As I was taking cautious steps on the slippery road, words fell into my ears.
“Look at this.” A man showed a video to his friend. “Bus becomes a boat. Look at all this water.”
“Imagine! So much rain! Never seen so much rain in Jaipur,” another chimed in.
“There has been a red alert. Schools have also been closed,” said the third with a concerned look.
A thin man was racing on the rain-slicked road with an old umbrella and shoes worn down at the heels, hurling apprehensive looks at the sky, which was overcast with rain clouds. It would rain any moment.
A rag picker with a polythene bag filled with tea was walking towards his home when the polythene bag split open at the seams. He gaped at the brown contents merging with the muddy water seamlessly. He rummaged in his pocket for some money, but he didn’t have any. The tea vendor, watching him from afar, beckoned him. He walked towards him with a sheepish air.
“Sit down and have tea with us,” the tea vendor said affectionately to him.
The poor ten-year-old made an incomprehensible guttural sound accompanied by vague hand gestures.
“Actually… I was taking tea for my entire family. Our stove is not working…” he mumbled.
The tea vendor, Lal Singh, put a cup and a plate of biscuits in front of the boy, who sipped the tea with a self-conscious air. As he started walking back with a grateful smile, Lal Singh poured three cups of tea into a polythene bag and handed it to him.
“For your parents and sister. Take this packet of rusk too. I know your little sister likes rusk,” Lal Singh said, tousling the boy’s hair.
Before the boy could thank him, Lal Singh’s eyes turned toward a human tornado rolling in his direction, three milk cans rattling by his side. The overcast sky had prepared us for rains but none of us were expecting a tornado on two wheels. Those who have been reading my earlier Morning Meanderings will recognize this figure as the pesky milkman who had hounded me for many a day to buy milk from him. This time, he was perched precariously on a Bullet bike, which made more noise than movement, apart from bellowing clouds of smoke!
This irreverent comic character greeted Lal Singh with a huge bellow. “Kya haal hai, yaar?”
“Tumhara kya haal hai? Barish mein to doodh ka doodh aur paani ka paani ho raha hoga,” he quipped with a wink.
“Kya matlab hai tumhara?” The second bellow was louder than the earlier one.
“Samajhney wali ko ishara hi kaafi hai,” rejoined Lal Singh.
“Jo na samjhe vo anari hai,” remarked another sitting on a stool.
“Lal Singh, kya tumney abhi aankh mari?” The milkman was indignation personified.
“Shukra hai aankh hi maari hai.”
“Tum kisko anari keh rahye ho?” He addressed the third person with fiery looks.
“Jo na samjhe, usko.” retorted the chap with a guffaw.
One could almost see the smoke coming out of the milkman’s large, fan-like ears, more than what his bike was spewing. His cans rattled – whether in agreement with the third fellow or to convey the fury of the milkman is anybody’s guess.
The sputtering bike, the rattling cans and the bellows finished off the remaining calm of the morning. The boy quickly picked up the polybag of tea, the cups and rusk and sprinted off. “Smart boy,” I thought to myself and scampered after him, before the milkman could turn around and start off again with his “Try maar lo, ma’am!” His bellow has haunted me enough, sometimes echoing in my ears, waking me up in the middle of the night!
