iRock
There he
was, sitting down on the hot, hard, cracked concrete seat of the bus-stop
having alighted from one bus and waiting to catch another. The sun was hot, it
was dusty and humid. There was no useful shade - the ‘shade’ portion of the
bus-stop having gone missing. It had mysteriously vanished after a couple of
days. No one questioned these minor things in this part of the world.
He had a hat
on and smart sunglasses. He had started out earlier that morning after a bath,
with a fresh, laundered and ‘ironed’ set of clothes. It seemed pointless now,
with all the grime, dust, dirt and sweat he had picked up within the hour. The
collar of his shirt already had the familiar dark, wet edge that became a black
line when the shirt was taken off. It would require attention and manual
rubbing while washing to get rid of. He looked every bit a local with his dark
skin, groomed and well attired in local clothes. No one could tell that he was from
the other side of the world where he had grown up. He was visiting the homeland
of his parents who had moved out from here about 40 years ago. He could not
speak the local language, just had memories of his parents speaking it and even
then he understood only a handful of words in it, when they spoke to him slowly
and clearly. The locals here seemed to speak too fast and with a totally
different accent, he could understand virtually nothing. It was a blessing,
though a mixed one at that. He found it interesting that the locals all spoke
English to some degree, yet it was very difficult to understand many of them.
He was on
his way to spending a day getting around the city by himself – a challenge he
had set up for himself, as he had done before in Europe and South America where
he had visited as a tourist and student.
Today he had set out with a packed lunch, water bottle and some written notes
(with his name, the address of his local relatives and their phone numbers) in
case of an emergency. These were from the family he was staying with – his
distant uncle and aunt. They had seen him off with some concern. They had
applied a streak of holy ash on his forehead and a dot of vermillion and felt a
bit reassured that God was now looking out for this young man.
“I suppose,
I am a marked man, so that God’s assistants on earth can now identify me more
easily for assistance,” he thought to himself.
He found it
interesting that wherever he went, most locals seemed to think he was one of
them and often started to speak to him in the local language. They were often
puzzled or impatient at his failure to respond or respond quickly in Tamil.
He was
supposed to catch the next connecting bus to a huge commercial area in the centre
of the city from this bus-stop. Actually, it was a series of bus-stops, all
next to each other, in front of a railway station where he had arrived just a
while ago.
There were
milling crowds all around him, stray dogs, cows, goats and even some donkeys,
rickshaw pullers, traffic of all kinds, buses, cars, trucks, scooters and
plenty of hand-pulled carts with merchandise to and from nearby shops. Everyone
seemed to know exactly where they were going, even the stray dogs. There were
the usual line of beggars sitting along in a row, a few wandering around and
approaching anyone. Most of them either passed him by or addressed him in
Tamil. He was told to ignore them and not to make eye contact or to respond.
They just moved on.
There were a
bunch of tea-stalls, selling piping-hot tea and assorted snacks near one end of
the bus-stops. There were crude wooden benches in front of them, with a thatch
roof over and they were almost all occupied by the customers of those typical Indian
‘café’s. At the edge of the thatch roof, along two sides, there were shiny
coloured packets strung out like string curtains. These were apparently popular
tidbits or condiments powders and candies. When a customer purchased one, the
vendor would pluck one out from the string. It was interesting to watch.
“Saar [Sir]! Good morning Saar. Kaapi [Coffee]?” a young energetic voice seemed
to be addressing him. He turned his head to face the young man who had suddenly
appeared before him with a wire-rack holding six, steaming glasses of a brown
concoction that smelled heavenly and surprisingly appetising in this heat!
“No,
thanks!” he declined with a smile, noting the wide, friendly smile of this boy
who looked barely a teenager, a dark brown, almost black face, split by a smile
showing a row of white, well brushed teeth, black hair, cut groomed, oiled and
slicked back apparently with care. He had a grimy cloth bag with a flap slung
on his side that jingled – obviously to carry change money. He wore no hat in
this blazing sun, with sweat and oil just starting to run down the edges of his
hairline. The boy had a pinkish shirt and a pair of khaki shorts from under
which appeared two thin, shiny, almost black legs that were smooth and sweaty
until the knees, which were marked with a patch of grey dust (he had apparently
been kneeling somewhere recently). The ankles started clean and dark and
smooth, slowly becoming a more brownish colour, that gave the appearance of a body
sock or a panty hose as it progressed down to his feet, which were bare, caked
with mud that had stuck on to his sweat – this explained what the sock was
really made of – just mud that had stuck in a layer to his feet as he had
walked around.
