-Omachi is playing drums too loud (re:thunder)
-Look Amma! My pee pee is having a party in the pot (re:bubbles in the pot)
-Amma look...my toes are dancing (re: wiggling toes)
-Cars live on roads.
-Appa's not gone to Kalifurnia. Pinni ate him.
-I told me. (re: in response to who told you that?)
-The light has gone to sleep. (re: night time)
Monday, August 28, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Blake's miracle
I saw the picture of a child today who died of leukemia. His name was Blake. He was 18 months old. The picture showed him poised at the edge of a small diving board—plump arms curved protectively. Feet angled inward in uncertain balance. Looking anxiously at the camera. Perhaps he was scared to take the jump. Such a little boy faced with such a mammoth task.
I suppose I should have asked the usual questions—Is life fair? Why him? What’s the point? Instead I could only think of the moment when he must have drawn his last breath. How do you watch an 18 month old draw his last breath? I hope I never find out. I could only think of his mom going from a ‘have’ to a ‘had’. How do you watch your child die in your arms? I hope I never ever find out. My mind could not stir beyond this point. I felt shafts of pain slice through me. Not once but over and over.
I want to draw some deep philosophical understanding of life and present it here with a grand flourish. Perhaps write an ode to man’s suffering? Perhaps a sonnet on a mother’s love? Perhaps even an essay on the inevitability of death. But all I can think of is that moment when the child died. That one second of transition. Where did Blake go?
Blake’s parents have poured their grief into a mammoth charity effort. They are selling T-shirts, holding marathons, conducting donation drives, selling raffle tickets….. They call it Blake’s miracle. People are applauding their spirit. Their courage... I only wonder how long will they keep it up? When will the fervor die down? When will the fury of their grief abate? Each new charity effort sounds like a helpless cry of sorrow to me. I pray they find peace. I await the day when finally there will be no more fliers announcing Blake’s miracle.
I suppose I should have asked the usual questions—Is life fair? Why him? What’s the point? Instead I could only think of the moment when he must have drawn his last breath. How do you watch an 18 month old draw his last breath? I hope I never find out. I could only think of his mom going from a ‘have’ to a ‘had’. How do you watch your child die in your arms? I hope I never ever find out. My mind could not stir beyond this point. I felt shafts of pain slice through me. Not once but over and over.
I want to draw some deep philosophical understanding of life and present it here with a grand flourish. Perhaps write an ode to man’s suffering? Perhaps a sonnet on a mother’s love? Perhaps even an essay on the inevitability of death. But all I can think of is that moment when the child died. That one second of transition. Where did Blake go?
Blake’s parents have poured their grief into a mammoth charity effort. They are selling T-shirts, holding marathons, conducting donation drives, selling raffle tickets….. They call it Blake’s miracle. People are applauding their spirit. Their courage... I only wonder how long will they keep it up? When will the fervor die down? When will the fury of their grief abate? Each new charity effort sounds like a helpless cry of sorrow to me. I pray they find peace. I await the day when finally there will be no more fliers announcing Blake’s miracle.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Letter From Chandler
Today the heat index touched 115. But I don’t think we noticed. After 110 it’s all the same. I was tempted to drop an egg on the sidewalk. Instead I let down all the blinds at 6AM and kept them there till the sun finally burned itself out at 7:35 PM. This was pretty much my day today, in Chandler.
This town has been my home for the past 5 years. Every scorching summer I swear it’s going to be my last and every winter I again fall in love with it’s pretty sunshine.
Chandler is located twenty minutes south of Phoenix. The remarkable thing about Chandler is that it’s totally unremarkable. It’s just a peaceful labyrinth of unhurried, perpendicular streets. Days gently roll over into weeks, which slowly turn over into months. Most things are located within 1 mile radius of my house: the grocery story, the hair salon, the gym, the dentist, the family doctor, the tae kwon do studio, the Chinese take-out, even the post-office. It’s almost a relief to drive 2 miles for my annual eye check-up.
In summer, we rely mostly on wildfires and ill-fated bar-be-cues for entertainment. Occasionally a stir is created by an unusually large piece of produce sighted at the local farmer’s market. Sometimes a friendly black widow in the garage or a baby scorpion on the patio can add a personal thrill to the day. But mostly we hibernate into dark, AC-clad homes. We minimize driving because by the time the car cools, we are already at our destination. We never leave children, pets or plants out in the backyard. We never dress below our knees and I cannot remember the last time I wore full sleeves. This poses a moral dilemma for traditional Indian ‘aunties’ in Chandler.
