Not all who wander are lost...(3)
Keliwaale kaka
Keliwaale kaka with my niece, Rukmini and nephew, Rudra
Keliwaale kaka is how he is known to everyone.
And he got this name because of his trade -- he sells bananas.
I suspect even his family may be calling him by that name.
He has been around since I went to school -- that is a good 20 plus odd years.
He comes pushing his cart into our lane every afternoon.
Standing below each house he calls out the children in his rough voice asking if they want bananas. Being a firm believer in decorum he only calls out to the boys. Shouting out a girl's name is way to impolite and a total no no for him.
The mothers or aunts or any other 'decision making' member of the female clan from the family then rush out to tell him if the family needs bananas for the day. Most times they are still feasting on an earlier stock, but not to disappoint kaka, they may buy a couple.
Keliwaale kaka has been repeating this sequence at each house. Patiently going from house to house and calling out to each child. And then waiting patiently for an answer.
He never quite boasts of a better stock on a particular day or coaxes you into buying more than what you had initially asked for.
He is happy to sell even one banana if that is what you want.
The humble banana, unlike the prestigious mango, is hardly a pièce de résistance. Its raison d'être is to provide instant energy and not tantalize tastebuds like the seductive mango. Keliwaale kaka is well aware of this intrinsic quality of his ware and his dealings reflect some of the fruit's qualities.
One misses keliwaale kaka during the famous 'waari' months. A chaste Muslim, he goes off to Pandharpur in search of Vithal -- year after year. He returns after 'waari' and resumes with his trade as if nothing much has passed in the interim period.
Keliwaale kaka has been calling out my cousin's name at our house. And waits patiently for someone to answer with an affirmative or otherwise. My cousin is now father to a four-year-old, but kaka still calls out to him like he were still a child.
When I look back at keliwaale kaka, I am reminded of Tagore's Kabuliwala. Like Kabuliwala, he too wears a beard, and like him, he carries a rough and ready imprint of our bygone childhoods inside of him. Time seems to lose its edge when he calls out my cousin's name standing below our house, his voice seems to wash away all the years that have crept on unknowingly around us. Years that weigh us down with age.
Keliwaale kaka with my niece, Rukmini and nephew, Rudra
Keliwaale kaka is how he is known to everyone.
And he got this name because of his trade -- he sells bananas.
I suspect even his family may be calling him by that name.
He has been around since I went to school -- that is a good 20 plus odd years.
He comes pushing his cart into our lane every afternoon.
Standing below each house he calls out the children in his rough voice asking if they want bananas. Being a firm believer in decorum he only calls out to the boys. Shouting out a girl's name is way to impolite and a total no no for him.
The mothers or aunts or any other 'decision making' member of the female clan from the family then rush out to tell him if the family needs bananas for the day. Most times they are still feasting on an earlier stock, but not to disappoint kaka, they may buy a couple.
Keliwaale kaka has been repeating this sequence at each house. Patiently going from house to house and calling out to each child. And then waiting patiently for an answer.
He never quite boasts of a better stock on a particular day or coaxes you into buying more than what you had initially asked for.
He is happy to sell even one banana if that is what you want.
The humble banana, unlike the prestigious mango, is hardly a pièce de résistance. Its raison d'être is to provide instant energy and not tantalize tastebuds like the seductive mango. Keliwaale kaka is well aware of this intrinsic quality of his ware and his dealings reflect some of the fruit's qualities.
One misses keliwaale kaka during the famous 'waari' months. A chaste Muslim, he goes off to Pandharpur in search of Vithal -- year after year. He returns after 'waari' and resumes with his trade as if nothing much has passed in the interim period.
Keliwaale kaka has been calling out my cousin's name at our house. And waits patiently for someone to answer with an affirmative or otherwise. My cousin is now father to a four-year-old, but kaka still calls out to him like he were still a child.
When I look back at keliwaale kaka, I am reminded of Tagore's Kabuliwala. Like Kabuliwala, he too wears a beard, and like him, he carries a rough and ready imprint of our bygone childhoods inside of him. Time seems to lose its edge when he calls out my cousin's name standing below our house, his voice seems to wash away all the years that have crept on unknowingly around us. Years that weigh us down with age.
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