My fountain pen needed a new nib.
In search of the pen-wala
on the pavement outside Regal
Cinema, I trudged from Gurgaon
to Connaught Place. Pen repaired, I walked back
to my car, parked
near Hanuman Mandir from behind
Allahabad bank, passing
the newly built Cervantes Cultural
Institute, down the adjacent
alley where an unusual scene unfolded.
I couldn’t stop to savour
its sights and sounds, as the smell of
garbage was offensive. But
did notice the lone man who tended it all;
sorting glass from metal
and bio-degradable, stacking them in
green municipality containers,
neatly lined by the side of the street,
labelled in English. He wore a
blood-red coat over khaki pants and a pointing
to the sky, dirty beige,
knitted topi and sat on a rickety chair, soaking
in the fading afternoon
sun, smoking a bidi. Dogs of every mongrel shape and
variegated hue
were his companions, snuggling in the warmth of garbage dumped.
Especially
drawn to the toekadi’s
[i] that
lined the lane, brimming
with fabric remnants, probably from a nearby garment
manufacturing
unit, in each I spied a tightly curled up pup, its head lost in
the heap;
a little mound of fur among the rags. The melodious strains of Umaro
Jaan’s “dil cheez kya hai, aap meri jaan
leejiye, bus ek baar mera
kahan, maan leejiye”
[ii],filled the air. I wanted to stop and stare,
photograph each
eccentric nuance in visual memory, but my heels
refused to pause their clicking
stride and the odour killed my curiosity.
It isn’t a scene oft encountered and
was enchanted not for the way of
life it afforded, but in realization this too
is one, albeit far removed
from mine and yet not; for right there in the middle
of elegant steel
and glass towers of corporate might, alongside Delhi’s churi-wala
bazaar
[iii]
and famed Hanuman Mandir, I was reminded by this topi-
coat-wala
[iv]
of my own frustrated struggle through unkempt minds,
of living amongst those
who haven’t yet learned to clean up
for themselves. I wanted to ask about his family,
where he was from,
where he lived and how he had come to take on
this job; if he hated it
or not. Iwondered why the labels were in English, how
literate he was
and what language he spoke and wanted
to know how he coped with
the smell: ploughing through dirt for his trade. I
thought of the dogs
wrapped in cut ends and wondered what they’d say, if I gave them
a lush blanket in a wicker basket
bought from a luxury pet store.
Instead, strutting in my high heels,
tight jeans, manicured hands
and fragile nostrils, I ran as fast as I could,
for I knew what a life
could be where the stench was too much to bear.
[i] Locally
made bamboo baskets
[iii]
Bangle[glass] market
Published: Brown Critique e-journal
August 2012
