I’m fortunate to live in a bungalow that boasts a tucked-away portico in the rear, from where I can observe the world while not being visible to it, seated among a hundred potted plants which nestle ’neath the canopy of a large mango tree. Viewing passers-by, therefore, constitutes an interesting pastime for me…
Daily in my front yard around 7 a.m., I first wing a prayer up in thanks for the night that has been and for a good day to be, while simultaneously admiring the sky. On a lucky day, I spot a flock of birds flying. Thereafter I greet the flow of exercise-enthusiasts and canine-walkers from across my wall, as I go through my own form of fitness routine.
Within this half hour comes along the flower garland seller balancing his large bamboo basket on his bicycle carrier, followed by the milkmen alerting us with their special horns or thumping on the gate, and the newspaper delivery boys flying past on bikes as they fling them like missiles, sometimes without a glance at where they’re aiming. Once my lot thumped me straight in the chest!
Rushing too are weary parents dragging reluctant youngsters hauling backpacks as large as themselves, to catch school buses at the nearby circle, as also IT folk off to work, identifiable by trademark laptop bags. Public buses and school vans vroom by like kings of the road, halting at will and with no consideration for pedestrians. Many thoughtless two-wheeler and four-wheeler riders similarly treat this road as a race track and often ignore the one-way rule as well. On a lucky day, the garbage collectors do make their appearance, but it is disturbing to observe rag-pickers preceding them to rummage through the bags for an odd find of plastic or metal.
Mid-morning, as I move on to the portico to read, write or chat with visitors, I notice a different variety among the passers-by. Vendors struggle to push carts peddling loads of vegetables or other eatables. The fish-seller cycles the rounds and expertly weighs, cleans and sells his stuff in a jiffy, leaving behind no trace of scales or offal under our strict instructions. Offers from others range from carpets (still can’t figure out why anyone would buy this item off a roadside hawker!) to colourful plasticware, toys and thingummies, vessels and potted plants. Often the seller is lost under his wares; so loaded is he on his cycle!
For repairs, the mattresswallah and the knife-sharpener deliver at your doorstep; and to help clear clutter, the raddiwallahs pass by in plenty. There is no dearth of sophisticated salespersons, in looks and attire at least, and if I have the time I invite them in to let them recite their spiel, trained as they are with that special U.S. of A accent but naturally blended with the local! I did thus pick up a set of Oxford dictionaries once for a song.
Occasionally I spy a camel or a horse, and jutkas too, enjoying these sights which are rare nowadays. The ‘holy’ bull and bell is a regular to bestow blessings, followed by an outstretched hand for an offering. Last Christmastide I witnessed a brace of ducks being led past, ending up probably on some festival dinner tables. Cows amble along in abundance, foraging on banquets of garbage that dot the road.
Funeral processions are passé, this being a route to the cemetery, ranging from the sombre to the noisy with bands, fireworks and dancing. Sometimes there are intoxicated mourners swaying in tow; obviously they have drowned their sorrows. Occasionally there is a show of ostentation, with the deceased mounted on a truck bedecked with colourful floral garlands. In striking contrast, one cannot help observe funerals of the poor, the relatives huddled around the corpse in a Municipal Corporation hearse.
Neighbours pass by too and look out for me to exchange a nod. Such a mix and match of passers-by near the Bangalore East railway station, keeps me in thrall!
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