Life se Dhobi jaate dekha hai?
As in physically, the guy (must have been from one of the BIMARU states, identifiable accent) used to hangout on the street.
Our building has shops on the ground floor. Facing the street, which has openings of 3 other buildings. And this guy, used to own, one of the corner shops.
As any typical, middle class society, each shop has some spare area in front, which ends on the road, at a height of 1 feet. (So this area cannot be used as the road, and differed in texture too). When you see on the left, you can see partitions (cement blocks with slits every one feet, between pillars, shaped like moulds and not talking to each other), 4 ft across, throughout the length of the road; each partition 3 feet distant then the previous. (Trivia: what's the length of the road on the left of Dhobi?)
This guy, used to make his meals at the base of one of those partitions. Chicken and roti meals.
As a background, he is a hardworking guy, who used to cheat sometimes, in the count of clothes. Rest, ironing was fine, and devoid of any burnt accidents.
So around Covid, his business evaporated. His makeshift house and shop were his universe. His freedom was that free land, which was neither road nor individual property.
He used to be seen, in his lungi, shirtless, roaming the street. He roamed like he owned the street.
I can say, he did own the street. There isn't any other Dhobi, nearer to these buildings.
I went downstairs with garbage, and while coming back, I deftly light a cigarette, using only one hand, not the one which held the garbage (no mixing the touch of hands, they both can touch different surfaces, separately).
I usually smoke in that corner. Where that Dhobi always moved. And I always ignored him, and he, me.
That time, I din't feel like smoking. To see that iron channel, halfway to the no-man's land, holding (about to burst) an activa and some old furniture.
Life was missing, in that corner!
As in physically, the guy (must have been from one of the BIMARU states, identifiable accent) used to hangout on the street.
Our building has shops on the ground floor. Facing the street, which has openings of 3 other buildings. And this guy, used to own, one of the corner shops.
As any typical, middle class society, each shop has some spare area in front, which ends on the road, at a height of 1 feet. (So this area cannot be used as the road, and differed in texture too). When you see on the left, you can see partitions (cement blocks with slits every one feet, between pillars, shaped like moulds and not talking to each other), 4 ft across, throughout the length of the road; each partition 3 feet distant then the previous. (Trivia: what's the length of the road on the left of Dhobi?)
This guy, used to make his meals at the base of one of those partitions. Chicken and roti meals.
As a background, he is a hardworking guy, who used to cheat sometimes, in the count of clothes. Rest, ironing was fine, and devoid of any burnt accidents.
So around Covid, his business evaporated. His makeshift house and shop were his universe. His freedom was that free land, which was neither road nor individual property.
He used to be seen, in his lungi, shirtless, roaming the street. He roamed like he owned the street.
I can say, he did own the street. There isn't any other Dhobi, nearer to these buildings.
I went downstairs with garbage, and while coming back, I deftly light a cigarette, using only one hand, not the one which held the garbage (no mixing the touch of hands, they both can touch different surfaces, separately).
I usually smoke in that corner. Where that Dhobi always moved. And I always ignored him, and he, me.
That time, I din't feel like smoking. To see that iron channel, halfway to the no-man's land, holding (about to burst) an activa and some old furniture.
Life was missing, in that corner!
No comments:
Post a Comment