(A little lengthy post - a couple of moments taken out from life and described in detail. If you’re looking for a point, you won’t find any at the end of this. Just like life!)
After a long day’s work at office and an hour’s travel in the Delhi Metro, I finally reach my station and get down, and start walking towards my home. It’s close to 10 PM and it feels like it’s a lonely world out there. The sodium street lights are shining in their full glory trying to be the hopeful sun for the night dwellers. The street dogs, whom a lot of people look with eyes full of love but very few rarely stop and talk to them, are gradually becoming unruly and trying to show who the boss of the street is. I used to be scared of these dogs but now I don’t feel afraid of them.
I walk and just round the corner on a street, at the end of which my house is located, I see one of those typical 4 wheeled Indian thelas. The sodium lights here, for some reason, are refusing to lighten up this area and although it is not pitch dark here, but fairly dark it is. I see a CFL radiating its cheerful white light in that silent dark night, hanging through the centre of the temporary tarpaulin ceiling that is being used to cover the thela. As the neurons in my brain prepare themselves to work overtime to make the decision of whether or not I want to get a glass of fresh sugarcane juice, I receive a phone call from home. I pick up the phone and the usual talks begin. “Yes, I am okay,” and other such phrases assuring them that everything is going on fine with me. While talking on the phone I reach this thela, and, bypassing the absence of a decision which my neurons still need to make, I stop there. Some sugar canes are lying behind the thela neatly arranged in a stack and a sugarcane-crushing juice machine is stationed on the ground behind the thela. The guy is washing some glasses and containers in dark near the thela, where the light from the CFL lamp is not reaching sufficiently to properly lighten the area. It seems like he is done for the day. The motor driven, probably fuelled by kerosene, juice machine is not running. Although my tummy is feeling mostly full after eating some paranthas near my office, but there is some attraction that I feel for this glass of juice I could potentially savour.
I save my neurons some efforts, and taking a moment off my phone call, say in a little loud tone, “Bhaiya, ek glass bana do (Make a glass of juice for me).”
He nods, and taking a break from his washing of glasses, he wipes his hand with a cloth, which is not looking clean at all, and then takes a medium length ganna out of the stack and breaks it in two parts. I am still on the phone call but I continue observing him while he tries to run the motor again. He looks around 35 to 40 years in age, and is wearing an inexpensive looking white coloured half sleeved shirt and some dark coloured trousers. He has a lean body, and his face looks as if he has made peace with his life. I see no distinctive smile on his face and no hint of sadness. A calming indifference is crowding his face.
My active attention moves back to the phone call towards the ongoing conversation. I keep roaming around the thela still talking on the phone as he prepares the juice, fills it in a plastic mug, and pours it in a transparent glass for me. The light green lemony coloured juice looks so invitingly delicious. I quickly pick up the glass and take the first sip.
I think, “It is tasty, yes, but what are these solid pieces in this juice?”
He has probably forgotten to filter the juice in his chhalni. By this time, I am about to finish the call. Some guy has appeared from nowhere in that rather people-less area and the juicewaala guy is now talking to him in a Haryanvi sounding language about some truck that could never reach Agra.
As I hang up the phone call, I put the glass back on the thela, and tell that guy, “Bhaiya, chhana nahi isko aapne (Bro, you have not filtered the juice).”
And I start spitting out the sugarcane pieces that are caught up in my mouth. He diverts his attention back to me, looking a little unsure of what is it that I am asking him about.
I think for a moment, “Is it in fact the way the juice should be, no filtering? But then what about all the previous times when I have drank the super awesome ganna juices. Yes, I am pretty sure that all of them have been filtered. And look there, I see a couple of large plastic chhalnis lying at the other end of the thela. Yes, it needs to be filtered.“
All of this meaningless analysis happens within a moment and with a re-assuring confidence I tell him again, “Ganne ke tukde aa rahe hain bhaiya, chhana nahi aapne yeh (You have not filtered it, I have sugarcane pieces in my mouth).”
