Tempest

Wednesday, 4 April 2007

The Indian Stall

Day One

'Hi uncle, I'll have a Kit-kat please.'
'45 pence'
'Here you go'
'Thanks. Have a good day'.

Day Five

'Hi uncle, one Kit-Kat please.'
'45 pence'
'Here, I have the exact change,' I said with a smile.
'Thanks. Have a good day,' he replied with a polite smile.

Day Fifteen

'Kit-Kat Uncle!'
'Same time always. Have fun!'
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Next Month, Day One

'Uncle how’s aunty? The shifting must be tiring you both out.'
'Oh aunty is exhausted. What to do...have to do everything by ourselves here,' while passing the kit-kat to me.
'I know it must be crazy. No domestic help. How do you manage? Would you like any help?' I asked simply while doling out the change.
'Nahi bachche. Enjoy the kit-kat!'

Day Fifteen

'Uncle you have me addicted! I can’t walk past your stall without buying a Kit-kat anymore', I exclaimed, already giving him the money.
'Well it makes you stop and say hi!'
'I hope aunty is well now. At least the shifting is done so she will be able to get some rest.'
'Yes. She's come down with a viral. So I stay here all day. The stall needs to be manned', he said all but smiling.
'Hope she gets well soon. Let me know if you need help with anything.'
'Haan bachche. Enjoy the Kit-kat!
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Month Three, Day Five

‘You don’t want the Kit-Kat today?’ He shouted across the platform.
‘My train is here. I don’t have change.’
‘That’s okay. Give it to me tomorrow, he ran up to me and shoved it into my hands.
‘Uhh. Are you sure? Umm Thank you,’ I stuttered while getting into the train.

I was amazed. It was like being back in India, where you strike a certain rapport with the canteen guy or the colony ice-cream vendor. The same trust. The same rustic Indian PR system. I kept thinking of the words hammered into my head by Dad ever since I was five, “Never take anything from strangers.” It made me wary of Uncle. I returned the money the same evening, but the Kit-kat buying continued and so did the daily dose of chitchat
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Month Three, Day Twenty

'What’s wrong with you?' S said in exasperation while spreading the bed-sheet.
'He asked for help. No actually I offered. I've been talking to him for over two months now. He's a nice guy.'
'Ok. First of all there's no such thing as a nice guy. Second of all he's someone who owns a stall at a railway station. Even though you speak to him, he is a stranger. I mean how old are you??’
'I know S. But he is nice and they really don't know many people. And it is tough setting up the house single-handedly. And he’s an Indian.’
‘He’s been living in this freaking country for thirteen years! Don’t tell me he knows no one else! And so what if he’s an Indian? Most Indians are sleaze balls! I think your being extremely stupid! And you keep talking to these strangers, you ask for trouble.’

That hurt. It was true. But, it was below the belt.

‘Fine. Have it your way. I’m going to help them (by this time I was righteously stubborn and it wasn’t about helping him). I can see a nice person when I meet one.’

Month Three, Day 21

S and I follow Uncle off the sidewalk on Wembley Street silently. A cold war had been declared (among girls it means a lot of ignoring and making dirty faces).

A very usual Brit house on Park drive. He led us to the side of the house and we followed him up a narrow flight of stairs. It looked very much like an old house in Coimbatore or some place in a smaller South Indian town from this vintage point; like a small, flat white box. He opened the wooden door, held it ajar and motioned for us to walk in. We both did and then he walked in after us and banged the door closed. The light was shut out with the banging of the door. In that one moment I could tell for a fact that we were both scared to death! Alright I could only tell then that I got shit scared and that I was thinking S was right after all, but she later confessed to having had palpitations as well. Before either of us could give in to our fear and yell at the top of our lungs he switched on the lights and opened this other door beside the front door but perpendicular to it in such a way that had the front door been open this could not have been opened.

Phew the flood of relief that always follows with logical reasoning rushed in. We smiled our first smiles of the day at each other. Mine quickly turned to triumphant and we continued the cold war. A mad afternoon of bending and picking up couches and sofas together, arranging them around the room, opening out wall to wall rugs (trust me they are extremely heavy), setting up side tables and cabinets, manoeuvring a cot from the living room into the bedroom (this one turned the cold war into a bloodbath of yells and shouts in frustration) and sweating in London ensued! Pure labour, heavy breathing, hot flushes and broken backs, we sighed unanimously. It had been exhausting. It had been harrowing. It had been just slightly fun (S would not admit to more even later). It had been therapy. Yes, therapy. It’s weird how you can bond over just working hard physically. The joint effort, the joint exertion and then sitting in silence in the room of labour creates a certain kind of camaraderie. He gave us a box of chocolates while we were leaving. All the way back S kept grumbling about how the box had been a saving grace and that the reason he got us to do it was because he didn’t want to pay anyone to do it. S was right of course. Logically I had to agree with her of course. We had wasted our time and energy for nothing of course. But I couldn’t say that to her of course! No it wasn’t because of the cold war or because I was being egoistic (which I was of course) but because I know S and I know she was glad we had done it and because I was glad as well.
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Don’t get me wrong. I can’t call uncle my friend. I still only talk to him for a few minutes a day, just a few polite questions back and forth. But it feels good to say hello to him at the station. I can’t explain it. He isn’t a part of my life but in a way he is. When I leave London, he might be one of the first things/experiences/people that I might forget about the place. But what the entire circumstance taught us I guess I’ll take with me. I can’t quite put a finger on what it was exactly. Just a few disconnected thoughts. He is an Indian. ‘Enjoy the Kit-kat’. ‘Never take anything from strangers’. ‘Don’t close your heart and mind to getting to know strangers. You might miss some nice people.’ Some extremely nice, genuine kind acts can take you aback at railway platforms. Life is not all good. But then again, life is not all bad. Maybe someday I'll have the words to describe the feeling.
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For all those waiting to give me a lecture, don’t worry I’ve given myself several. It happens rarely. I don’t regret it. I promise I won’t make talking to people on buses, trains a habit.
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Thanks S. You don’t know it, but I wouldn’t have gone if you hadn’t come that day.

Posted by Pavitra :: 08:24 :: 7 comments