My Shillong Sojourn with ‘The Girl from Nongrim Hills (from the pages of April 2014 issue of enajori.com)

Terra Firma Home Sick Blues

Three rows ahead of me sat the man who lost his mother the previous day. Both of us were sitting diagonally aisle seats of the bus. In front of him the road kept sweeping itself in under our speeding bus as new sceneries emerged on the horizon line. He was looking blankly at the ever changing landscape in front of him, teary eyed. He was sad at his mother’s death but was it sorrow that made his eyes teary it was hard to assume, because he always had those small, often wet, eyes that betrayed most emotions.

He has travelled this journey innumerable time, ever since he left his mother and siblings behind three decades ago. Holidays and festivals, deaths and weddings…he found himself treading the same road and walking down the same lane to probe the same door over and over again. His mother would already be expecting his arrival but like her son she too would emote frugally. Gentle murmur of small talk in the portico would be enough to ripple her expectation laden siesta as she would faintly hear her son’s voice. She would slowly slide out of the bed, tie her grey hair into a bun and walk past the other room. A glimmer of a smile would probably escape from her lips but not much else as she would enquire about his travel weariness and ensure some tea to soothe the same. She didn’t ask much about his work as she wouldn’t understand much herself. He was the wise one among her sons and daughters; went to colleges and universities to earn degrees. He was also the son who was away most of the time, therefore missed sorely. But with him back now she would sit in her armchair with contentment reflecting in her eyes.

Between her chores and rest she would often remember him and worry about his health, marriage and well being. She would write letters to him and wait for his replies. And in the months approaching the festivals she would enquire beforehand about his arrival. Few days before his arrival she would soak the Bengal grams that he liked sprouted and on the morning of his arrival she would pick vegetables of his choice and line them up for her daughters-in-law to cook. He would bring her a new cloth on the festive occasion and give her some money to meet her expenses. She would show him the new hearing aid, water filter, blanket or whatever it was that she bought with the money he gave her on his previous visit. In later years her son would arrive with his family in small noisy automobiles that dropped them off at her gates. As the vehicle broke the tranquility of the neighborhood with its shrill revving, she would walk out to the same portico and watch them walk up the lane. As her daughter-in-law enquired about her health she would nod and smile gently. She would again sit in her armchair and listen in silence as her family kept talking and laughing. She probably thought of her long dead husband and wished they sit together as their family grew over the years. However off late she wasn’t keeping well. She fought and survived at least two near fatal heart attacks, albeit battle torn she was. She was speaking bleary delirium and been in bed for almost three months till yesterday.

He reached his home in some time, stayed for a few days and returned after his mother’s funeral. He continued to visit his home town for a few more years until one day he returned home never to leave again. Much like a horse coming to terms with the stillness of the ground beneath after a tiring gallop, he sunk himself into his mother’s arm chair and into the tranquility around it. And in his silence, he too, probably, wished his mother was sitting by him; share the silence and rejoice the fulfillment of a life time’s longing. In his free time he would read or visit the neighbors. But more often he would grow a few vegetables and flowers. He liked gardening; he had a natural gift for it. As he worked his way through the mud and the saplings, memories of childhood – plucking berries or stealing mangoes, swimming in the river or lazing around under the winter sun – would leave a trail of thought in his mind like a shooting star.

Ever since noon, he was poking his little hoe around his French bean trees to loosen the earth, left crusty by an unusually hot November sun. Finally satisfied at having done enough, he washed his hands and feet and walked up to the porch chair. He did pause by it for a while but went towards the kitchen instead. It was approaching dusk and he picked up a tin can which was shining in the last rays of sunlight. He opened the lid – there was still a spoonful or two of the premium quality tea leaves that he has been sparingly last few days. It will come handy when his son arrives today evening, he thought. His son and daughter in law recently had a baby; today will be the first time he will see his grandchild.