Indians in Chandler belong to three distinct communities: Intel-ites, Motorola-ites, Honeywell-ites. Lately a few Amex-ites have been spotted as well. And of course within these communities exist other sub-communities such as: Tamilians, Punjabis, Bengalis. And then there are the crossbreed types such as the Intel-ite Tamilian who is married to the Motorala-ite Punjabi both of whom are members of the Indo-American society. The mind boggles. I prefer to spend time with the Hispanic gardener, making frantic hand gestures to communicate.
This is not to say that Chandler does not have its fair share of blond, blue-eyed, white skinned all-Americans. There are plenty and they generally treat us (Asians/brown skins) with polite but bewildered respect. For most locals, Chandler has been the only home they know or the second home at the most. The latter take great pains to describe their adventurous, risk-fraught move from Mesa to Chandler. Just FYI, Mesa is the town next to Chandler, 4 miles from my house. We therefore represent an enigma to these people. To cross seven seas and leave behind all we know and love – what could possibly be worth it? Sometimes I wonder if instead of mocking their frog-in-the- well attitude, I should learn something from them…should I return to India?
But I digress now. I told you about the summer in Chandler. Now I want to tell you about the wonderful winters. After a few weeks of thunderous, blazing thunderstorms and a few squalls of rain (when the local TV induces mild hysteria by issuing flood warnings), the weather begins to cool. Crisp, clean breezes replace stolid, oppressive layers of heat. The sky becomes a pool of sparkling blue. Pure gold sunbeams drench everything in yellow warmth. Slowly, ACs wind down. Patio doors are pushed open, backyards become crowded with children, streets are dotted with young mothers pushing strollers and birds flock to grains scattered by kind old hands. Chandler comes alive. We gleefully switch on the news every evening just to see the rest of the country freezing under mounds of snow. We stand vindicated. Every weekend is a pocketful of treats: long walks, sunny hikes, cozy picnics, biking adventures.
And yet….yet that’s not really why I love Chandler. This is the town where I came as a new bride. Where my sons were born. Where my husband comes home early every evening – fresh because he has no long commute to battle. This town has treated us well. It gives us space to look up to open skies. Its offers us quiet restful nights to regain our sanity. Sometimes it pours time into our hands as if to say: spend time with each other, because life is fleeting, much like my winter sunshine.
Hmm…..Some day I will return to my big city roots. But for now, I am just waiting for the first splash of winter--here in Chandler.
This town has been my home for the past 5 years. Every scorching summer I swear it’s going to be my last and every winter I again fall in love with it’s pretty sunshine.
Chandler is located twenty minutes south of Phoenix. The remarkable thing about Chandler is that it’s totally unremarkable. It’s just a peaceful labyrinth of unhurried, perpendicular streets. Days gently roll over into weeks, which slowly turn over into months. Most things are located within 1 mile radius of my house: the grocery story, the hair salon, the gym, the dentist, the family doctor, the tae kwon do studio, the Chinese take-out, even the post-office. It’s almost a relief to drive 2 miles for my annual eye check-up.
In summer, we rely mostly on wildfires and ill-fated bar-be-cues for entertainment. Occasionally a stir is created by an unusually large piece of produce sighted at the local farmer’s market. Sometimes a friendly black widow in the garage or a baby scorpion on the patio can add a personal thrill to the day. But mostly we hibernate into dark, AC-clad homes. We minimize driving because by the time the car cools, we are already at our destination. We never leave children, pets or plants out in the backyard. We never dress below our knees and I cannot remember the last time I wore full sleeves. This poses a moral dilemma for traditional Indian ‘aunties’ in Chandler.
Indians in Chandler belong to three distinct communities: Intel-ites, Motorola-ites, Honeywell-ites. Lately a few Amex-ites have been spotted as well. And of course within these communities exist other sub-communities such as: Tamilians, Punjabis, Bengalis. And then there are the crossbreed types such as the Intel-ite Tamilian who is married to the Motorala-ite Punjabi both of whom are members of the Indo-American society. The mind boggles. I prefer to spend time with the Hispanic gardener, making frantic hand gestures to communicate.
This is not to say that Chandler does not have its fair share of blond, blue-eyed, white skinned all-Americans. There are plenty and they generally treat us (Asians/brown skins) with polite but bewildered respect. For most locals, Chandler has been the only home they know or the second home at the most. The latter take great pains to describe their adventurous, risk-fraught move from Mesa to Chandler. Just FYI, Mesa is the town next to Chandler, 4 miles from my house. We therefore represent an enigma to these people. To cross seven seas and leave behind all we know and love – what could possibly be worth it? Sometimes I wonder if instead of mocking their frog-in-the- well attitude, I should learn something from them…should I return to India?
