He sits sullenly by the corner of Veena Stores, all
by himself, perhaps smirking at the gluttons constantly swarming around him.
"Swalpa chutney
haaki!"
some ask. Others just extend their arms towards his face with their hot
idly-vade plates. Put, chutney... put, chutney... put, chutney. He can surely
smell the vades - does that make him hungry? The first few
days of his job, ancient times ago, they'd smelled delicious! How those chatty
college boys always bit into them greedily, how those thathas gangs discussed
their melting in their toothless inners. To him, the vades have always
smelled that way. In fact, he can tell the exact dimensions and crispness of
a vade if its smell wafts towards him even in the middle of
the night. "Eshtu soft ide idly! Which batter do they use?"
May be the women have always tried to snoop to know the Store's batter recipe,
while cursing their husbands who always, God-knows-why, praise someone else's
cooking and never theirs. He stares through
the gluttons into oblivion. (When will my son send me the money order? Are
my grandchildren proud of me? Will my chutney-putting diligence take me to
heaven or to hell? Where does my wife wait; does she wait? Am I a robot?) Put,
chutney... put, chutney... put, chutney.
The sky is getting darker, there is a soft breeze. But nothing obstructs
his gaze. His hand works mechanically. Put, chutney... put, chutney...
put, chutney. Does he think while putting, chutney...? Sometimes the
chutney lands right into the plate's base and splashes a little to the sides,
sometimes it violently drenches the idlys but it always has to put up a fight
to soak the vades. His hand moves systematically in and out of the
big vessel holding the famous tasty green chutney, palm-up and palm-down. Does
he feel pain in his wrist? Does he care if the chutney tastes okay, if it's a
bit too dilute today? Do the gluttons like it better today? He stares past the chaos. His tranquility puts the
chaos to shame with each passing day. (Will there be a nuclear war? When will
the Palestinian children stop dying? Who will solve Bangalore's garbage
issue? Why are some people anti-national and some not?) Put,
chutney... put, chutney... put, chutney.
A hungry stomach, eyes wide open and waiting children to be fed make me forget I am a robot or a chutney man.
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