A stroll at the New Delhi World Book Fair 2015

The cool gust of breeze welcome me as I step out of Hall 12 of Pragati Maidan. I check my visitor pass to ensure that I have finished criss-crossing all the pavilions that hosted the 2000+ stalls, domestic and foreign. Later tonight the annual New Delhi World Book Fair 2015 (NDWBF) will wind down after splashing a nine day feast for the eager legion of NCR book worms. A day spent amidst the choicest of literary collections from around the world is indeed a book worm’s delight, which is why book fairs are thriving across cities around the world, year after year. Coming back to the cool gust of wind, it’s definitely one of the better times of the year here in New Delhi to step out of your home and enjoy the NDWBF with winter fading away and the fire breathing Delhi summer yet to gallop down the Aravalli plains.

Organized by National Book Trust, NDWBF showcased over 2000 stalls including 30 foreign ones. Singapore was the guest country while South Korea was the focus country. The book fair theme highlighted the culture, history and locales of India’s North East and also the literature coming out of that region. Author’s Corner, an interactive platform, were held across five halls where over 500 writers discussed literature and exchanged ideas with readers over more than 300 sessions. This book fair traditionally has been drawing overwhelming footfall, which is a reflection of the city’s growing image as an education hub. Apart from students, young kids and an emerging educated class are increasingly flocking the book fair.

The Theme Pavilion was named “Suryodaya: Emerging voices from Northeast India”. Inside were paintings, books and photographs, intelligently selected to take the visitor closer to what is now known in tourism parlance as Paradise Unexplored. Adjacent to it was the Foreign Pavilion which was drawing large number of visitors. There was particular interest among visitors to click photographs with the Indonesian ladies in their traditional attire. Lovers of Urdu found themselves spoilt for choice among several stalls from Pakistani cities like Karachi and Lahore. Asian nations had a major presence, with large stalls by Korea and Singapore and a very popular Saudi Arabian stall too. However I came out of the pavilion regretting not knowing Spanish as Instituto Cervantes had put some mouth watering books on Bunuel and Picasso on display.

The Indian languages pavilion predominantly comprised of Hindi literature stalls, although National Book Trust had displayed its huge collection of translated works in almost all Indian languages. The General and Trade pavilion was by far the largest and most crowded. Young kids could be seen coaxing their parents into buying that “one more book”, which is always a heartening sight. Curiously enough, there were several rather flashy stalls displaying literatures about their religious Gurus. And yes, that included the flamboyant Guru Ram Rahim Singh too. No wonder, we as a country, spend more money in the name of religion than anyone else. Zealous followers turned volunteers were pushing their version of godliness to unassuming visitors; and at very competitive prices!

With exam season round the corner, books on competitive exams were flying off the shelves. But special mention has to be made of the discounted book stalls. You could buy a Jhumpa Lahiri or an Ian Mcewan title for 100 rupees, and the readers knew it only too well. Even several reputed publishers joined the bandwagon and were offering attractive discounts on otherwise pricey books. At an age when information is just a search engine away from you, it requires lot of smart play on the part of the publishers too stay relevant. Best sellers and award winning writers aside, the trick is in spotting, writing and publishing information which a reader would prefer in book form than in a web page; and the men in the business seem to know it pretty well. After all what are successful book fairs like NDWBF but proofs that book worms still like to curl up inside the comfort of their paperbacks.

Idle time notes

The manner in which modern offices are built has occasionally made my life woeful. These offices are built like rectangular boxes of glass and concrete. Some are not entirely rectangular, they have a few curves and color contrasts which make them stand out as the artistic types. These buildings are centrally air conditioned and fully protected from sun, wind and rain. The elaborate air conditioning makes sure that we breathe an air of regulated warmth while the cubicles are lit all day by light bulbs affixed to the false ceilings. People sit in cozy chairs all day and go out for a breath of fresh air after their lunch. An exercise where I often wondered as to who have stopped them from having a breath of fresh air all the time…