But I digress now. I told you about the summer in Chandler. Now I want to tell you about the wonderful winters. After a few weeks of thunderous, blazing thunderstorms and a few squalls of rain (when the local TV induces mild hysteria by issuing flood warnings), the weather begins to cool. Crisp, clean breezes replace stolid, oppressive layers of heat. The sky becomes a pool of sparkling blue. Pure gold sunbeams drench everything in yellow warmth. Slowly, ACs wind down. Patio doors are pushed open, backyards become crowded with children, streets are dotted with young mothers pushing strollers and birds flock to grains scattered by kind old hands. Chandler comes alive. We gleefully switch on the news every evening just to see the rest of the country freezing under mounds of snow. We stand vindicated. Every weekend is a pocketful of treats: long walks, sunny hikes, cozy picnics, biking adventures.
And yet….yet that’s not really why I love Chandler. This is the town where I came as a new bride. Where my sons were born. Where my husband comes home early every evening – fresh because he has no long commute to battle. This town has treated us well. It gives us space to look up to open skies. Its offers us quiet restful nights to regain our sanity. Sometimes it pours time into our hands as if to say: spend time with each other, because life is fleeting, much like my winter sunshine.
Hmm…..Some day I will return to my big city roots. But for now, I am just waiting for the first splash of winter--here in Chandler.
Friday, August 04, 2006
The Mending ( A short story)
The problem with phones in not that they ring. But that they ring again after you hang up. Deb cursed under his breath. Sudeepta focused on parting her hair. The air was thick with ignored expectations.
“Na!” Sudeepta’s sharp command startled the lizard on the wall. Deb lowered his hand from the phone. Sudeepta drew a rich red line in her parting. A quick pranaam and she was ready to leave. Just before exiting, she cast a meaningful glare at Deb. Then the door shut and it was Deb by himself.
‘Deb by himself’ would have answered the phone. He had no bones to pick with his parents. They were a mildly annoying but irrefutable fact of life. But Deb with Sudeepta was a beast of a different nature. Within three months of marriage, as his wife washed off the alta from her pretty feet, untied keys knotted at the end of her sari and walked out of his parents’ house, Deb had decided his best interests lay in quietly following suit.
Now Baba was sick. At seventy, he was a senile mess. Maa faithfully blew the conch shell every evening, beseeching her Thakur’s mercy. She could not bear the burden of an ailing husband nor fathom the cruelty of an estranged son.
Deb felt restless. Pulling on his customary white kurta and brown trousers, he thrust his feet into an old pair of slippers and let himself out. It had been only two weeks since they moved into this new neighborhood and there were plenty of chores demanding his attention.
He walked fast. He would have walked faster but for his slipper that gave way with a moody snap. Deb stopped mid-stride. Now what? With habitual impatience he shook his foot free. Better to get rid of this old nuisance and get a new one. Fortunately he knew of a shoe shop very close by. He would have to walk barefoot, but not too far. Deb headed for the ditch across the road to throw away the useless slipper.
“Kyaa kar rahe ho baba? Hum abhi mare nahi.” (What are you doing son? I am not dead yet).
Deb was startled to find an old man standing by his side. Where had he come from? Did he know him? He racked his brains but no memory answered.
“Humein nahi pehechana shaayad. Hum yahan ke mochi hain.” (You did not recognize me perhaps. I am the neighborhood cobbler.)
“Lao yeh chappal humein de do.” (Come. Give me this slipper)
And before Deb could say yea, nay or hey, the old man had seized the slipper and scurried back to the dusty sidewalk where a mat was spread under the ponderous peepal tree.
There was no way to refuse without making a fuss. Deb did not fancy having an argument hopping on one leg. He trailed behind and sat down on an old aluminum trunk.
The old man studied the leather slipper minutely. He turned it over and over. He peered at it at eye level, then flexed it, then stretched the torn ligament and let it go with a snap. Deb could have sworn at one point he even talked to it under his breath.
Bored by the mochi’s antics, Deb leaned against the tree trunk. His thoughts drifted idly over the day’s work and inevitably to the ignored phone call. It was unlike Maa to call back a second time. Was there really some emergency? Heck at that age, every day was an emergency. How much longer were they going to be around?
“Boodhi ho gayee hai par abhi jaan hai” (She is old, but still has life left in her).
