He came everyday , on bicycle , pedalling , winding his way rather , slowly , smilingly , savouring all that came his way . He was in no hurry .
Then he would reach this giant tamarind tree , and alight . Untie a bundle sitting behind , on the "carrier", one meant to carry .
A red cloth spread on the ground beside the road , right beneath the tamarind tree . He would climb up , and shake the ripened pods . Once his simple fare collected , he produced a simple system of weights , made up of twigs and stones , to weigh , sell and collect a meagre sum of money , mostly in coins . It was almost like begging .Almost . But not quite.
They said , tamarind trees harbour ghosts . At nightfalls , he had often seen bicyclists , like him , and hardened street urchins too , hasten past , eyes lowered , lips muttering incoherent prayers . Fear was a great leveller . Fear of the unknown , at that too .
But he was at home in the lush , thorny branches . He could climb with the agility of a monkey , and sit , camouflaged within all the sour scents of raw "imli", and the lush greenness of its fine tooth-comb like leaves , chuckling , silently at all that went on in the street below .
Sometimes , some tooth-picking rogues would gather around , accusing him of stealing something , that did not belong to him . He would smile , as they emptied his small battered aluminium bowl of the few coins he had managed to collect since morning. This infuriated them all the more . They would kick the red -ripe pods , and crush them under their boots , turning back to laugh at him as he picked them clean and replaced back .
Or he would simply climb up and shake down a fistful of green ones . The girls' from the school liked the green unripe ones . Making faces as the sharpness hit them . Hissing like a bunch of geese. Gigglers.
That day , he had no ripe ones . A girl requested him for a ripe pod . She stood beneath the tree, and gave him directions , authoritatively . "This one , no no, that one , brother ." His heart melted at her words . Brother . No one calls him that . And then his foot slipped . Negotiating these branches all his life , and he still had to slip .
The school girls had screamed . Scattered . Some people rushed in . Stood .Perplexed . Some went to call for help, get more men.
He sat watching, crouching , amidst sour smelling imlis and green and red baby leaves of fine tooth comb tamarind leaves , as they prepared, to cart him away.
Then he would reach this giant tamarind tree , and alight . Untie a bundle sitting behind , on the "carrier", one meant to carry .
A red cloth spread on the ground beside the road , right beneath the tamarind tree . He would climb up , and shake the ripened pods . Once his simple fare collected , he produced a simple system of weights , made up of twigs and stones , to weigh , sell and collect a meagre sum of money , mostly in coins . It was almost like begging .Almost . But not quite.
They said , tamarind trees harbour ghosts . At nightfalls , he had often seen bicyclists , like him , and hardened street urchins too , hasten past , eyes lowered , lips muttering incoherent prayers . Fear was a great leveller . Fear of the unknown , at that too .
But he was at home in the lush , thorny branches . He could climb with the agility of a monkey , and sit , camouflaged within all the sour scents of raw "imli", and the lush greenness of its fine tooth-comb like leaves , chuckling , silently at all that went on in the street below .
Sometimes , some tooth-picking rogues would gather around , accusing him of stealing something , that did not belong to him . He would smile , as they emptied his small battered aluminium bowl of the few coins he had managed to collect since morning. This infuriated them all the more . They would kick the red -ripe pods , and crush them under their boots , turning back to laugh at him as he picked them clean and replaced back .
Or he would simply climb up and shake down a fistful of green ones . The girls' from the school liked the green unripe ones . Making faces as the sharpness hit them . Hissing like a bunch of geese. Gigglers.
That day , he had no ripe ones . A girl requested him for a ripe pod . She stood beneath the tree, and gave him directions , authoritatively . "This one , no no, that one , brother ." His heart melted at her words . Brother . No one calls him that . And then his foot slipped . Negotiating these branches all his life , and he still had to slip .
The school girls had screamed . Scattered . Some people rushed in . Stood .Perplexed . Some went to call for help, get more men.
He sat watching, crouching , amidst sour smelling imlis and green and red baby leaves of fine tooth comb tamarind leaves , as they prepared, to cart him away.
Curious story but with the twist.....
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