For as long as I can remember, I have had a mild fever and symptoms of flu on every change of season. It is then that my life in the modern offices becomes woeful. I have found on several occasions that while I recuperate from such fevers during my weekend breaks, the symptoms returns to haunt me after a couple of days inside the artificially controlled environment of the modern office. Sometimes, I would turn up in office with a running nose, a mild headache and cough, only to find that spring is fading away and summer has arrived. Being well protected from sun, wind and rain, the inside of a modern office can become quite suffocating although a gust of summer breeze would be sweeping across its glass walls in the meantime.  And no matter which time of the year it is, in a modern office someone or the other would be feeling hot. And eight hours of unwanted chill bring backs all the headache, dizziness and fever. The symptoms go back when I return to a more natural atmosphere only to return during the eight hours of air supply on the next day. Sometimes I wonder if the air conditioning reruns fever symptoms along with the air that we breathe.

Where on one hand we believe that nature is the best cure, we have adopted a way of life which, apparently is compliant to western norms of affluence, turns its back on our supposed age old notions, if not beliefs. It is in between my sudden jerks of chill in the modern office that I remember my recollection of office from my childhood days. In one of the many towns that my father was posted in, our house was located besides my father’s office. I would sometimes roam around the corridors and rooms of the office, although my father would advice me to avoid such rambles without purpose.

Our house was a big government quarter and seemed a new construction. Generally government bungalows those days would have asbestos or tin roofs with lots of rooms underneath. The walls were cement plastered not over bricks but over a type of local cane. Windows would be made of glass without any grills. The window panes were often painted black and the outside wall of the house itself would mostly be painted with white limestone. These bungalows would be a bit cold inside given the damp climate of Assam. There used to be many trees, mostly fruits, surrounding the bungalow. Many of these trees would be planted by previous occupants so that the incumbents would enjoy the fruits. Traditions that had been handed down for years since the British administration, I would presume. However as the safety and security of the common people came at stake and petty crimes, terrorisms and antisocial activities were on the ascendency, the effects were visible on our government bungalows. Their roofs were now in reinforced concrete and the windows were grilled. Boundaries were high walled and gates were under security cover. Fruit trees blocked the vision from the window to the street, so they had to fall. It was in one such bungalow that we stayed for three years in the late 80s and early 90s. The front yard was a field of grass with a solitary guava tree standing atop. The backyard of the bungalow was used to keep my father’s flower pots and also grow some vegetables. Nevertheless, the guava tree inside our boundaries and a lovely grove of trees nearby kept me occupied in the afternoons. A short bamboo wall on the right side of the bungalow separated it from my father’s office.

I would sometime climb over the wall and roam inside the office. I would walk over the grass and climb up the three stairs that took me to the office floor, a feet and a half from the ground. The floor of the office was plastered concrete which at several places had worn out over years, leaving small and uneven depressions in the surface. It was a single storey building with its roofs made of tin sheets. The office was U shaped with over a dozen rooms, two of which were huge. I would enter one of these two rooms and there would be the familiar peons, clerks and officials that I knew by name and face. They would look at me and smile, some would small talk and offer snacks that they were having with their tea.  But mostly, they were accustomed to seeing their boss’s son in a vest and half pants just pass by their table. I would pass by each one’s table, slowly and with an eye for detail. I would like over their desk at each item, and the files and the papers. I could sense the smell of carbon paper and old damp files along with that of areca nuts. The paper weights, the pin boxes and bunch of carbon papers always caught my attention. I wanted to have them, the paper weight in particular, but my father saw it of no use to me. Somehow I never got myself a paper weight even now when I can buy one. It’s of no use in my office, where a gust of wind can’t blow in to blow away my papers. In the summers, archaic ceiling fans would creak above to cool down the air as official papers would dance under the paperweights. Often there would be no electricity in the office, which meant that the windows had to be kept open and curtains drawn apart. Hand fans would be in full use and work would take a temporary back seat. Everyone would curse the government or discuss random topics. Times were torrid, with back to back military operations combing across Assam, open passage given to armed terrorists, bandhs and protests, bomb blasts and curfews. People were caught in a cross fire between the military and the separatists. Office discussions during those times were laden with rumors and sentiments, information and revelations. Of course not everything could be discussed in front of a child, so some discussions were paused in my presence only to be resumed later. Often it would be about which family sheltered and injured terrorist at the middle of the night or whose son has disappeared one night leaving behind a letter which promised a liberated Assam. My father would sit on one tip of the U shaped office on a wooden chair with a desk in front of him. Behind him was a board wherein was written the names of the people who had previously occupied this post, since the start of the office. I was not allowed to loiter too long in his room and would only go there if I had something to talk about. Along the three corridors of the U, there were benches where the peons, drivers and visitors would sit. That was where I had the most fun. The peons and drivers would sometimes be idle for a long time. They would have discussions which were much easier for me to understand, play cards among themselves or teach me tricks and riddles. They would ride bicycles for office errands or deliver occasional documents to and from the commissioner’s office. They would be summoned by their seniors with a bell. Personal phones were of course unheard of, so much so that the office itself had only one telephone. Its phone number was 17. That was probably also the number of times it rang in a month. I often marvel how memories bring back the smells attached to it. I could almost feel the smell of the old wooden tables, the carbon papers, the areca nuts spat around, the stench of the fertilizer bags in the store house, the burnt diesel in the garage and the sweat of summer.

