But five minutes later, things started getting dramatic. The actors were now talking about the indifference of the common man to the problems around him. The crowds were not leaving any more.

In a matter of five minutes, the curious group of onlookers had suddenly become involved in the play. Hakim Baba was shaking his head in agreement with the common man's conscience in the play. As the actors motivated the common man to stand up for his rights, Hakim Baba started muttering.

It was at this point that I broke his concentration and asked him his na-me. Bad timing. Hakim Baba looked at me and started crying. Once he had his emotions under control, he started talking. ``Did you see the play,'' he as-ked, wiping his tears. ``It's so true, isn't it? I am a commonman and I see things go wrong all around me, but I don't have a voice,'' he added.

Baba then went on to tell me about the goons who ruled his locality, about how they extorted money, harassed poor people and how everyone had learnt to live with it.

Disha was talking about the same things. The play used examples from Baba's everyday life -- the ration shop with the permanent ``out of stock'' board, eve-teasing, corrupt officials. The play then asked the common man to speak up against injustice and demand his rights.

Stand up for your rights... sang Bob Marley, but Hakim Baba said he couldn't. He said his spirit had been broken and the only thing he could do now was cry. ``Forget me, did you notice all the young people who were seeing the play?'' he asked. ``Do you think they will change things?'' His voice trailed, but in his eyes there was hope. I left Baba standing there, hoping that he would live to the see the better tomorrow he dreamed about.