“What thanks,
Saar?” the boy seemed puzzled. He was not used to people saying 'thank you' for not receiving something.
“No, No, No
coffee. Thank you!”
Now the boy
seemed even more puzzled and suddenly, he appeared upset and a bit annoyed. He
shot an angry look and said something in Tamil.
“Yow,
vendanna, summa vendamnu sollu, Gayli pannadhe!![Hey, if you don’t want, just say ‘No’, don’t tease me”] said the
boy and then started to move away, muttering to himself.
Something
about the hurt expression on the face of the boy moved him. He wanted to know
what he had done to offend him or hurt his feelings. He called out to him.
“Hey! Coffee!
Come here.”
The boy spun
around and looked at him with uncertainty and confusion and the expression
changed to one of hope that he was going to make a sale.
“One Kaapi,
five rupees, Saar” he said picking out a glass from the tray he held. He thrust
the glass towards him.
“No, No. I
don’t want coffee, I want to talk to you.” He started and suddenly was shocked
at the next expression on the little boy’s face.
Now the
little vendor boy was truly angry! He was disappointed and confused as to why
this man called out for coffee and did not want to buy one.
“Yow, Enna,
Velayaduraya? [Hey, what? Are you playing
with me?]” He asked challengingly.
“Why are you
angry? What did I say to upset you?” He asked with with some tenderness. He had
observed that the locals seemed to have a quick temper and short fuse and
voices were often raised quickly.
Perhaps it
was his tone and voice in which the concern and feeling towards the boy showed,
and the boy was surprised at an older, stranger responding in such fashion to
his own hostile remarks. He stopped in his tracks and did a double take,
looking carefully at the face of this man. The vendor boy could only see
sincerity and nothing malicious. He realised there had been a miscommunication.
His expression became one of curiosity and even some friendliness. He realised
this man was not originally from these parts. He was a stranger, only one could
not tell easily from his appearance. The boy’s attitude and expression changed
in a flash to one of tolerance, acceptance and even a bit of amusement.
“Kaapi, no
want?” the boy asked to clarify and trying to speak in English.
“No, no. No
thank you,” He started, waving his head, “I want to know …”
“No Kaapi?
Why Thank you?,” asked the boy, once again starting to feel a bit puzzled, but
keeping his calm.
Now, both
were puzzled, though not upset with each other. He struggled for words to
explain, realising the boy did not really understand his English, even if he
used a few English words regularly and they were part of the local dialect,
mixed with Tamil.
The two
stared at each other, friendliness broke through. Both smiled and started to
laugh. For a few seconds they communicated in the universal language of smiles
and laughter.
“I am
Shekar, What is your name?” He said to the boy.
“I Rakesh!
You Forrin [foreign]?” asked the boy,
speaking in the typically fast pace of the locals. He was flattered that some
stranger told him his name and cared to ask him his own.
“S-l-o-w
d-o-w-n. Is your name ‘Rockesh’? My name is SHEKAR,” said Shekar slowing down.
“I Raakesh,”
said the boy trying to slow down. He was now calm and happy and did not care if
did not make a sale to his foreigner who looked like a local. So many thoughts
went through his mind, but he was not upset or believed this man was teasing
him. He just seemed to speak different and Raakesh wanted to know why. He had
been learning English of late and was very motivated to learn. He had overhead
elders speaking of how someone had made a better life because they had learned
to speak, read and write better English and how it was a necessity to get ahead
in life in this world now. He could not dream of going to school for his basic
education, leave alone having English lessons. But Rakesh had been picking up
words, phrases in English as he heard them spoken around and from snippets of
movies that he watched. He loved to hear the different accents of English
speakers even as they spoke the same word.
“Look, Rockesh,
can you sit down a little while. I want to talk to you,” said Shekar patting
the concrete seat next to him and inviting Rakesh to sit down. He wanted to
know what he had said to upset him. He wanted to learn about local perceptions
of his speaking and learn from them.
“I go. Sell hot
Kaapi. Kaapi cold,” said Rakesh.