An incoming call in my workstation brought me back to reality. It is my colleague who reminded me that it is time for lunch. My mild fever is storming into something of a menace in this enclosed air conditioned office.

Is enough ever enough at Newcastle United?

Much of the literature about Newcastle United football club that is floating in the internet owes its existence to the mysterious and unanswered ways of its owner Mike Ashley. Looking at the way he has been running the club since 2007, certain conclusions can be drawn.

He started off as a typical rich owner of a football club – buying stars and signing crowd favourites. The Keegan affair and the eventual aftermath should be treated as a turnaround from wherever he was heading to as a club owner. He clearly put his back towards marquee signings and crowd appeasement. The businessman in him took charge of the club and since then, I am afraid, our beloved club has been treated as an investment which was expected to break even and then bring in profit. From where Mike Ashley stands, so far things are going decent although still much below the bar raised by his core business entities. The only friction in this style of business administration is its correlation with the achievements expected out of the club by its players as well as fan base. It’s not that Ashley is not paying heed to achievements. He is very much interested to achieve the goals which have a fixed financial reward. Avoiding relegation, for instance, is something he takes very seriously. When Newcastle was free falling last season Ashley didn’t hesitate to buy 5 new players and do his bit to avoid relegation. A regular top half finish is one of his interests. It is indeed a very interesting position of the table if we look closely. A regular top half finish leaves you out of the potential relegation candidates listed at the beginning of each season. It requires almost as much investments as a 14^th place or 7^th place club, a stark contrast to a top 4 club. One look at the top 4 clubs in EPL today reveals that there has to be at least one world class player. Özil, Cazorla, Walcott and Ramsey; Rooney and Van Persie; Gerrard and Suarez; Hazard and Oscar; the first team of Manchester City...did I say at least one world class player? Names like these involve investment running into hundreds of millions of pound. Yet with a fraction of such amount one can reach up to 5^th or 6^th in the table. Investment wise, it is not practical for a club like Newcastle to even dream of a Champions league slot. Or even Everton, the form team so far this season hasn’t spend enough money to ensure, if money alone could buy, a top 4 finish. Even with the comparatively limited amount of money spent, teams like Everton and Newcastle can still aim for a Europa League position.

