"Is it OK if I throw this away?" I asked.
Dad cast a critical eye over the pile of waste paper and gave a long reproachful gaze at the old books I was determinedly throwing off. Dad doesnt like to throw books, you see.
"Yes...." He said, mostly out of a reluctant acceptance of the fact that waste paper, or raddi, as it is called, was becoming a menace. Which was why I had been assigned the job of sorting through and disposing off the agglomeration every month or two, keeping the proceeds for myself.
I was a hardliner when it came to raddi work, never letting off the chance to hurl an old engineering book into the big blue "reserved for raddi" bag. Why? Because the guy over at the paper mart gave money by the kilo. And engg books are historically heavy.
Of course, dad was the exact antithesis of me, unqualifiedly preserving all books.
"Thats it then, I guess," I said, heaving myself up to call up the guy from the nearby paper mart. The lovely aroma of pizza wafted from the kitchen as I made my way to the phone. Tasty...
The raddiwallah sent the kid over to collect the huge pile from my house. I watched as the scrawny kid - he couldnt have been more than 10 - hefted the huge pile on his narrow shoulders and hobbled to his rickety old bicycle parked outside my building.
Some time later, we were at the raddiwallah, his "shop" being a little larger than the average toilet. I had walked ahead, faster than the kid's bicycle - that should give you some idea of how old it was. Wheeling the cycle in, the kid again began the laborious procedure of heaving the pile on to his shoulders, then piling it up on to one of the plates of a pair of rusted iron scales.
"How are you?" the raddiwallah smiled up at me as he started to measure the pile. "Your dad doesnt come anymore." It was a question.
"Well, he is busy, and entrusted this job to me."
We both smiled [I guess we both knew that I was in this for the money :-) ] and made small talk.
I knew this man of old, and had witnessed an example of the kind of life people like him led in this island city. One day, as I was standing, waiting for my lot to be weighed, a police constable, with the biggest paunch I've ever seen, pulled up on his jeep and stomped up to him. The raddiwallah made some small talk, then opened his cash register and gave the constable a twenty. The constable stared at the note, then at the man, then at the open cash register. Again, few words were exchanged as more money changed hands. The constable turned without a word, glancing at me as he walked back.
I looked at the raddiwallah as if to say, What the bloody hell was that?
He shrugged his shoulders in a classic gesture of defeat and said, "This is a daily matter. We have to give them kharcha pani or else they beat us up. I have seen some beatings in my life. Better to keep quiet and give them what they want."
Ever the human rights activist, I remember saying, "Why dont you go to the police station and file a complaint? [This is the best part!] I saw the name on his shirt. Come with me, we will go now and lodge a complaint."
He gave me this strange look, and said, "Rehne do saheb."
But that incident sealed an unlikely bond between us. Not of friendship per se, but of mutual respect.
I now watched as the man totted up the kilograms and calculated the amount I would get. But a slight clink behind me made me turn my head. At my feet was a small girl - probably 5 or 6 years - who, it seemed, was stealing some used glass wine - bottles. The raddiwallah, incensed, shouted at the boy to get the bottles back from her. But the girl stood her ground, repeatedly saying, "These are my bottles." She had these big innocent eyes, I later noticed.
It is not that I do not know the extent of the poverty that hogs India's streets. But the scene unfolding before me brought it into stark focus. Here was this girl, who couldnt even speak properly yet, who ought to be learning A B C, or playing with a doll named Pinky, or playing tag with an imaginary friend, but who was instead forced to steal used bottles from raddi marts.
And here was the kid, who went to posh homes and did the dirty work for them for a living.
Of course, I am sure even the raddiwallah has a story, a reason to employ children.
As I walked back home, I fingered the hundred rupee note that I had gotten from the raddiwallah in exchange for the waste papers. Where earlier I used to be really happy at earning some extra dough to finance my "expenses", today I looked at it insipidly. I would have gladly given it away to that girl or that boy...
