They call me Raghu. I was named after the ancestor of the revered Hindu deity, Lord Ram. But I have the luck of a cursed demon. My family has been cursed for generations.
My grandparents died a horrific death from cholera, spending their last days in unbearable agony. My father owned lush farmlands, until they were destroyed by a fire. He had to restart again with his meagre savings, and whatever little he could salvage from the charred remains.
What about my sister? Forget it. I won’t be able to control myself if I think about all that…
To cut a long story short, I’m in Mumbai now with my wife and daughter, all cramped together in a 500 square foot room in a chawl. For seven years, I’ve been selling fruits at Asha Bhavan building. During some months, I don’t make enough sales to pay my rent. Yet somehow we survive. The banal drudgery of my routine sucks the zest out of me, day after day after day. But I do it for my family.
*****
Sheets of rain crashed into the ground, and muddy brown puddles formed in the cracks of the road. The wind billowed and slanted the rain into oblique angles that defeated umbrellas and other feeble human defenses. Mumbai monsoons have a primal fury, like a herd of wild animals howling in the jungle.
I hunched over and rode my bicycle up the slope to Asha Bhavan building. Attached to the cycle was a heavy crate laden with fruits. My lower back muscles strained to pull their weight. The rain splashed on my face. My clothes were drenched, and every pore of my skin felt wet.
When I reached my designated spot near the building garden, the rain ceased abruptly. The sun peeked out from behind the curtain of clouds. The ground was still wet though. I spread a white cloth on it and arranged my fruits in a neat grid of rows, like a chessboard.
Chess was my favorite game once. At 15, I had mastered all the opening gambits. My teacher said I had the aptitude to become a grandmaster. Of course, life had other plans. The world kept ejecting me from one place to another, like I was a broken cassette.
But the residue of chess still lingers within me as I line up fruits on the ground. The little grapes are my pawns, the apples my knights, the pears my bishops. The mango is the king, no doubt. The Lord of the Fruits.
No customers came to me that morning. I idly toyed with my moustache. I’m one of those odd creatures without a single hair on my head, but a full moustache above my lip. I’m awkwardly built with bony fingers, gaunt forearms, and elbows that jut out a little more than normal.
A portly man in a blue khaki uniform ambled towards my stall. He was Jadhav, the building watchman.
“Raghupati Raghav Sitaram,” He addressed me, mocking my name. He tugged his belt where his football-shaped belly overflowed out of his shirt. “How’s business?”
“Slow,” I admitted.
Few years ago, most building residents bought their fruits from me. But with the advent of MarketFresh, my customer base dwindled. I kept losing my regulars to the big stores.
The new come in waves to wash away the old. That is the flow of life. I just wanted to hang on for a while longer, until my time came to return to the dirt.
“The sun’s out now, people will start to come,” Jadhav stretched his arms and arched his back. He bent down and grabbed an apple. He crunched into it, and little bits of fruit got stuck in the gaps between his front teeth.
I knew he wouldn’t pay for the apple. I noted it down in my accounting ledger, like I did for every fruit he took. The debt would be recorded, though it would never be paid.
Ours was not an equitable friendship, if you can even call it that. Technically, he was supposed to ‘supervise’ my presence in the building. That didn’t involve any actual work. But it meant that he could get me fired if he wanted to.
“Chalo Sitaramji, I’ll see you later,” Jadhav said, in between mouthfuls.
The afternoon was dull. Some building residents greeted me or nodded in my direction before going on their way. But no purchases were made. I yawned and stood up.
Just then, a black-and-white checkered football landed with a splat in front of me, wreaking havoc amongst my wares. Oranges got squeezed, grapes got squished, plums leaked their juice. Even the Lord Mango rolled off and landed askew in the mucky ground.
“Oye Fruit Wallah, pass the ball fast.”
The words came from a chubby boy in a loose red t-shirt with a white tick centered on it. He stood with his elbows pointed out and a scowl of disdain etched on his face.
“Baba, can you please not kick the ball on my fruits?” I said, as I tossed him the ball.