The other guy who was concerned with the truck leaves now, and the juice waala guy picks up the glass of juice and the sincere looking expressions on his face show that he is thinking what went wrong with the juice. And then he suddenly realizes that he has forgotten to filter the juice.
He says, with a genuine looking smile, “Oh sorry bhaiya, bhul gaya (Oh sorry bro, I forgot).”
“Koi baat nahi (Not an issue).”
I am now standing at one side of the thela, the CFL lighting the thela in between, and the guy filtering the juice on the other side of the thela. It feels like one of those classic movie scenes where there are two faces in dark and complete focus of the camera is on what these two characters are talking about, with no importance being allowed to the nearby environment. He gives me back the glass, this time filtered.
I look at the juice machine on the ground which he has stopped after preparing the juice and, again picking up the glass, say, “Band kar rahe ho dukaan (Closing the shop)?”
"Haan bhaiya (Yeah, bro).”
Pointing towards the sugarcane stack, I say, “Achcha yeh bache hue ganne ghar leke jaate ho (So, you take these remaining sugarcanes back to your home)?”
“Nahi bhaiya, yahin chhod deta hun (No, I leave them here itself).”
“Achcha! Chori nahi hote (Oh! Don’t these get stolen)?!”
“Nahi bhaiya, 1-2 chori hote hain, koi bachcha wagerah utha ke le jaata hoga. Bade log to chori nahi karte (No, a couple of them does get stolen, but it must be some kid who takes them. Elder people don’t steal),” he says with a satisfied content smile on his face, probably the most genuine smile I have seen in a long time.
Hearing him say this makes me feel very happy about everything, without my neurons understanding the reason. I forget about all the worries of my life, if only for a minute. I feel like the protagonist of some classic fiction book who has just had the biggest realization of his life. This is definitely the turning point in the plot of this book, I feel.
I simply smile and say, “Haan, sahi keh rahe ho. Yeh machine yahin lagi rehti hai poore saal (Yeah, you are right. Does this machine remain here the whole year)?”
He nods, “Haan machine yahin lagi rehti hai hamesha, par main yahan sirf teen mahine ke liye dukaan lagata hun (Yes, the machine stays here always, but I open my shop here only for three months).”
“Aur baaki time (And the remaining time)?”
“Kheti baadi hai gaaon Mein (I have farming in my village).”
“Kahan se ho aap (Where are you from)?”
"Chittorgarh.”
I imagine the map of Rajasthan in my mind, and the distance and the route from Delhi to Chittorgarh.
“Abhi kaun dekhta hai kheti wahan. Aap to yahan aa gaye (Who looks after the farming now that you are here)?”
“Ab wo sarso ki fasal Ki katai to ho gayi hai, ab barsaat ke season mein wapas jayenge (The crop of mustard has been taken care of for now, next I will go back in the rainy season).”
“Achcha, teen mahine yahan, aur baaki time wahan (Ok, three months here, and the remaining time there)?”
“Nahi bhaiya, aur bhi business hain. Ice cream ka kaam hai, wo iffco chowk pe bechta hu (No, I have other business too. I sell ice-creams at IFFCO chowk).”
I nod my head, saying “Sahi hai (Great),” and finish the juice, and with it a slight unexplained sadness begins to grow inside of me.
I put the glass down on the thela and then he raises the chhalni and the mug and pours some more in my empty glass, saying, “Bhaiya, yeh bhi le lo, thoda sa bacha hai (Please take this too, a little is left).”
I feel like saying, “Arey nahi, aap pi lena (Oh no, you have it),” but then I stop, realizing that he must anyway be drinking a lot of juice during his whole day. I again pick up the now slightly less than half filled glass of juice and drink it.
“Kitna Hua bhaiya (How much)?”
"20 rupaye.”
I pull my wallet out and take two Rs. 10 notes and hand it over to him, saying, “Thank you.”
And I turn around and start walking again, with the classic novel that has been in the process of being written all this time, ending with this scene.