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April 11, 2006 | 01:39 PM
The Fruit Seller
In the bustling metropolises of today, the greatest sound you hear are the blaring horns and the noise of the traffic. But I remember when Delhi was a city full of the welcoming cries of the Street Sellers, the ''Wallah's.
remember very clearly the sound of the Sabzi walla. It went :
Sabzzzi le lo-o-o !!! And then was a shouts of each of the vegetables he was carrying that day. And the shouts of Ande (eggs) wallah. Who had a particularily rough relationship with my mother. Especially in summer when a lot of the eggs had to be returned as they were ion the verge of hatching. I have always wondered why modern egges - even the 'Organically fed and free to roam and allowed to indulge in the natural behaviours' ones never actually threaten to hatch.
There was even the "Gold wallah', the 'Sonhar'. that would remake your gold jewelry,. As went by proudly on his newly acquired bicycle shouting "Sonhar hai, Sone ka kaam karwa lo-o-o-o".
We used to have the vegetable seller and the fruit seller, all come to the house, and my mother would sit and argue with them. Bargain with them fiercly, as would they. But in the process she knew where their families lived, what village they came from and how things were in the village. Bargaining was an act of great individuality for her, as well as a social intercourse.
The first time I took her to one of the emerging supermarkets in India, she hated it. She hated prices being fixed and stamped over the goods. She hated check out counters. She missed the social interaction with her fruit seller, her sabzi walla, her ande walla etc.
When my mother passd away, rather suddenly, I had been away from our family house for many many years. I went back and an went through all the rites, and stood by my greiving family, determined now to take charge and be a comfort to all, except myself. I was after all the son, and expected to be stoic.
Two days later their was a call of the fruit seller, and I walked out of the house. There was an old man with a whole basket of fruit, and he asked for my mother. I remember him being thin and with a great white moustache and sunburnt wrinkled skin. I told her she had died, and he sat under the tree. Sad and contemplative..
"She was a great lady" He said "and who are you ?"
"I am her Son" I said.
He beckoned me towards him. Put his hand on my shoulder, and told me so much about me. About all my mother's dreams for me, of how much she had missed me.
And for the frst time since I heard the news of my Mother's death I broke. I put my head on this complete strangers shoulder and sobbed my heart out as he comforted me.
My mother and the fruit seller. How much must they have got to know each other just through the act of bargaining over apples ?
Shekhar
15 Comments Posted. Post your comment
Hi Mr. Kapoor,
Nice write up.
I am a architecture student doing research on the network of such 'wallahs' in Jamshedpur.
Am in Singapore presently, and more than once have commented on the lack of a human interface in daily activities like buying. Even now when I go back to Jamshedpur, the bread wallah, doodh wallah and dhobi refer to me as 'baby' having seen me since I was little!
Its heartening to note how you value these small daily exchanges.
Regards,
Gauri
Good write up Mr.kapoor,
I think so much about my younger days of living back home...I am just 26 and have been away from home for just 3 yrs...still I miss home and My family....I think of the days when I was younger and sometimes when I was scared because of a bad dream my mum would sit beside me untill I sleep...and now when life it self sometimes turn into a bad dream all i can do is to call her but hide every nightmare I live here from her because i don't want her to worry about her son who is far far away from her....
Its life's little but emotional dramas...
Same with my dad...to convey to each other that we are fine in our respective places me and my dad, we discuss cricket scores...
Cheers
Recently having visited India, observing peoples open interaction with each other is something that makes western cultures appear sterile. Your recollection moved me, the art of story telling is alive still. I can see the old man under the tree remembering your mother to you...
To get a different short story ,i thought a lot on different subjects, but the outcome was as not satisfying. Today when i read this story i learnt that they are just around us . Human emotions still have the power to deliver such an excellent story.
You forced me today to think out of the box while staying in the box.
Thank you.
Dear Mr.Kapur,Hi!
Life is a teacher,it teaches us new things every day.I came to know about this website through a local newspaper.After reading this real life incident of yours I now know that you are a down to earth person with a heart of crystal.I am sure that your mother is watching you and when she sees the achievements,name and fame you have gained she feels proud of her son and as the days passes she sould see her dreams come true.Hats off to you..