“You shut up,” The boy snapped. “I’ll kick the ball wherever I want to.”
“Try to understand, the fruits will get spoiled...”
“Your fruits stink,” He crinkled his nose. “No one buys them anyways.”
The boy bounced the ball on the ground with a thud, and returned to his football match. His father was Pandey Saab, the Society Chairman. His mother, Neelam Madam, tended to spoil him. If he was my kid, I would smack him. Kids like him need to be given a taste of the real world, where you struggle and suffer, and you don’t get everything you want.
Two tights slaps would do wonders for this brat, no doubt. But I did nothing and said nothing. There was no choice but to endure. In this game of life, you have to endure all kinds of nonsense.
The skies burst open again and the rain tumbled down below. I scrambled to gather my fruits. The space next to me had a large awning above, which kept the ground dry. Apart from few wooden stools, it was empty. It was meant for the building valet and drivers, who were rarely there.
The building valet ducked under the awning and sat on a stool, until he saw a figure approaching. He jerked upright and raised a palm in salute. “Pandey Saab.”
The Society Chairman was a tall man with a stiff posture, and hairy as a bear. His chest fur crept out from the top button of his shirt. His cheeks and chin were buried under a beard. His two thick eyebrows merged into a unibrow.
“Come with me,” He commanded the valet. “A tree branch has fallen in the building compound.”
“Pandey Saab,” I said. “I have a small request.”
He looked at me, as if noticing my presence for the first time. He held an umbrella that swayed with the wind.
“If I can move under this awning…” I pointed to it.
“Come fast,” Pandey Saab addressed the valet. “Bring that fatso Jadhav too. The branch has to be moved.”
“Please think about it, Pandey Saab,” I persisted. “Most of the drivers are gone during the day, and I won’t take up much space. It will be better for the residents only, if my fruits stay clean and dry.”
The Society Chairman brushed his hand dismissively in the air, and turned his back to me. His boots stomped across the ground, splashing puddles along the way, while the valet straggled behind him.
Despite his snub, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t know a thing about Pandey’s life. Maybe he was going through some turmoil. Maybe it was a bad time to ask him for anything.
I sold half a dozen apples and four peaches that day. I packed the crates, loaded my bicycle, and rode down the lane. I had to take my wife to the doctor, and a glance at my watch told me that I was already late. I pedaled faster, despite the ache in my knees. The scenario felt familiar.
For my whole life, I’ve been running towards something or running away from something…
*****
Shalini Didi stumbled into our shack, gripping the wall for support. A round black patch covered her left eye. Her right cheek was swollen to the size of a cricket ball. Blood dripped from the corner of her lip. She collapsed on the ground and told her story.
The first time her husband hit her was when she left the stove on and the tea spilled. The beatings continued for any minor offense. If the clothes were not ironed properly, if the food had less salt, if the bathroom was not cleaned spotless.
As I listened to her, a rage built inside me. I wanted to kill the man who did that to my sister. It didn’t matter that I was a scrawny boy half the size of my brother-in-law.
My parents had a more stoic reaction to my sister’s woes. Papa stared at the ceiling, and Mumma started making rotis.
“Don’t make me go back there,” Shalini Didi joined her palms together. “Please papa, please.”
Papa grunted. “I’m sorry beta, I can’t help you.”
Shalini Didi clutched his ankles. “Papa, I can’t live there…”
“You have to,” Mumma said from the stove. “This is how life is in the real world.”
I glared at my father. “You can’t send Didi back there.”
My father paid me no heed as he sat cross-legged on the ground, while my mother served him sabji and rotis. Shalini Didi’s face shrunk into itself and drowned in a flood of tears.
“You can’t send her back…” I screeched, my voice breaking.
I woke up drenched in sweat, like I always did after that nightmare of a memory. I sat up and gulped some water.
After that day, the same scene repeated many times. Didi would show up with scruffy hair and fresh bruises. Once, there was an ugly purple scar on her neck. Another time, a deep cut ran across her forearm. In my dreams, I thrashed her husband every night. But in real life, I was helpless.