Even though
it seemed like nothing would go cold in that weather, Shekar understood that
the boy wanted to move on, else he could not sell coffee that had gone cold. It
was the boy’s livelihood. He decided to make it worth the boy’s while. He took
out a twenty rupee note and handed it to the boy, who promptly started to pull
out four glasses of coffee from the tray and set it down on the bench next to
Shekar, wondering at this crazy foreigner who did not want one glass initially
and suddenly wanted four.
Shekar
picked up one glass of coffee and
motioned for him to put the rest away. The boy was a disappointed, but thankful
of having made a sale, put the remaining glasses away and pulled out change
from a bag slung on his side and proffered three grimy five rupee coins. Shekar
waved him away and said “Keep it!”
The boy was
persistent and tried to thrust them on Shekar. He had pride and did not like
charity.
Shekar stood
up, set down his coffee on the bench, took the coins, held the boy firmly by
the hand and put the coins back in the money bag, saying, “Keep it! “
“And sit down,
there,” he continued, pointing to the concrete bench.
Puzzled, but
thankful that his time was not wasted, the boy sat down and set the tray of
coffee next to him. He looked up to this stranger who stood before him.
“What you
want, Saar?” he asked.
“Tell me
about yourself. Why are you selling coffee? Why are you not in school?” asked
Shekar and took a sip of the delicious coffee as he waited for the boy to
answer.
“School? What
school, Saar?” the boy was trying to figure out what was being said.
“You are not
in school? Why did you not go to school?” Shekar asked gesturing and pointing
to ‘Rockesh’.
It was
obvious the little boy was smart and quick. He inferred what was being asked
with the cue words of ‘school’ and the gestures of Shekar pointing at him. He
knew that normally kids his age were at school. This stranger wanted to know
why he was not there too. Skipping
school was looked down upon in Indian society and it usually denoted something
was wrong, possibly a bad character on the part of the child or its upbringing.
Rockesh was touched to the quick. Something deep and personal within him gave
way. He would have loved nothing better than to be able to go to school. He was
selling coffee instead due to personal circumstances. He did not want to be
judged as unfairly as ‘bad’ boy.
The words
came tumbling out of Rockesh, in a rush, almost in a stampede, often jostling
and tripping each other. They were not full, complete sentences. He mustered
all the English words he knew or understood in a certain way to tell his story,
as quickly and briefly as he could, not leaving out important details. It was
because of Shekar’s familiarity with the way and speed English is spoken by
some Indians that he was barely able to keep up. But Rockesh’s story held his
attention as he watched the animated and honest expression.
“I school go
no now. I old son. My little sister school go. My mother no, accident die. Father work houses, one eye, leg not good. Sister
good study. Class 1st rank! She grow big doctor/lawyer! I work. I
elder son. Responsible. I happy. I also learn. Sister teach me. I English
understand. Many pictures (movies)
see. English style speak. Haha! After sister getting married, I learn. She
teach me old. OK,” he finished breathlessly with a laugh and a bright, cheerful
optimistic smile.
Shekar was blown away. Over the years, he had heard many a much
longer speech, in perfect English back home in California, in lecture halls and
from politicians that he could not make out what the speaker was trying to convey.
Here was this uneducated boy, who managed to tell him a deep, personal story in a
language quite foreign to him. He had conveyed his present life condition and
story with accuracy, humour and unbounded optimism, faith and shown some of the
best values one could live by – all in under a minute with just a smattering of
English words. There was nothing ambiguous about what he said, what he believed
and how he lived.
Something
was revealed to Shekar, something profound, moving and of significance in his
life from that day forward. He realised that often in regular life communication
does not require perfect language, grammar, syntax and all the frills. Humans
can, with very few words, convey so much.
As he was
lost in thought with a slightly doubtful ‘Rockesh’ looking on, the bus that
Shekar was waiting for pulled in and a melee ensued. Rockesh, deftly picked up
his tray of coffee cups and the almost empty one from Shekar and dodged the
crowds trying to get off and on the bus at the same time.
“Ta-ta, Saar!
Thank you, Saar!” he shouted and ran away. Shekar managed to get on to the bus
and was soon on his way.
“I need to
go back and listen to Rockesh tell me more stories,” he resolved to himself, “I
want to learn and show the world how well he can communicate.”
Copyright (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2014
All rights reserved