But clearly Newcastle prefers to stay out of the poisoned chalice that is Europa League. So where does it leave us? We have to avoid positions 5^th to 7^th and domestic cup wins. Our top 10 goal implies that we have to finish at least 10^th. So basically our aim, officially indicated if not pronounced, is to finish 8^th to 10^th. And we are currently 8^th! As a businessman, this man is nothing sort of a magician! He has actually understood the financial aspects of the premier league football, zeroed in on the targeted league position and actually has his club firmly hooked to the target. Ever since coming back from relegation, Ashley has won at every move. He cleared off all the influential players and eliminated the possibility of player’s lobbying, he sold off players mostly at profit, sometimes huge ones, he got a yes man manager in on a long contract, he uses the club as his advertising vehicle, he is not answerable to anyone on all matters Newcastle, bought in cheap players to rescue him from the financial loss of another relegation and finally sold off Cabaye. Cabaye’s presence was going to be a threat to our 8^th -10^th finish aim. He could have ensured us to Europa League if Cup results would go our way. Not only did Cabaye bring in handsome profits, his absence will help in our cause of not qualifying for the Europa league. Ashley’s business acumen often amazes me and in that sense I admire him.

But his brilliance stands in the way of Newcastle United’s path to any chance of glory; and for that I utterly despise him. He has shackled the club to mediocrity by clipping its wings whenever they flapped for a high flight. By regularly selling players without quality replacements and by appointing management staff with less than impressive records, he is creating an environment which puts serious doubts about the club’s ambition and future road map in the minds of the players as well as fans. While the entertainer era was instrumental in packing the stadium regularly, a feature the club enjoyed even after all these years, the on goings of Ashley era has now raised concerns among fans whether to renew their season tickets or not. While a steady broadcasting revenue is bound to come as the club seeks to cement its premier league presence, the soul and the spine of the club threatens to corrode away in the light of shameful derby and home defeats, inability to retain and buy good players and apparent lack of interest in winning silverware. With the recent six days of madness starting with Yohan Cabaye’s sale, third straight derby defeat, lack of inertia in the transfer window and finally ending with the sacking of Joe Kinnear, it has become all too obvious that there is no hope of any long term step forward. It is regrettable that the best one could expect at this point is that the club is bought by someone with acceptable business skills but definitely more footballing passion than our present owner. Until then the club will stagnate in mediocrity and will continue to nourish itself from the steady revenue that is a guarantee in the premier league.        

A hundred thousand Bhupen Hazarikas - A narrative of the day when Assam stood still (as appeared in www.enajori.com)

As the airplane circled the sky over Guwahati I peeked down to watch the Luit. Unlike always, this time the sight of the mighty river filled my mind with pity and anger. Its most famous lover had died three days ago, and there it was flowing by, as he sang, shamelessly and languidly. Maybe I was expecting it to cease its flow when the clock stuck 4.37 PM on the 5^thof November, 2011…when Dr. Bhupen Hazarika breathed his last in a Mumbai hospital. He was flown into Guwahati two days later where he received a hero’s welcome. In fact, the welcome he received will remain as one which has been paralleled only a few times in world history. On my ride in the familiar red bus to the, now hallowed, Judges Field, I could see flower petals that lay strewn over the road at several places, as if testifying the historic and emotional scenes that took place the day before.

 Judges Field and its surroundings were over flowing with what seemed like an ocean of people. Finding out the loose end of the queue that formed to see his mortal remains was quite a task in itself. I rambled around Cotton college hostels, Meghdoot Bhawan, Reserve Bank and adjoining areas for half an hour until I found the place where I should stand in queue. It was 11 am of 8^th November 2011, and I could see three clear lines snaking its way into the Judges field, one from the direction of Machkhowa, Fancy Bazar and Pan Bazar. At its longest, it supposedly went up to Bharalumukh! Another line came from the direction of Gauhati Club, Dighali Pukhuri and Handique College. I stood on the third line which circled the hostels of Cotton College and went towards Meghdoot Bhawan before taking the eventual right. It seemed the shortest at first sight but would have to circle the Cotton College hostels three times before reaching Meghdoot Bhawan. Meanwhile at around this time my plan to attend his funeral was dashed when it was declared that the funeral was postponed till the next morning due to the massive crowd gathered around Judges Field. I was scheduled to fly back early next morning. I would miss what I came to attend at the first place — the funeral. However I was to be left with little to regret as the day passed by.