Finally, on Didi’s fifth visit, my father relented and let her stay with us. For the next week, I nursed her wounds. She didn’t crack a single smile, despite all my attempts at jokes.
Didi’s return home would have ramifications. Papa and Mumma knew it. Didi herself knew it. And I did too.
The Yadav pariwar she had married into were a singularly vengeful species. From our neighbor, we learned about the assassins they had hired to eliminate us from the planet. We had reclaimed their bahu, so they vowed to murder our entire family. They considered it a fair retribution.
We bundled all our belongings into four suitcases and left at dawn. That was the first time I was forced to flee from my home. And it wouldn’t be the last…
I snapped back to reality. I got out of bed and sat down with my chai. The wife bustled around the house, dusting surfaces, folding clothes, chopping vegetables. The bangles on her wrist jingled as she moved.
“He came again today,” She said, clucking her tongue. “Demanding money.”
“Who?” I asked.
“God Almighty, who else?”
“Ha?”
“The landlord, you duffer,” She rolled her eyes. “He wants the rent for July.”
“So did you give it to him?”
“Oh yes, why not? I plucked it from the magic money tree behind our house. I gave him a little extra too, for goodwill.”
I grimaced. “I gave you all the money I made last month.”
“And I didn’t use it to buy rice and daal and onions. Na, na. Those things fell from the sky straight into our kitchen.”
I blinked and scratched my hairless head. It had taken few years of marriage to get accustomed to her sarcasm. Till today, it was nonstop. But I had also learned that in her own convoluted way, sarcasm was a form of affection.
“How’s the pain?” I asked. “Did you take the medicine?”
“It didn’t help. That doctor of yours is useless.”
The lone tubelight in our house flickered on and off intermittently. But the real light of our lives was our daughter, our Roshni. She lay sprawled on the sofa with her bare feet dangling over the armrest. Her hair was tied in a ponytail that ran down her back.
“Roshni, why aren’t you in college??” I asked.
“College is boring.”
“You still have to attend.”
“Why?”
“What why?”
“Why must I suffer through such boring lectures? It’s a waste of my time.”
Before I could compose a response, the wife cut in. “Yes, your time is so precious. You have a busy day of sitting on your bums and staring at the ceiling.”
“Very busy, Mumma,” Roshni agreed. “But my busy bums would appreciate a cup of chai.” She was her mother’s daughter, well-versed in the art of sarcasm.
“The only fun thing is rehearsing for the college play,” She said, her tone serious now. “That’s where I figured out that I’m going to be an actress.”
“Be realistic, Roshni,” I said. “Focus on your studies.”
“Why can’t I be an actress? My teacher says I’m a natural.”
I sat next to her on the sofa, and took her hand in mine. “Such fanciful dreams come true only in movies. But we have to live in the real world, where life is a daily struggle.”
“I never asked to live in this ‘real world’ of yours,” Roshni said. “I would rather live inside a movie.”
“And I want to be a chess grandmaster,” I let out a long sigh. “I never asked to be a fruit wallah either. But here I am. We don’t get to choose our destiny.”
The blaring of a siren from the main road reverberated inside our home, and made the walls judder. All of us went silent for a minute. When the sound faded, Roshni spoke first. Her eyes were large and bright, and her pupils danced about as if in tune with a melody playing in her head.
“I don’t have to be a movie star,” She said. “There are other options. I can act in TV shows or plays.”
“You want to be on those saas-bahu serials?” The wife asked.
“Why not?” Roshni sat up and contorted her face into a stern expression. She gestured towards my wife. “Bahurani, I’m tired today. Can you bring me a cup of chai?”
For a moment, the wife and me were rendered speechless.
Roshni burst out laughing. “See, I told you I can act.”
“Only kids of famous actors make it into movies,” I said. “People like us have no chance, you understand?”
Roshni cupped a palm on my cheek. “Papa, you cannot predict my future. No more than I can predict yours.”
