Just at that turning between
Market Road and the lane leading to the chemist's shop
he had his 'establishment'. At eight in the evening you
would not see him, and again at ten you would see nothing,
but between those times he arrived, sold his goods and
departed. Those who saw him remarked thus, 'Lucky fellow!
He has hardly an hour's work a day and he pockets ten
rupees - even graduates are unable to earn that! Three
hundred rupees a month!' He felt irritated when he heard
such glib remarks and said, 'What these folks do not see
is that I sit before the oven practically all day frying
all this ...'
At about 8.15 in the evening he arrived with a load of
stuff. He looked as if he had four arms, so many things
he carried about him. His equipment was the big tray balanced
on his head with its assortment of edibles, a stool stuck
in the crook of his arm, a lamp in another hand and a
couple of portable legs for mounting his tray. He lit
the lamp, a lantern which consumed six pies' worth of
kerosene every day, and kept it near at hand, since he
had to guard a lot of loose cash and a variety of miscellaneous
articles.
He always arrived in time to catch the cinema crowd coming
out after the evening show. A pretender to the throne,
a young scraggy fellow, sat on his spot until he arrived
and did business, but he did not let that bother him unduly.
In fact, he felt generous enough to say, 'Let the poor
rat do his business when I am not there.' This sentiment
was amply respected, and the pretender moved off a minute
before the arrival of the prince among caterers.
Though so much probing was going on, he knew exactly who
was taking what. He knew by an extaordinary sense which
of the jukta drivers was picking up chappatis
at a given moment - he could even mention the license
number. He knew that the stained hand nervously coming
up was that of a youngster who polished the shoes of passers-by.
And he knew exactly at what hour he would see the wrestler's
arm searching for the perfect duck's egg. His custom was
drawn from the population swarming the pavement: the boot
polish boys, for instance, who wandered to and fro with
brush and polish in a bag, endlessly soliciting 'Polish,
sir, polish!' Rama had a soft spot for them.
It rent his heart to see their hungry hollow eyes. It
pained him to see the rags they wore. And it made him
very unhappy to see the tremendous eagerness with which
they came to him. But what could he do? He could not run
a charity show, that was impossible. He measured out heir
half-glass of coffee correct to a fraction of an inch,
but they could cling to the glass for as long as they
liked.
He lived in the second lane behind the market. His wife
opened the door, throwing into the night air the scent
of burnt oil which perpetually hung about their home.
She snatched from his hand all the ecumbrances and counted
the cash immediately.
After dinner, he tucked a betel leaf and tobacco in his
cheek and slept. He had dreams of traffic constables bullying
him to move on and health inspectors saying he was spreading
all kinds of disease and depopulating the city. But fortunately
in actual life no one bothered him very seriously. The
health officer no doubt came and said, 'You must put all
this under a glass lid, otherwise I shall destroy it some
day... Take care!'
Rama no doubt violated all the well-accepted canons of
cleanliness and sanitation, but still his customers not
only survived his fare but seemed actually to flourish
on it, having consumed it for years without showing signs
of being any the worse for it. |
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A Rama prepared a limited
quantity of snacks for sale, but even then he had to carry
back remnants. He consumed some of it himself, and the
rest he warmed up and brought out for sale the next day.
B All the coppers that men and women of this part
of the universe earned through their miscellaneous jobs
ultimately came to him at the end of the day. He put all
his money into a little cloth bag dangling from his neck
under his shirt, and carried it home, soon after the night
show had started at the theatre.
C No one could walk past his display without throwing
a look at it. A heap of bondas, which seemed puffed
and big but melted in one's mouth; dosais, white,
round, and limp, looking like layers of muslin; chappatis
so thin you could lift fifty of them on a little finger;
duck's eggs, hard-boiled, resembling a heap of ivory balls;
and perpetually boiling coffee on a stove. He had a separate
alluminium pot in which he kept chutney, which went gratis
with almost every item.
D His customers liked him. They said in admiration,
'Is there another place where you can get six pies and
four chappatis for one anna?' They sat around his
tray, taking what they wanted. A dozen hands hovered about
it every minute, because his customers were entitled to
pick up, examine, and accept their stuff after proper
scrutiny.
E They gloated over it. 'Five rupees invested in
the morning has produced another five...' They ruminated
on the exquisite mystery of this multiplication. Then
it was put back for further investment on the morrow and
the gains carefully separated and put away in a little
wooden box.
F But he was a kindly man in private. 'How the
customers survive the food, I can't understand. I suppose
people build up a sort of immunity to such poisons, with
all that dust blowing on it and the gutter behind.'
G He got up when the cock in the next house crowed.
Sometimes it had a habit of waking up at three in the
morning and letting out a shriek. 'Why has the cock lost
his normal sleep?' Rama wondered as he awoke, but it was
a signal he could not miss. Whether it three o'clock or
four, it was all the same to him. He had to get up and
start his day.
H When he saw some customer haggling, he felt like
shouting, 'Give the poor fellow a little more. Don't begrudge
it. If you pay an anna more he can have a dosai
and a chappati.' |
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