The same drill is repeated almost every day. From his cramped, dingy one-room shelter in a slum at Sewri, on the eastern creek of Mumbai, Gangappa rushes to the nearest suburban train station each morning. In the rush-hour traffic, he jostles his way into one of the packed coaches and gets down at the Chattrapati Shivaji Terminus, roughly 10 km away. Then, he enters the bustling south Mumbai business hub.
A small leather bag with his simple tools — cotton, ear pick and tiny bottles of hydrogen composition and coconut oil — is slung across his neck. His red turban, a bit faded, spells out his identity.
From the station, Gangappa goes to Nariman Point, at the southernmost tip of the city, where he settles down at a sheltered sidewalk opposite a park. Then on, it is a matter of patience, a quality Gangappa has acquired in the past four decades. Barring tea and meal breaks, Gangappa will be rooted to the place till sunlight fades, walking around, looking intently at every passerby, hunting for ears. Mumbai is known to accommodate all kinds of professions — even those who have little relevance today. Like traditional ear-cleaning. And its patrons like Gangappa, who make a living by scraping out dirt from people’s ears, who are keeping alive this fading skill in India’s largest city in India.
A good section of ear-cleaners in Mumbai are migrants who came to the city years ago from parts of the erstwhile land of the Nizam — today districts of Telangana (and adjoining districts of Karnataka) and Andhra Pradesh. Gangappa comes from a remote village in Raichur in Karnataka. Like most ear-cleaners, he inherited the skills of the trade.
The ear-cleaners’ vibrant turbans draw a lot of stares but little business. Most people are apprehensive of getting their ears poked with untested equipment. And with the advent of cotton-swabs and ear-picks, the traditional art of ear-cleaning has become obsolete. In fact, Gangappa and his contemporaries may be the last of the fading breed.
