The vendor who didn’t cry his wares
WHENEVER, in my imagination, I go back to the streets of the town where the days of my childhood, adolescence, youth and middle age were spent, certain figures flash across my mind. Their facial contours, simple and rustic attire, innocent and down-to-earth dedication to their modest but honourable means of livelihood and their way of dealing with customers are etched in my memory.
Chhabriwallahs (a chhabri is a flat wicker basket) were a common sight in those days, much like rehriwallahs (hawkers selling goods on pushcarts) are today. At a corner of the road I passed daily, an old man in his sixties would sit on his haunches. He had a wrinkled face, a puckered nose and sunken eyes. Sporting a salt-and-pepper moustache, he was clad in a white dhoti and kurta, with a small turban on his head and a white towel draped over his shoulders. Before him lay his twin chhabris, showcasing merchandise meant especially for children.
In one of his chhabris, he placed smaller baskets containing puffed rice flakes (phulliyan, as they are called in Punjab, and murmure or murhi in some other Indian languages), daal — skinless, split grams roasted with a pinch of salt and turmeric-roasted whole grams, meethi saunf (sugar-coated fennel) and an assortment of toffees in orange and mango flavours. In the other chhabri, he kept small bags or sacks containing the bulk of his merchandise, from which he would replenish the smaller baskets. During the winter season, he also sold peanuts, revdi and gachak.
This old man, whose name we never knew but whom we called Babaji — a respectful epithet for the elderly — would arrive in the morning, carrying his chhabris in a wehangi (a local contraption in which the chhabris are tied to each end of a flat bamboo shaft with ropes). He would sit at his fixed spot and carefully arrange his items in the smaller baskets. I never heard him calling out to attract customers. From morning till sunset, he quietly conducted his business. When the shadows grew longer, Babaji would hoist his wehangi onto his shoulders and head home. He was very punctual in arriving at and leaving the place.
In those days, our pocket money was just a five- or 10-paisa coin, and even that wasn’t a daily allowance — only once or twice a week. My friend Ibrahim and I would rush to him in the evenings or on mornings during holidays, clutching our precious coins to buy puffed rice-flakes and daal. Babaji would wrap the items in a paper and hand them over to us. We mixed the two items and relished them, munching while chatting about inconsequential things. The combination of daal and phulliyan was so delightful that the memory makes my mouth water even today.
We remained his regular customers until we reached Class V. After that, Babaji’s visits gradually dwindled, and one day, he disappeared altogether. Age must have caught up with him. May his soul rest in peace.