 The hawkers carrying flower garlands were doing brisk business whereas the florists had earlier claimed that they had sold more wreaths and garlands in Guwahati than they had ever done. The day was declared a holiday, which meant that every shop and commercial establishment was closed. People were relying on a few street hawkers for food while the boys from the surrounding hostels of Cotton College were serving drinking water to all those who stood in the line. “I hope you went to see him?” I enquired to one of them. They had paid their visit last night. And today they have come out spontaneously, placed their music systems by the road that played his songs and they stood by. As I found out in my three revolutions of the hostels, they served water to the visitors all day and night. I asked them if this service was a part of the College’s or any student union’s plans. The slightly built 20-year-old just shrugged and smiled, he said that it was something that they decided to do then and there, no strings attached. Another group of girls were doing the same in front of the Cotton College main gate. And there stood a desk outside another Cotton College hostel; it had a harmonium and a pair of tabla. If you knew to play them and/or sing one of his songs you could join the jolly group of hostellers’ who had been playing his songs for three days, nonstop! As the queue proceeded past them, the singers changed, so did the players. But the paeans remained the same. Processions regularly circled the Judges Field, holding banners and pictures and singing his songs as they marched by. Someone in the crowd would suddenly start out a stanza of one of his songs and hordes of crowd join in unison. This crowd represented every nook and corner of the society. During my eight hour long vigil there, I saw the mekhala chadar clad grandmother, the neatly dressed retired septuagenarian Bengali, the skull cap wearing devout Muslim, men and women in traditional Bodo, Mishing, Karbi and other tribal attires, the members of Nepali Sahitya Sabha, missionary nuns from some convent and young punks in rock band t-shirts. It was not necessarily a representation of the Assamese speaking people, instead this crowd represented all who had stayed or were connected to or maybe happened to pass by the banks of Luit at any point of time in their life.

As the queue I stood in slowly moved forward, I stood amazed by all that I was witnessing. Never in my past or future life would I expect to see something as magical as this day. The air resonated with his voice, hidden teardrops rolled down drenching the ground beneath and words from his compositions hung like a halo above us. Someone lost a father; someone lost a brother…a friend, a soul mate, an uncle. But everyone had lost their source of inspiration. For those living outside Assam, Dr. Bhupen Hazarika was also an identity. Before asking questions about ULFA, illegal migration and one horned rhinos, people would mostly ask, “You are from Assam, the land of Bhupen Hazarika?”

A few curious ones looked around for shortcuts to Judges Field though most of those assembled were not bothered by all that. “I have come to see him, not to a ration price shop”, as one sneered viciously. “For all that he gave us all his life, standing in this line decently is the least we can do”, he mumbled later. That probably summed up the sentiment of the day. A couple who stood behind me with their young son had arrived that morning from Jorhat. They would catch the late night Inter City express back to their home. A young couple drove from Tezpur that morning to be here. I was surrounded by people from Guwahati and all over Assam and beyond. Some sobbed, some sang, while some recalled that night when he went to that town to play in that show. I had come to see a man whom I saw only once, at the Axom Xahitya Xobha, Diphu session in 1982. I was a four-month-old in my mother’s lap. I had to see him one more time, one last time. The million people who came down also had to see him one last time, more than anything else. It was something everyone felt they had to do.

Against these backdrops Dr. Bhupen Hazarika’s compositions seemed to have found new connotations. When Gauhati University requested that his final resting place be the university premises, one would have recalled his song, Jilikabo Luitore Paar, where he hoped that GU would “sparkle by the Luit’s banks”. GU now in turn wanted him to sparkle on by the same riverside, indeed a fitting tribute. The second line of his song, Moi Jetia Ei Jiwonor, when loosely translated, meant, “After I am gone, I would expect you by my funeral pyre”. A million seemingly took it as a personal request from the maestro and turned up. The events leading up to his funeral drew parallels with songs like Mur Geetor Hejaar Shrota which was another directly addressed to his audience, making it a clarion call of that moment. It is noteworthy that in spite of such a huge gathering, the crowd was very dignified and conducted itself remarkably. I would link that to the humanitarian anthem Manuhe Manuhor Baabe. It was definitely on everyone’s mind, and as I noted, it was the most sung song that day. And the much translated Moi Eti Jajabor proved to be fittingly autobiographical when Dr. Bhupen Hazarika returned home for the last time after a life of a vagabond. Lines from his timeless songs, probably written years and decades ago, came back to emphasize their relevance that day, and as they would, every day. So maybe it would be untrue to say that Dr. Bhupen Hazarika has died, maybe it was the magician’s last vanishing act whereby he transcended his body and entered the mind and soul of each of his admirers. And on a day when people exclaimed that he is immortal, I, standing there that day, felt that his immortality was beyond any doubt. As I looked around me, I saw that we were a hundred thousand Bhupen Hazarikas…carrying his essence within us, carrying it along for posterity.

