Not quite Strangers
These are the men who come to my door almost every day. They call me Madam, Bhabhi, Didi. Most smile shyly and never quite meet my eye. I can only guess at their lives hidden behind lowered eyelashes and bland faces.
The first of them to arrive in the morning is an exception though. He is a body builder and gym rat. He is also a fervent supporter of the local right wing party when he isn’t ironing clothes. He swaggers in, a jaunty smile and cheerful greeting in place. The heavy bundle of clothes is nonchalantly slung over a muscled bicep. The tee shirt is tightly fitted. He encourages me, quite uninvited, to change my political views and celebrates unabashedly when his party is voted back to power. For all our differences, he is a kind and decent man. He asks after my father, and reminisces about my mother’s last days in my house. A sad business, he shakes his head in conclusion.
The car cleaner arrives next. He is surly and nursing a hangover in the morning, the right of every long time family retainer. He is the caretaker of our building as well and inherited the job twenty years ago from his father. Everyone calls him Bablu, as if he is still the young teenager we first met and not the grandfather he is today. Nowadays, he is prosperous enough to outsource his jobs to underlings. He bosses over them and shouts out instructions no one pays much mind to. Sitting on his haunches, a beedi hidden in his cupped palm, sweating from the lack of exertion, he is the king of this little castle.
The vegetable delivery men. Three of them in rotation, one short and scrupulous, one sly and prone to slipping in a bit extra on the bill, the third an apprentice. I wonder which of the two he’ll choose to learn from. We wage a running battle over the plastic bags they still insist on bringing the veggies in. I make them wait till I empty out the lot and hand them back. They look at me with lazy indifference. Perhaps they throw the bags away, though I hope they reuse them at least for those customers who want each precious vegetable in a separate scrap of plastic.
The fruit seller. A friendly man though I can imagine him in the forefront of a rioting mob. There is a banked anger that rages in his eyes. Or perhaps it is only sorrow. It is what I see in my face too these days. He and I are recent brothers in arms: members of a secret brotherhood. We can’t quite meet each other’s eyes yet. His confession of a few months ago and my revelation hangs heavy between us. Still, there may be a measure of comfort in our shared story.
The fishmonger. He has high standards. He may find the catch of the day not good enough and will casually call at noon to say Sorry, no fish today. But when he delivers, the fish is always bright eyed and firm fleshed. He is a nattily dressed, handsome man. He must be popular with the ladies of the fish market. A devout man. One may call him only late at night, after the last call to prayers has been answered.
Last to call around in the evening is the bread and egg man. Young, cocky, prone to asking for festival tips. Chai pani (literally ‘tea, water’) as it is called in local parlance. The women of the building pull him up for charging a more than hefty premium on his eggs but when he was laid low with dengue, one of them took him to her doctor, the rest of us pitched in with home remedies and payment for the blood tests.
There are others.
The old and venerable vegetable vendor with his two youngish wives in ghunghat. He doesn’t like them giggling at the male househelp.
The fishmonger who calls from the building compound with his wares on display in an open basket. It is futile to resist the aerial view of plump pomfret and sinuous surmai, let alone the rare delicacy of gharab (fish roe of a particular fish, the boi, so beloved of my community that we even make life sized boi shaped pedas for auspicious occasions.)
The broom and duster seller, a tall Pathan of great dignity and a very good sales pitch. He is always about to leave for his home in the mountains and needs the extra cash. Won’t I take another dozen duster cloths? Of course I will, and off they go to join their dozens of brethren in the storage.
These are the men who shape our daily lives. We meet every day or every few days. We have never really spoken to each other about anything other than the business at hand. Rarely do our lives intersect past my front door. And yet, if one of them were to stop visiting our building, I would wonder about him. I would worry a little at his disappearance and feel upset that a known face no longer appears on the other side of my door.