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.
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.
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