iRock

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 1^st 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

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