Regards
Sarabjeet Singh Chadha
The episode you have mentioned is nothing but our Indian culture. I don't think the same is seen anywhere in the western world.
I have seen your movies. Better you put such emotional episodes on canvas for the western world to realize what India is.
The togatherness of people, even through small exchage of words with the people that we think of no importance, is uncomparable.
hi shekhar,
ur stories are as same as ur are, down to earth
to much depth in ur heart...
i proudly say u a great soul on erarth.
Regards,
aashish mall
Are you sure 70727 about this?!?
well written! Simple, poignant, and with an earthy feel. Beautiful!
Shekhar,
"The fruitseller" brought tears to my eyes...thank you for such poignant writing.
Shekhar,
"The fruitseller" reminded me of smthng I wrote when I was missing home. Thought I'd share it with you.
Not 'isspecial' enough
Flimsy, white dandelion tufts are drifting lazily outside my bedroom window, in no particular direction. I stand mesmerized, watching them glide peacefully. Some stop over on the wild bushes near the walking trail next to my house, while others drift out of sight. It's like having summer snow in the month of July.
The quiet Gulmohar tree, behind my parents' house in Pune, must have burst into fiery yellow-red blossoms by now. I can picture it -- every golden-sanguine petal, auroral, against the bluish-gray monsoon sky.
Dad's bitty white Maruti, must be parked under it, at the same spot, he has been parking it for the last decade or so. It's half-past-five in India. So, Mum must be hurrying all over the house. Setting the newspapers right, removing the chappati dough from the refrigerator for dinner and generally driving my father insane, with her last-minute tidying. She would have asked my sister what she would like to have for dinner, at least thrice by now. My sister will have nonchalantly replied – whatever you want – only to question later, why her opinions (especially on lunch and dinner) are never taken into consideration, in this house.
This has been my mother's routine, for the last decade or so, before she goes for her evening walk and buys groceries and vegetables for the day. She doesn't have to go too far, for either. Almost everything is a stone's throw away. Seven minutes away, there is the grocery store where mum buys eggs, bread, instant noodles and sometimes even rice, in case of a rare emergency or two. Five minutes outside the apartment complex gate, sits the vegetable vendor, squeezed in a tiny shack between a small Ganesha temple, an electronic repair shop, two tailors, who constantly compete for customers, and a cobbler. We've bought our tomatoes, onions and greens from this vegetable vendor, since the day we moved in after Dad's last peace posting.
The vegetable vendor is extremely temperamental, but mum prefers him to the dozen other vendor's sitting in the opposite lane. She says his vegetables are always fresh. He treats her, as no other vegetable vendor ever does. While other women have to haggle with him for at least for 10 minutes, before he caves in to their demands, my mother is surreptitiously handed a plastic bag, magically produced from underneath an ordinary gunny sack. That's the end of their transaction on a busy day. Otherwise they discuss everything from the state of the pot-holed streets to the rising price of onion. She is obviously his “isspecial” customer.
It's late in the evening, and as I sit contemplating on the porch, fireflies subtly light up the wild bushes and the walking trail.
Wal-Mart is a 10-minute drive from my house. It's in no way inconvenient. Every week, I go and pick vegetables laid in a neat row. It all looks good. It all looks fresh.
Except, I am seldom given “isspecial” treatment like my mother.
Shekhar,
I was really moved after reading your story.It touched my heart.
Mumukshu
Pranam Sekharji,
The article is really touchy and forces me to be more observatory from what i am. The people irrespective of the role played or the work done have the unique individuality which is something more than we can think of or expect of. I belive if you try your best to live your life trying to play role of a true human being, you can definetly play any role given to you "THE BEST".
With Regards,
Asha.
Shekhar , you have an amzing way of story telling that reflects . it may be ur real life incident but you wrote in such a way that it touches heart and that's what you do with your films . I was watching a serial on DD were you and Satish Kaushik were in a office and talking about a lady who was maybe an IAS , I don't remember exactly because it was few years back. But i liked it and though..... Sorry to confuse I only wanted to say you do all your work with perfection and love and what doesnot excite you will not do that.......
thank you Shekhar for sharing this diamond experience, it sparkles beyond any known clarity to the human eye...you mother had an insight to connectedness and valued it deeply.
namaste,
Cinda