Cheap Wallets (as appeared in www.enajori.com)

I had to meet him one last time. While I was packing my belongings to leave this city forever, his face flashed past my thoughts. Much like the way he actually walked past me many times in these seven years. I pondered over, romanticising the idea of going there to meet him. I tried to even ridicule the idea, but by then I was sure that he couldn’t be overlooked. Was it self pity or was it an eye for street poetry I didn’t care to know.

It was almost seven years ago when I first saw this man. I had just arrived in this city, leaving behind the red river and the blue hills. His was a face tanned by the hot Delhi summer and riddled by its winter’s merciless pricks. His voice was gruff like a folk singer, minus the artistry. I remember the first time I saw him. I was on a bus and he walked down its aisle carrying dozens of cheap wallets. For a living he sold those wallets to interested passengers, in the buses that stopped for the traffic lights at the bustling Income Tax Office square. “Check it for free, buy it for ten rupees”, that’s what he announced in a rhyme. I watched him intently, just like I watched everything that was new to me, from tall buildings to polythene huts, sharp dressed girls to limbless beggars. It was neither a moment of truth nor a baptism of fire for me. In fact, one moment he was there and the next moment he was gone. Except that, that chance meeting repeated itself for seven years. I found myself a place to work and he found another regular face to entice. On my first day to the office, I instantly recognised him as he boarded our bus with his handful of wallets. However I was not the one who would be tempted by his ten rupee wallet. He, on the other hand, did a brisk business. Apparently there were people who figured out that his’ was a fair deal. Soon I was getting used to seeing him more often than not. I would feel sorry for him when, occasionally, he missed our bus because of the traffic lights’ turning green, a minute too soon. There were times when I wouldn’t even notice as he came and passed by, while at other times, I would look forward to see if he boards my bus or not. Sometimes he would disappear for a month or so, only to resurface thereafter. I felt curious about his absence, but wouldn’t ask him for the fear of being snubbed publicly. I wasn’t sure what kind of a person he might be. And his appearance didn’t help either. After one such absence, he returned skin head. So, I thought, one, he must be a Hindu by faith and two, one of his relatives must have died. But on second thought, it could also be his way of beating the Delhi heat. Besides he didn’t look particularly sad. He looked over his potential buyers expressionlessly. That reminds me that he always had an expressionless face. On any given day, he was neither very happy, nor too sad. Maybe the city robbed him of his emotions, much like the weather rips off the paints of a concrete wall. But optimistically gauging, maybe his story is not a sad one after all. It’s quite possible that he earns well enough to afford a decent accommodation in the suburbs of this city, educate his children and silence his wife. Anyway, I thought of asking him about his shaved head but by then didn’t care about his affairs like I earlier used to. That’s my share of lost goods in this city. It makes you indifferent, it makes you oblivious of your surroundings, and it makes you more concerned about your own wallet...putting it more agreeably, it makes you a professional.
At the end of another one of his disappearances, he returned wearing an immaculately hand knit cardigan. I wanted to believe that his wife lives in his hometown and I tried to imagine her giving it to him as a parting gift. She must have had a lonesome tear in her eye. I couldn’t quite imagine what his expression might have been. Just then I thought I saw that his eyes were uncharacteristically warm that day. Or maybe I wanted to see that in his eyes.
After a point of time, my learning curve at my workplace dipped, indicating that the time was ripe for me to switch my job. There after, my visits to that part of the city became less and less regular. However the nature of my work meant that I frequent that place every now and then. I would often stick my neck out of the window to see if that man was around. And sure as the day and the night, he would be selling those wallets to the familiar strangers. Over the years, his hairs turned salt and pepper and his wallets changed designs, but he hung around. For me, he grew from a stranger to an unlikely inspiration for me to fight the odds, loneliness and failure, tedium and fatigue...