Deb jerked up straight. Had the mochi divined his thoughts?
But the old man was still absorbed by the silly slipper. He looked up with a delighted grin, displaying stained, broken teeth.
“Abhi jaan hai baba. Hum isko abhi theek kar dete hain” (It still has life son. Let me fix it right away). Even as Deb wondered at the man’s excitement, the mochi took out some rusty tools and ran on with his monologue. “Ab bacha lo to bhagwaan samjho. Phekne ka kaam to koi bhi kar sakta hai” (If you are able to preserve something, that’s close to God. Anyone can perform the act of destruction). “Bechari ne bade saal aapke saath guzara hai. Thodi si sewa karni padi to phek denge kyaa.” (This one has spent so many years serving you. Now when its time to tend to her a bit, will you throw her away).
Unbidden there came into Deb’s mind the day he had left his parent’s house. His mother had stood by the door quietly. Baba had helped them load their car with the same taciturn silence. For the first time Deb wondered: what did they do after we left? Who shut off the lights in the stairwell after they went to bed that night? Neither of his parents could walk up the stairs in the dark. And they had never installed another switch at the top because there was always going to be Deb.
Unsettled, Deb opened his mouth but the mochi was waiting for no one.
“Ab socho to ek din yeh bhi nai thi. Bade maje main isko pehena hoga. Bahut acchi lagti hogi na? Aur kitni jageh tumko leg gayee hogi. Purani dost hai baba.” (Now if you think of it, one day even she was brand new. You must have donned her with great pleasure. Must have looked really good. And she must have taken you to so many new places! She is an old friend son).
All at once Deb remembered the time when his mother had come with him to school because the seventh grade teacher had slapped Deb without reason. She had swept into his classroom looking almost regal with her black hair caught up in a jeweled bun. With scant regard to the giggling students or school protocols she had rebuked the poor teacher soundly. Deb still remembered the look of awe on his friends’ faces. No one messed with Mrs. Chatterjee’s son.
Deb’s mind became a whirlwind. Countless memories sprang alive: the bustle in the kitchen everyday at dawn since the school where she taught (for 13 years) required Maa to come in by 6:30 AM. The terrible day when Baba taught him his first trigonometry lesson. His parents clapping proudly at his first (and only) guitar recital in high school. His father consoling him when he did not pass the Civil exams. His mother adding that extra spoon of sugar is his evening tea that made it just perfect.
He even recalled the day his father retired as the head teller in the local bank. His father had come home early and Maa had prepared a special celebratory dinner. Deb cringed remembering his harsh refusal to dine with them despite repeated requests.
And then, finally, his marriage to Sudeepta. His parents had chosen her for him. A ‘beautiful Bengali girl’ they had called her. What did they think of her now? Did they ever look regretfully at the photo of the other girl they had rejected because she was ‘too dark’?
“Haan matlab nayee cheez zaroori hai. Par pair kaat thi hai babu. Isliye purani ko bhi paas rehene do….thoda araam miega.” ( I know that new things are also necessary. But new (slippers) are bound to bruise your feet. So let the old ones stay on. Use them to ease your feet).
“He could say that again!” Deb thought wryly. While he adored Sudeepta, his sometimes felt life could be more pleasant if she could be just a tad more laidback. She was a perfectionist and a staunch feminist. The result, Deb had to do his share of housework and do it right i.e. her way. And there was not much she let him get away with either. Just two days ago their water heater broke down. It meant nothing to Sudeepta who loved cold-water showers but to Deb it was a catastrophe. Hurrying to get dressed for his job interview, he had requested her to heat some water for him on the stove so he could at least bathe in lukewarm water. The response had been a curt “I am not Maa. Grow up.”
“Hum zyaada bol rahein hain kyaa?” Deb’s attention was caught by the change in the mochi’s voice.
Even as Deb tried to find words to explain the impression the old man was making on him, the mochi gave him a shy smile and said “Darasal hum itna bolte nahin hai. Par humare bete ne kal hamein bahut daanta. Keheta hai babuji, aajkal koi chappal theek karaane nahi jaata hai. Tumko thoda aur dum laga ke graahak ko bulana hoga. Kuch baat karo, graahak ko samjhaao purani chappal theek ho sakti hai.. thabhi tum kuch kamayee karoge. Bas hum wohi koshish kar rahe the. Warna humein kyaa hai babuji ki hum tumhe itni baatein sunaaye Lo ye theek ho gayee. Kaam ho gaya.” (Actually I don’t always talk so much. But yesterday my son scolded me a lot. He said no one is interested in getting their shoes mended nowadays. So I need to be more aggressive in soliciting clients. I should talk to them, entertain them. Convince them about the value of mending old shoes. Only then I will be able to earn some better money. So that’s all I was trying to do. Otherwise why would I rattle on lecturing you so. oh! Look the slipper is ready. You are all set.”)
