There are two calls that compete for attention in our modest neighbourhood: the calls of at least a dozen bird species that live on the nearby champak, flame of the forest and cassia and an all-jack-no-fruit jackfruit tree, and the calls of a steady stream of pushcart vendors. Most fellow-Bangaloreans will concur that soon one may have to be content listening to only the calls of the latter.
My earliest memories of pushcart-vending, 40-plus years ago, is that of one selling ‘Afghan Snow’, a bygone-day fairness cream, among other ‘fancy items’. Those selling guavas and thotapuri mangoes at our school ‘back gate’ were also a common sight. Three-wheel pushcarts with their little depository enclosures under the cart doubling as mobile shelters for family, and a street dog for a pet, are hard to forget. Four-wheel pushcarts usually had only a rack or hammock there. They peddle all sorts of simple and cheap necessities. But I’m yet to spot one selling a certain item in particular, what I’d sell if I were a pushcart vendor.
Almost all pushcart vendors can be trusted for fresh stuff – greens, vegetables and fruits. Some, like those rag-and-bone men, buy recyclable chattel. Many have dedicated customers, and others have occasional ones like me. But haggling is detestable. What, pray, are these status-conscious, middle-classy berks going to save by scrimping a few rupees now and then? They seem to be perfect penny-wise-pound-foolish specimens.
Desi pushcart vendors can give any English town-crier a run for his money. As I write I can hear vendors’ calls coming from different directions. One is prating vegetable names, another is blathering off several items at once, and yet another is urging the devout to buy his flowers. Some calls are clear, but some, I think, are deliberately distorted in order to attract attention. Or is it done to break the sheer boredom of the job? But I’m amazed how loud some of them can be, and for several hours each day. And their closest rivals in sales and decibel levels are other mobile vendors on laden cycles or the basket-laden women.
One morning I heard a disorienting howl followed by a sharp clang that made me rush out thinking someone’s had had an accident or somethin’. But it turned out to be a milkmaid’s stentorian holler. Haaaaooolll….! , she bellows to announce her daily 8 a.m.-ish advent bringing raw milk to my post-natal neighbour. Haalu , in Kannada, means milk. Until recently my elevenses was concomitant with a bangle & trinket seller’s call. But his call is as tormenting as a vendor’s call can get, I think. How to describe it? The closest I can imagine is the trumpeting of a calf elephant (about four-five seconds) that’s immediately followed by the dropping of several steel utensils in rapid succession (about 10 seconds) on a vitrified-tile floor of a vacant house. In contrast, a utensil vendor, who emerges mid-afternoon, can barely be heard, preferring to imitate a weary barbet’s call uttering ‘padre, padre’ every second or so. He means paathre , for utensils. Perhaps he cares about dozing dotards.
What would I peddle as a pushcart vendor? Books, and lotsa, lotsa comics. New books, used books, old books, antiquarian books…. And if business is good, some free comestibles for kids as well. Come on, what’s the first thought that comes to your mind if you see piles of good books (and comics) in a pushcart at your gate, and the vendor adopting a catchy tune? I make this point because street-vending is, and will remain, part of our culture. Therefore, does it not qualify as one among many reasonable indicators of social progress? Can a society where selling literature (and comics) is a staple for pushcart vendors not be progressive, and not just advancing, developing, and just growing? Ah! I hear the greens vendor. I must catch that howlin’ hawker….chap owes me three rupees.
mjx143@gmail.com