My new found indifference ensured that I don’t feel sorry for his petty trade, his loneliness or his hardship. Instead I saw in him the spirit of the city that moves on and on. Maybe he is the ghost of the city itself, wandering restlessly to make sure that thousands daily throng its squares and also make sure that it’s business as usual.
The thought of going to that square only to see that man seemed very ridiculous to me. If anyone asks me the purpose of the visit I would promptly lie. But I did board a bus slyly and paid my fare. Train of thoughts shunted in my mind as I recalled how things have changed in my life in these seven years. I came as an unemployed, became an underpaid, turned well paid, became overworked, and at the end of it all, grew inevitably disenchanted. Acquaintances were made, friendships blossomed and glasses were raised....but in the end, time always finds a way of caging you with the bars of solitude. However it is time again that makes sure you have new friends to talk to, new dreams to chase and new streets to walk down...
Will he recognise me? Will he try to trick me into buying his sub standard wallets? Or will he frown over the fact that I never cared to buy his wallets and that I never paid any regard to his salesmanship? Actually I did buy a cheap wallet in Chandni Chowk once; and in the hindsight, maybe it would have been fair to buy the same from him instead. I wondered if I should small talk with him for a while or should I buy him a cigarette to break the ice. Maybe we could talk about wallets, and I could show him my Italian leather wallet which I picked up in a flea market. But then I thought that doing so could be offensive to his trade, which brought back my fear of being publicly snubbed. The chance of any sort of conversation taking place would depend on him identifying me, or even him believing that I regularly saw him for several years. But what sort of acquaintance would that be? Seeing someone regularly for seven years! For similar reasons I should be friends with a launderer, a priest, a madman and several others whom I see regularly. But I don’t have any affinity towards any of them. I would have to explain to him how he became a small source of optimism for me. And in that case, he might overflow with emotions due to my honest flattery and he might hug me. Or he might think that I am mocking his miserable hard life and he might foul mouth me, or worse slap me. The constraint in this situation is that both the events are equally likely. Besides, I wasn’t particularly fond of probability problems in my college days. So, that left me with few options to select from, and fewer minutes to reach my destination.
On alighting at the particular place I looked around for him. I spotted him getting off a bus that was on its way to rush past the square. I walked up to a tea stall from where I got a wider view of his area of operation, and treated myself to a cup of tea. He would board a bus that would be slowing down and walk down the aisle and get off at the other end. Sometimes he exchanged pleasantries with bus conductors who cared to talk to him. I paid for my tea, walked towards him and asked for a wallet. He looked at me a fraction of second longer than usual. Obviously I looked familiar. I told him to give me the best one he had, for I won’t come to buy again. He shook his head and said I would come to him again. I was shocked for a moment at the clairvoyant nature of his remark. He spoke like a prophet who had just seen through the crystal ball. But his next remark instantly broke his mystic aura. These wallets are too good to resist oneself from not buying again. Contrary to my opinion towards those wallets, I said that I completely agreed with him. Besides it’s what inside those wallets that matters more.
I didn’t get to wish him well or talk any sense with him for he sped by to board a slowing bus. But I did yell a “Thanks mate!” to him, to which he raised his hand without looking back. He probably didn’t read between the lines into my “thanks” or would even know this little story of the chance encounters; the observations and inspirations. Still I was satisfied, because all I wanted was to see him one last time. And also because I said what had to and it that wouldn’t matter to him anyway.