Back after a long break. Anyway, this is not one of my grandma chronicles. Hence before the actual post begins, here’s a prologue.
I believe that every miniscule thing in this world is some or the other way related to each other. It definitely may not be very obvious but something common, a link sorts runs through all these elements. And I am not talking only about living beings. The link exists between me, the laptop I am typing in, the bed I am sitting on, the air with all its impurities me and you are breathing in, you, your ring, the fan above you, the dog barking in your street, a car parked in your society, Ground Zero in the US, a macaw from the Amazon forest and so on. One thought that casts itself in my head every time I travel by train is that every person, on this journey has some or the other story; a story of their life. And those stories, all of them are some or the other way related to each other. They are all plots and sub-plots, twining and inter-twining, within each other. This is one such story.
It all began when I went to the Khanderao market for the first time. I don’t know if I hadn’t been in that part of the market before or was it because I noticed only then. However, there he was. A genial smile, glittering eyes, sparse scattered hair and sitting amidst small mounds of yams and sweet potatoes.
The Khanderao market always attracted me. Whether it was the humungous amount of veggies there or the assortment of people, something always stayed on my mind after a visit. One look at him and I knew this time, it would be him. We went to buy yams from him. He also had sweet potatoes and being absolutely in love with them, I insisted my dad on buying some. Seeing me, he smiled and weighed some sweet potatoes as well. As he started loading them into a bag, he gave a wide smile, said something and put some more. However, when my dad paid him, he took money only for half of what he gave us. It was then that I realised that he had given us some extra sweet potatoes and had said that it was because I loved them. There it started.
Since then, every time I went to his section, he would give me extra sweet potatoes, and a wide one-tooth smile. For some unknown reason, he had taken a fancy for me and I liked the withered face and baby-like smile. Our family has a routine dialogue after we come back from the market. Dad says, “He likes you, really. Or why would he give extra sweet potatoes, even when prices are soaring!” Mum says, “His fingers too look like yam outgrowths, poor thing, so old and sitting there in the sun.” All I do is reflect upon this unspoken, very common yet unique relationship and wonder.
Wonder that there may be so many relationships like this. Bonds which exist only in the eyes of the doer or through their acts.