Deb could only stare dumbfounded. So this had all been a sales pitch? This old man was good!! What a spiel he had spun! Deb did not know whether to thank him or wring his old neck. Then the humor of it struck him and he burst out laughing. He assured the old man he had enjoyed their chat, paid him generously and left chuckling to himself.
A few steps down the street Deb’s pace slowed down. He checked his watch and looked pensive. With sudden resolve he spun around and headed back home. There was just time enough to make a call to his parents before Sudeepta came home for lunch.
THE (M)END
“Na!” Sudeepta’s sharp command startled the lizard on the wall. Deb lowered his hand from the phone. Sudeepta drew a rich red line in her parting. A quick pranaam and she was ready to leave. Just before exiting, she cast a meaningful glare at Deb. Then the door shut and it was Deb by himself.
‘Deb by himself’ would have answered the phone. He had no bones to pick with his parents. They were a mildly annoying but irrefutable fact of life. But Deb with Sudeepta was a beast of a different nature. Within three months of marriage, as his wife washed off the alta from her pretty feet, untied keys knotted at the end of her sari and walked out of his parents’ house, Deb had decided his best interests lay in quietly following suit.
Now Baba was sick. At seventy, he was a senile mess. Maa faithfully blew the conch shell every evening, beseeching her Thakur’s mercy. She could not bear the burden of an ailing husband nor fathom the cruelty of an estranged son.
Deb felt restless. Pulling on his customary white kurta and brown trousers, he thrust his feet into an old pair of slippers and let himself out. It had been only two weeks since they moved into this new neighborhood and there were plenty of chores demanding his attention.
He walked fast. He would have walked faster but for his slipper that gave way with a moody snap. Deb stopped mid-stride. Now what? With habitual impatience he shook his foot free. Better to get rid of this old nuisance and get a new one. Fortunately he knew of a shoe shop very close by. He would have to walk barefoot, but not too far. Deb headed for the ditch across the road to throw away the useless slipper.
“Kyaa kar rahe ho baba? Hum abhi mare nahi.” (What are you doing son? I am not dead yet).
Deb was startled to find an old man standing by his side. Where had he come from? Did he know him? He racked his brains but no memory answered.
“Humein nahi pehechana shaayad. Hum yahan ke mochi hain.” (You did not recognize me perhaps. I am the neighborhood cobbler.)
“Lao yeh chappal humein de do.” (Come. Give me this slipper)
And before Deb could say yea, nay or hey, the old man had seized the slipper and scurried back to the dusty sidewalk where a mat was spread under the ponderous peepal tree.
There was no way to refuse without making a fuss. Deb did not fancy having an argument hopping on one leg. He trailed behind and sat down on an old aluminum trunk.
The old man studied the leather slipper minutely. He turned it over and over. He peered at it at eye level, then flexed it, then stretched the torn ligament and let it go with a snap. Deb could have sworn at one point he even talked to it under his breath.
Bored by the mochi’s antics, Deb leaned against the tree trunk. His thoughts drifted idly over the day’s work and inevitably to the ignored phone call. It was unlike Maa to call back a second time. Was there really some emergency? Heck at that age, every day was an emergency. How much longer were they going to be around?
“Boodhi ho gayee hai par abhi jaan hai” (She is old, but still has life left in her).
Deb jerked up straight. Had the mochi divined his thoughts?
But the old man was still absorbed by the silly slipper. He looked up with a delighted grin, displaying stained, broken teeth.
“Abhi jaan hai baba. Hum isko abhi theek kar dete hain” (It still has life son. Let me fix it right away). Even as Deb wondered at the man’s excitement, the mochi took out some rusty tools and ran on with his monologue. “Ab bacha lo to bhagwaan samjho. Phekne ka kaam to koi bhi kar sakta hai” (If you are able to preserve something, that’s close to God. Anyone can perform the act of destruction). “Bechari ne bade saal aapke saath guzara hai. Thodi si sewa karni padi to phek denge kyaa.” (This one has spent so many years serving you. Now when its time to tend to her a bit, will you throw her away).
