The Lost Neighborhood

The bell rings, around 7 am. You open the door and pull in the newspaper stuck outside the door handle at 6 am by the Paperwala. Now it's the Doodhwala (milkman), with his big aluminium cylinder full of buffalo milk. You run to him with a vessel and ask for half or a full liter, in case mom plans to make some sweet that day. He pours out the required quantity and you give him a card. He writes the date, the amount, and hands it back. Sometimes, he is all smiles about the buffalo who just delivery a calf and he was able to get some chikacha doodh (colostrum). Everyone home is excited, licking lips in anticipation for kharvas (milk flan) that mom will make with china grass (agar agar).

The bell rings again. You rush to the door and see no one. You understand implicitly that it's the Kachrawali (trash collector), who rings the bells in all apartments and offers first-open-first-door-served services. You carry the little trash can out to her, along with a separate paper bag with organic scraps. She handles them in due order, and you close the door quick to ward off the smell.

The corner store Paanwala (shopkeeper selling paan) with the basic amenities. Stern face, shapely mustache, white full-tee baniyan and checkered lungi. You ask for half a dozen of eggs. A lit paper bag made from an old newspaper, wraps around 6 eggs that you hold delicately and put it in your patterned cloth bag. You call for Wibs bread. Half or full? You say Full, hoping for the delectable pavacha sanja (bread saute) if leftover. Sliced white bread, in a paper bag with blue & white stripes with a red logo. Sometimes mom is planning to cook chicken or mutton (being a Sunday), and you instead demand paavchi laadi (a slab of soft baked bread). You add it to your thaili, hoping to cushion the eggs. You give him a note, he doesn't have change. You pocket the Mango bite candy he gives you instead.

Every day, the stale newspapers goes in a stack that grows. One Maharashtra times and its puravnya (supplements), one Times of India with the hip Bombay Times. You ensure that you cut out the actors from the infamous Page 3 that is then folded inside, so that you avoid getting a yelled at. After all, it also includes those hard-earned ones for which you were sent out around the corner to fetch, when the delivery boy missed your apartment for some odd reason. When the stack gets heavy enough, it gets neatly tied with sutli thread. You lug it to the Raddiwala (the wastepaper collector) who balances the load on a metal scale with some hexagonal weights. You tilt your head a bit to verify that he doesn't have a magnet underneath the other side for "cheating". He gives you some cash and you're on your way.

You are handed a huge aluminium cylindrical can, full of some grain, in a strong cloth bag. You manage to drop it off at the local Girni/Chakkiwala (miller). A man in white, literally coated in flour dusting, peeks out at you. The machine slaps around rhythmically while he asks you to line up your dabba next to other containers, in their own multicolored cloth bags to recognize the owners. He'll follow a strict first-come first-served policy, but you still request him to do yours earlier, while you stifle a sneeze. He nods, you run back home prepping for a second visit soon to collect it.

It's an auspicious day. You are sent to the Fulwala (street florists) to get garlands for the Gods in your home temple. You notice the marigolds among other white flowers, hanging on a makeshift rod next to the fulwala. You ask for the price of each, and based on the intricacy, you get the cost. You also ask them to throw in the red hibiscus for ganesh, or whites for Shiva, or others based on the festival. Sometimes, a gajra (flower braid), but it is usually your dad who gets it for your mom, keeping the subtle romance alive. They wrap it in dried banyan tree leaves with a tiny white string, that you know your dad will carefully unwrap to save the string. The Bhajiwali (vegetable vendor) is squatting nearby and you ask for the usual cilantro, lemon and ginger. You coax them to throw in some green chillies for "free". You count out the money and hand it to them.

Your mom gets a call, mostly on the days of the week you aren't a vegetarian. Maasliwali calling about her fresh catch. She is downstairs, right opposite your window, but outside the building premises. Majority of the building members being fish-eaters have strong-armed the Jains and other vegetarians into allowing her to work from a distance. We have a little conference inside the house about which fish to buy based on the prices she quotes. She starts hacking and cleaning the ones you agreed upon. You go down and stand next to the lazing street dogs, patiently waiting for the innards that she discards. You hop on from one leg to other, to keep the flies at bay. She puts the pieces in a black plastic bag, that reminds everyone about its meaty contents. The only other time you see that black bag, is when someone brings the alcohol. Black for non-veg -- food or drinks, it is known. You run home, eat a hearty meal and do one more round to the garbage dump downstairs to throw away the fish bones right away, lest they stink up the house.

