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.
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.