Unbidden there came into Deb’s mind the day he had left his parent’s house. His mother had stood by the door quietly. Baba had helped them load their car with the same taciturn silence. For the first time Deb wondered: what did they do after we left? Who shut off the lights in the stairwell after they went to bed that night? Neither of his parents could walk up the stairs in the dark. And they had never installed another switch at the top because there was always going to be Deb.
Unsettled, Deb opened his mouth but the mochi was waiting for no one.
“Ab socho to ek din yeh bhi nai thi. Bade maje main isko pehena hoga. Bahut acchi lagti hogi na? Aur kitni jageh tumko leg gayee hogi. Purani dost hai baba.” (Now if you think of it, one day even she was brand new. You must have donned her with great pleasure. Must have looked really good. And she must have taken you to so many new places! She is an old friend son).
All at once Deb remembered the time when his mother had come with him to school because the seventh grade teacher had slapped Deb without reason. She had swept into his classroom looking almost regal with her black hair caught up in a jeweled bun. With scant regard to the giggling students or school protocols she had rebuked the poor teacher soundly. Deb still remembered the look of awe on his friends’ faces. No one messed with Mrs. Chatterjee’s son.
Deb’s mind became a whirlwind. Countless memories sprang alive: the bustle in the kitchen everyday at dawn since the school where she taught (for 13 years) required Maa to come in by 6:30 AM. The terrible day when Baba taught him his first trigonometry lesson. His parents clapping proudly at his first (and only) guitar recital in high school. His father consoling him when he did not pass the Civil exams. His mother adding that extra spoon of sugar is his evening tea that made it just perfect.
He even recalled the day his father retired as the head teller in the local bank. His father had come home early and Maa had prepared a special celebratory dinner. Deb cringed remembering his harsh refusal to dine with them despite repeated requests.
And then, finally, his marriage to Sudeepta. His parents had chosen her for him. A ‘beautiful Bengali girl’ they had called her. What did they think of her now? Did they ever look regretfully at the photo of the other girl they had rejected because she was ‘too dark’?
“Haan matlab nayee cheez zaroori hai. Par pair kaat thi hai babu. Isliye purani ko bhi paas rehene do….thoda araam miega.” ( I know that new things are also necessary. But new (slippers) are bound to bruise your feet. So let the old ones stay on. Use them to ease your feet).
“He could say that again!” Deb thought wryly. While he adored Sudeepta, his sometimes felt life could be more pleasant if she could be just a tad more laidback. She was a perfectionist and a staunch feminist. The result, Deb had to do his share of housework and do it right i.e. her way. And there was not much she let him get away with either. Just two days ago their water heater broke down. It meant nothing to Sudeepta who loved cold-water showers but to Deb it was a catastrophe. Hurrying to get dressed for his job interview, he had requested her to heat some water for him on the stove so he could at least bathe in lukewarm water. The response had been a curt “I am not Maa. Grow up.”
“Hum zyaada bol rahein hain kyaa?” Deb’s attention was caught by the change in the mochi’s voice.
Even as Deb tried to find words to explain the impression the old man was making on him, the mochi gave him a shy smile and said “Darasal hum itna bolte nahin hai. Par humare bete ne kal hamein bahut daanta. Keheta hai babuji, aajkal koi chappal theek karaane nahi jaata hai. Tumko thoda aur dum laga ke graahak ko bulana hoga. Kuch baat karo, graahak ko samjhaao purani chappal theek ho sakti hai.. thabhi tum kuch kamayee karoge. Bas hum wohi koshish kar rahe the. Warna humein kyaa hai babuji ki hum tumhe itni baatein sunaaye Lo ye theek ho gayee. Kaam ho gaya.” (Actually I don’t always talk so much. But yesterday my son scolded me a lot. He said no one is interested in getting their shoes mended nowadays. So I need to be more aggressive in soliciting clients. I should talk to them, entertain them. Convince them about the value of mending old shoes. Only then I will be able to earn some better money. So that’s all I was trying to do. Otherwise why would I rattle on lecturing you so. oh! Look the slipper is ready. You are all set.”)
Deb could only stare dumbfounded. So this had all been a sales pitch? This old man was good!! What a spiel he had spun! Deb did not know whether to thank him or wring his old neck. Then the humor of it struck him and he burst out laughing. He assured the old man he had enjoyed their chat, paid him generously and left chuckling to himself.
A few steps down the street Deb’s pace slowed down. He checked his watch and looked pensive. With sudden resolve he spun around and headed back home. There was just time enough to make a call to his parents before Sudeepta came home for lunch.
THE (M)END
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