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Journalism of Courage
One of the plus points about living and working out of town is that you can often make that odd purchase of a bhutta (corncob) or a bit of sugarcane on your way back home without parking hassles.
The other day, I stopped as usual at the bhutta wala’s. His wife sells apples in addition to bhuttas some distance away to attract more customers.
I ordered eight bhuttas which meant a long wait while they were roasting on the small crackling coal fire. While I waited, I chatted with the man — he must have been about 35 but looked 55 — and his wife. They were raising four children on income from bhutta sales and cycle rickshaw driving.
Two of the kids were there, thin and scrawny, but happy enough. The older boy helped peel the covering of the maize, holding up the open cob to customers.
‘‘How do you manage to look after so many children?’’ I asked with my citified abhorrence of large families.
‘‘Times are hard,’’ he said, smiling, ‘‘but we get by. We are happy if we can get one good meal.’’
‘‘We would also love extra things,’’ his wife said, jogging the baby on her hip. ‘‘But wanting them would only make us more unhappy.’’ Wisdom comes hard on the heels of hunger and poverty.
Just then, there was a commotion. The entire stretch of road was coveredwith the jostle of a herd of tall, long-horned cattle, a couple of hundred of them at least.
As impatient motorists blew their ill-mannered horns, the cows placidly crossed the road.
Even though they had left drought-stricken Saurashtra in search of greener pastures, they still seemed to be starving. The long trek from dry lands and lack of grazing grounds had taken their toll.
Finally, driven by their herders, the cattle crossed the road. The last herder stopped at the bhutta wali’s corner. The woman walked over to her sales corner but since we were some distance away, I couldn’t hear what the man was asking for. I knew when the woman called out loudly to her husband, ‘‘What price are we selling apples?’’
‘‘Thirty rupees a kilo.’’
The man picked up a small apple, a little larger than a nimbu, and asked her to weigh it. I still couldn’t hear what was being said but watched the exchange with interest. I could see she had quoted a price he couldn’t afford because he picked up the apple, turned it over in his hand. I could guess he was negotiating the price.
I could see the woman shaking her head, meaning no. The man obviously couldn’t afford it and put down the fruit reluctantly.
He began to move away and had taken a few steps when the bhuttawala called out to his wife. ‘‘Give it to him. Let him pay what he wants. He must be hungry and tired.’’
Why did I blink so hard?