Dad cast a critical eye over the pile of waste paper and gave a long reproachful gaze at the old books I was determinedly throwing off. Dad doesnt like to throw books, you see.
"Yes...." He said, mostly out of a reluctant acceptance of the fact that waste paper, or raddi, as it is called, was becoming a menace. Which was why I had been assigned the job of sorting through and disposing off the agglomeration every month or two, keeping the proceeds for myself.
I was a hardliner when it came to raddi work, never letting off the chance to hurl an old engineering book into the big blue "reserved for raddi" bag. Why? Because the guy over at the paper mart gave money by the kilo. And engg books are historically heavy.
Of course, dad was the exact antithesis of me, unqualifiedly preserving all books.
"Thats it then, I guess," I said, heaving myself up to call up the guy from the nearby paper mart. The lovely aroma of pizza wafted from the kitchen as I made my way to the phone. Tasty...
The raddiwallah sent the kid over to collect the huge pile from my house. I watched as the scrawny kid - he couldnt have been more than 10 - hefted the huge pile on his narrow shoulders and hobbled to his rickety old bicycle parked outside my building.
Some time later, we were at the raddiwallah, his "shop" being a little larger than the average toilet. I had walked ahead, faster than the kid's bicycle - that should give you some idea of how old it was. Wheeling the cycle in, the kid again began the laborious procedure of heaving the pile on to his shoulders, then piling it up on to one of the plates of a pair of rusted iron scales.
"How are you?" the raddiwallah smiled up at me as he started to measure the pile. "Your dad doesnt come anymore." It was a question.
"Well, he is busy, and entrusted this job to me."
We both smiled [I guess we both knew that I was in this for the money :-) ] and made small talk.
I knew this man of old, and had witnessed an example of the kind of life people like him led in this island city. One day, as I was standing, waiting for my lot to be weighed, a police constable, with the biggest paunch I've ever seen, pulled up on his jeep and stomped up to him. The raddiwallah made some small talk, then opened his cash register and gave the constable a twenty. The constable stared at the note, then at the man, then at the open cash register. Again, few words were exchanged as more money changed hands. The constable turned without a word, glancing at me as he walked back.
I looked at the raddiwallah as if to say, What the bloody hell was that?
He shrugged his shoulders in a classic gesture of defeat and said, "This is a daily matter. We have to give them kharcha pani or else they beat us up. I have seen some beatings in my life. Better to keep quiet and give them what they want."
Ever the human rights activist, I remember saying, "Why dont you go to the police station and file a complaint? [This is the best part!] I saw the name on his shirt. Come with me, we will go now and lodge a complaint."
He gave me this strange look, and said, "Rehne do saheb."
But that incident sealed an unlikely bond between us. Not of friendship per se, but of mutual respect.
I now watched as the man totted up the kilograms and calculated the amount I would get. But a slight clink behind me made me turn my head. At my feet was a small girl - probably 5 or 6 years - who, it seemed, was stealing some used glass wine - bottles. The raddiwallah, incensed, shouted at the boy to get the bottles back from her. But the girl stood her ground, repeatedly saying, "These are my bottles." She had these big innocent eyes, I later noticed.
It is not that I do not know the extent of the poverty that hogs India's streets. But the scene unfolding before me brought it into stark focus. Here was this girl, who couldnt even speak properly yet, who ought to be learning A B C, or playing with a doll named Pinky, or playing tag with an imaginary friend, but who was instead forced to steal used bottles from raddi marts.
And here was the kid, who went to posh homes and did the dirty work for them for a living.
Of course, I am sure even the raddiwallah has a story, a reason to employ children.
As I walked back home, I fingered the hundred rupee note that I had gotten from the raddiwallah in exchange for the waste papers. Where earlier I used to be really happy at earning some extra dough to finance my "expenses", today I looked at it insipidly. I would have gladly given it away to that girl or that boy...
2 comments:
can't help....
cant help?? with what??
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