You run along to the Kiraanyacha dukan (neighborhood grocer). Big sacks of grains, legumes and pulses line up the entrance. You notice those bags of chips, Peppy catches your eye and your mouth waters. You ignore the feeling, and ask for an assortment of different items. He scoops up the grains with a little aluminium spade into thin bags, and weighs them on a counter scale. While he's at it, he reminds you of other things you may want. A toothpaste? A scented soap? The smells accost you, one after the other. At times, he knows you and your spending habits. He'll bring up the chewing gum that gets you a cricketeer card or a WWF wrestler card. You go through his stack and pick the one you don't have. Other times, he asks you your grades at school and if good, he yells at his son working in the back, trying to set an example.

You hear a loud booming yell. It's the occasional Kabadiwala (scrap collector). You have a little pile of scrap lying underneath a cupboard or in a corner, which you carry downstairs. You try to negotiate to the best of your ability, based on the items you're giving away. Sometimes, it's a Kalaiwala (utensil refurbisher) and you get sent out with the vessels which have lost their sheen. There is flaming coal, there is tin coating, and there's a lot of aggressive rubbing. Then there is a Dhaarwala (knife sharpener). You stand clear of the screeching sound and the sparks as they press the pedal to get the wheel going, pressing the dull knives skillfully on it.

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We order our heirloom eggs, A2 milk, multi-grain sliced bread, sourdough baguette, vegetables - some chopped, clean fish fillets, 20 lbs of grains & flour on Instacart -- all wrapped in multi-layered plastic packaging.We segregate our trash in colored containers and leave them out for the garbage trucks. We buy new knives and vessels on Amazon when the old ones get discolored. We pine about the need for a community & a third place while we binge-watch TV shows that friends tell us or doomscroll on those tiny addictive gadgets.

When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The Masseuse

There is a scene in the movie Zwigato, where the wife of the gig-economy worker strapped for money, tries to make ends meet as a personal masseuse. In the hustle-bustle of the big city, she runs after her bus and tries to reach in time for her appointment. Asked to use the service elevator (read: lower class) in a posh building, she is welcomed into the house by a lady arranging her tarot cards. Her daughter, the intended back ache patient, takes one look at her and refuses to get a massage from her citing her sweaty saree-clad condition -- all the while communicating in English. The mother sends the masseuse away lying about the reason for cancellation, pushing some minimal bus fare in her hands.

My thoughts dwindle. A recent memory.

Rushing out from the colorful quiet bylanes, we are suddenly greeted by bright lights, flashy souvenir shops and scantily-clad white people. Ah, the tourist-infested beach town of Goa is here. Cash exchanges hands and we grab a juicy parking spot by the entrance of the resto-shack. A beautiful thatched place on sticks with round hanging lanterns, and the muted sound of distant ocean waves. The evening is just getting started with a trickle of customers arriving.

We're seated and place our orders for some Kingfishers and a Kalakhatta beerita. As we chat animatedly, a woman with a dark complexion, in oil slick hair neatly tied in a braid, gold earrings, necklace and a saree covered in a maroon uniform stops by the table. I barely register her then, and my friends send her off after a few No-thank-yous.

The band starts playing a mix of American and Bollywood fusion songs and we lighten up. The violinist-cum-singer is splendidly serenading the crowd to some unexpected tunes. Nursing my drink, I glance away at a neighboring table where the same woman is now sitting down in the sand with a woman's foot in her lap. I'm a bit unnerved by the audacity of it, so I ask what is happening.

"Oh, she came by before to ask if anyone wanted a massage in our group..."

I look back and then notice her -- either performing a foot massage or a pedicure. I am sometimes uncomfortable with the idea of even a private massage, so doing it in a public place with other people clustered around you -- you have to be the opposite of self-aware.

Suddenly, some Arabian music draws my attention to the front stage and I see a fair woman in a flowing blue dress and flaunting her wares -- especially the ones needed for a belly dance. The jiggling, the suggestive stares, the serpentine movements and the gyrations have some of the audience enthralled. The juxtaposition of these two women -- dancing or massaging -- aka making an honest living, speaks volumes to me. As we applaud for the dance, I spy the hair strings of another customer getting intricately fine-tuned with beads by our maroon masseuse. We shuffle away soon after, as I am torn between my embarrassment of getting a public service from this woman who looks so out-of-place for this swanky establishment and the "altruistic" desire to get something done from her, so as to help her... make ends meet.


When US beckoned me by Siddharth Wagh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.