The ice-candy man

Lectures for the day are over. As college students of the Birla College, Kalyan, stream out of their classrooms, they head straight for the ...

Lectures for the day are over. As college students of the Birla College, Kalyan, stream out of their classrooms, they head straight for the golawallah. While they wait for their bus to arrive, they suck on one of these balls of ice, sweetened with syrupy liquids in myriad colours — stuck on a stick. For these college students, this dessert is just a tasty treat, a way to make time pass. But for those whose lives depend on it, the bright colours of the gola hurts their eyes — instead of brightening their day. Suresh Baburao Gawde (31) has been vending golas for over 17 years. He goes about his task, mechanically scraping ice and sculpting golas even as he gets hawkish for more potential customers. "There used to be a time when I liked what I did," he says with a faraway look and adds, "now it has become a drudgery but then it’s too late to change jobs.

Golas have been around long before packed ice-cream hit the scene. The golawallahs (as they are called) were a regular featureoutside parks, colleges, schools and playgrounds. In fact, it wasn’t exactly uncommon to see the occasional golawallah coming to people’s homes vending golas on hot summer nights. But the invasion of brands like Walls, Baskin Robbins and Kwality’s coupled with a new-found hygiene-consciousness among the middle class has demoted the golawallah into a germ and disease vendor. Now, mothers warn their kids to stay away from these health hazards. "I cannot go around putting ads on TV like big companies," says Meera Gupta, another golawallah, and rues the fact that people tend to prefer buying stuff advertised on TV.

Essentially a farmer, Gupta came to Mumbai from Benares a year ago looking for work after a famine hit his village. "Without any education there was no hope of getting a job in this place," he explains. The handcart which he uses, came down from a friend who has found a job with a carpenter. It would have been very difficult to raise the Rs 2,500 required for the cart which,Gupta informs, has to be replaced every two-three years.

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Earlier Gawde used to spend around Rs 800 on getting a new cart. Costs have gone up all around. In those days a gola used to cost as little as 10 paise — now it costs Re 1. But that rupee does not take him very far. "If you consider the costs involved, we hardly make Rs 60 a day," he says. Gupta has to spend at least Rs 20 per day on just the syrups used to splash colour on the golas.

Gawde wakes up early in the morning and immediately busies himself in making syrups. Sugar and its concentrates have to be mixed in the right proportion for that perfect tantalising, delectable flavour. Once these are packed in bottles, it’s time for him to start his long, hard day.

The market price of sugar decides how tough Gawde’s life will be. "Recently when the price shot up to Rs 25 per kg, I was in a miserable situation," he says, "if I increase the price I stand to lose whatever little business I have." The other factor which decides the dayfor a golawallah is the season. "Monsoons are the worst, as we have to look for alternative work or stay jobless," says Gawde. So during monsoons, they have to resort to selling fruits or vegetables.

On one thing he is emphatic. He will not allow his children to get into this business. He will not even encourage other youngsters to stray near a handcart. "When the going is so bad why should they also suffer like me?" he asks.