The Panipuri Wallah

The story of migrant workers has always been one that has piqued me. The ones I come across the most are various costermongers that line up the affluent South Chennai neighbourhoods, hawking a variety of ‘Chaat’ and other savouries. Have we ever delved into the world of one such guy and tried to view the world from his perspective?

His looks were haggard, worn out by hours of toil

He wore a sweaty shirt, fighting like a lone ranger

Rusty palms, rugged features, eyes dreary,

His countenance was far from cheery.

In my town, he wasn’t anymore a stranger

But neither was he a son of the soil

He was the Panipuri Wallah

 

He didn’t speak a lot

Largely remaining taciturn.

When spoken to in Hindi, he didn’t fret

English and Tamil, he could barely interpret

Linguistically, he didn’t care to learn

But still, he was one of the most sought

Men in the locality.

 

For, in his possession were those skilled fingers

That whipped out the tastiest Panipuri

Twenty rupees for a plate of five

The competitive pricing helping him thrive

Amidst mushrooming cafes, still considered a luxury

That scented business in the area, harbingers

That our favourite fellow was to face competition.

 

Whether it was a hot summer noon

Or during autumnal rainfalls

 

Or on a breezy wintry evening

One could see him leavening

Wheat to be fried into crispy wheat balls,

Piquing tempted taste buds in the commune

As crowds from near and afar thronged all year along.

 

Students, professionals and gallivanters,

Bikers, walkers, drivers, and the like

Gathered around, as the Panipuri Wallah stood encircled

By wagging tongues and edgy hands, bearing recycled

Paper plates. As the sales for the day was ready to spike

So did the buzz and the lively banter

As the crowd wolfed down the moreish snack one by one.

 

One such noon, I was on the road.

I passed by the joint, that gobbled up my paltry savings

Though I was in a hurry to keep up a tryst,

The caressing thoughts of the mouth-watering snack I couldn’t resist.

Deciding to appease my sporadic dose of cravings

I parked by the side and made way to his esteemed abode,

Mingling into the queueing gang.

 

The ceaseless crusader was in the thick of things.

Grabbing a plate, I joined a small party,

Preliminary steps, without any curtailing

Need to be described in full detailing

To capture the end-to-end in its entirety.

The joy of this exercise alone brings

As much pleasure as the delicacy itself.

 

A quick run through his dexterous talents

Is in order. Firstly he scooped up a semi-fistful of mashed potato

And a euphonious ticking sound followed as he crunched

The puri. A perfect little hole he had punched

Then laced the potato scoop with blended traces of sliced onion and tomato

And poured the heady concoction into the Puri’s hollowed contents,

Scooped it up in fragrant mint water, and dished out the end product.

 

As the party enjoyed a satisfying repast

Caring two hoots about the sun firing down its piercing rays,

From the corner of my watchful eyes

I spotted a teardrop wriggle itself from stifled cries

As an unspoken sorrow enshrouded the Panipuri Wallah’s face.

His demeanour had long turned overcast

As I continued to scrutinize.

 

During the next minute and half

The teardrops spurted down his cheek and onto his shirt

While his hands, in all glory, continued speaking his brand.

A virtuoso exhibition of sleight of hand

While none of us even attempted to comfort,

Show concern or enquire on his behalf

In a deplorable show of apathy.

 

He capped off the final complimentary ‘dry’ serving

Sprinkling smidgens of Sev and Masala.

As we wound up the feast with a few final slurps

And followed it up with odorous burps

A short stint, having concluded a time so gala,

We paid up the money, still preserving

A mephitic air of indifference.

 

Moments before I paid

My initial inclination was to quickly ascertain

What caused him trouble, and offer any help I could within my capacity,

When I caught sight of my watch. The paucity

Of time nudged the selfish inner beast in me to abstain

And told me to move on, I was already delayed.

Moodily I trudged back to the car.

 

As I drove away from the scene

Our coordinates though moving apart

With every second out sprang

A new choppy wave of passing pang

Guilt-laden, gnawing at my heart

With nothing much to do, I endeavoured to glean

Inferences from what I had seen.

 

Was it some sad news received from out-station?

A thousand-mile distance conveying the inheritance of a new loss,

The thought of which possibly kindled an unnamed dread,

Or perhaps did he simply miss his kindred?

The sheer absence of which scatters his daily life for a toss.

Maybe it was the ultimate dawning of a silent realization

That he was merely a pawn in the game of presaged irreversible destiny.

 

Whatever it was, the least I could have done

Was to stay on for a while in deference

To his situation. A contrasting attitude

A warm clasp of the hands, words proffering solicitude

Could have still made a world of difference

To him. However all I managed to do in introspection

Was to incur the wrath of my own conscience.

 

So haplessly do we beguile

Ourselves, ending up as ensnared prey

In self-aggrandizing illusory traps

Not realizing that, to the stratagems of ephemera, we eventually collapse

Fraternal human emotions that, in its significance, far outweigh,

Are ignored, positions from which our greed cannot easily resile

Meliorism, even in its most utopian proximity, for now, seems a far cry away.