I blinked twice. Then I turned to the wife. “Are you hearing this? Your daughter has become a philosopher now.”
“I heard,” The wife said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. For once, she had nothing sarcastic to say.
While riding my cycle to work, I replayed the conversation in my head, and smiled inwardly. If the next generation doesn’t get to dream big, what was the point of me toiling all day to sell a few measly fruits?
*****
That morning was pleasantly busy. Building residents came to my stall, and actually bought fruits. Two dozen apples, three dozen pears, five dozen oranges. It had been such a productive morning that I indulged in a stroll to a nearby public garden.
The sky was grey and laden with clouds. An intermittent breeze blew through the trees. The air smelled damp, carrying a latent threat of rain. Yet not a drop had fallen, and the ground was dry.
At the garden, I came across two white-haired men seated on a bench, with a chessboard between them. One of them furrowed his brow, the other stroked his beard.
I found a tree to lean on, from where I had a viewing angle. The sight of those black-and-white squares had activated a reservoir of knowledge that lived in my brain.
“Knight to B4,” I mumbled.
“You want something?” The bearded man asked.
I shook my head and turned away.
“Knight to B4, then castle on the Queen’s side,” I whispered to the tree.
The bearded man glowered at me, and I hastily walked away. I glanced at the board. The knight was moved to exactly where I had suggested. I couldn’t help but smile. My advice had been taken, though I didn’t get the credit.
At Asha Bhavan, I saw Pandey Saab heading out. His short-sleeves t-shirt displayed his arms, layered with thick fur from elbow to wrist.
“Pandey Saab, did you think about my request?” I asked.
He gave me a blank stare.
“I’m the fruit wallah, saab. I only wanted to move under the awning so that my fruits don’t get spoiled.”
“You have an assigned spot already. Stay there,” Pandey Saab said brusquely, and strode off.
Sooner or later, he would come around. I knew it.
I settled back into my spot with my fruits. Over the years, I’ve developed a fondness for them. Their texture, their fragrance, their flavor. How they ebb and flow with the seasons. Mangoes in summer, kiwis in winter.
The hours ticked by, with no further customers appearing. Jadhav came and helped himself to an orange. The building valet sat on a stool and smoked a brown beedi.
A football flew into my stall, scattering everything. Apples rolled into puddles, oranges got smashed, and grapes got crushed.
“Pass the ball back,” The chubby boy demanded.
It was the fourth time this week that his football had mangled my fruits and ravaged my sales. One day, I would tally up the accounts and present a bill to the brat’s mother.
“I’ve asked you many times to be careful,” I pressed my lips together. “Please.”
“Your stupid fruit stall is in the way,” He said. “No one wants you here. Everyone buys fruits from MarketFresh.”
He said it with a brazen insolence, as though my whole existence was meaningless. He reminded me a bit of my brother-in-law, how he lorded over Shalini Didi and bullied her into submission.
I picked up his football and flung it down the lane.
The boy’s nostrils flared. “Go fetch that ball, madarchod.”
The kids these days learn expletives, before they learn how to spell.
“RIGHT NOW,” He hollered and stepped towards me.
The center of my forehead began throbbing. The top of my head felt like it was being pricked by a hundred needles. Something stirred inside me, something old and dormant. It was the flicker of a candle flame that had been doused long ago. But it burned again that day.
Before I knew what I was doing, I raised a taut palm and whacked a forehand across the boy’s face.
Pin-drop silence descended all around us. The boy’s eyes widened in shock. Jadhav’s jaw hung open. The valet’s beedi slipped from his fingers and dropped to the ground.
“HE HIT ME,” The boy screamed and clutched his cheek.
“I’m really sorry baba…I didn’t mean to…”
“MUMMA…THE FRUIT WALLAH HIT ME…” The boy spun on his heels and lurched off.
His shouts receded as he went into the building, and for a moment there was a lingering hush.
Then the clouds erupted above and sent a torrential downpour upon me. I looked up at the darkened skies, and I knew that something had begun…
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