Candy Man

The Candy man died.

Loud mouth was in a state of enthralled pain and grief which will take weeks to subside. Childmom was kinda okay with him not being there any more. Wise capitalist and K ceased to react.

The Candy man was dying for about a month now, he was diagnosed of a rare disease that swallowed the kidneys and then attacked other organs. He was a part of my childhood- the better part of it:

'Every time we all got together he would pamper me spoilt, candies are what he brought for us in huge bags! There was pan pasand, sawd, flavored lollipops and all phoren chewy toffees. Gradually bubble gums, chewing gums made their way into the bag and then came crayons, erasers, scented pens, fragrant papers, pens that nullified ink spots or fehlers and the host of godly goodness. He knew my weakness for stationery and would shower me with pencils (the flexible ones by ‘stray cat’) sharpeners, erasers (in various shapes, colors and sizes) he was the first man to bring me my first ‘non dust’ eraser, most of all he was the first guy to introduce a timid 7 year old to Fusen chewing gum, and it’s ability to blow into a balloon still firmly tugged into my mouth. I have for years collected those ink tattoos on the flip side of the wrapper.

(Your childhood often has the roots of your soul's desires in them. The sticker and tattoo is probably one of them. It translated on to my body decades later, in a much respectable and discrete fashion though.)

The Candy man did not visit us at regular intervals but he with ‘Moon smile’ came too often to relish home cooked food and my mother like the eternal ‘Annapurna’ would welcome them with a long menu of ‘I know what you like!’

They both loved my mother – like everyone loves the chicken for its tandoori. And she was more than happy to feed Somalia’s population with much devotion and care. I never complained – a) I was too small and b) I was clearly benefiting from their visits. They were a welcome change with jokes, laughter and a whole battery of funny and exciting stories and gifts. The gifts may appear meager today but for a toddler they were magical!

The Candy man came from the sandy part of the country. And gave me the impression of a Kabuliwala; also he was special, because he was the only Muslim in our otherwise right-winged, fanatic Hindu Brahmin household. Thinking of it now, makes me admire him a little more – he must have really had something more than every other Hindu, to be welcomed with out a knock into our home. He, as expected never spoke of meat in the house, never brought up religion, had impeccable sense of hygiene and helped mom with the chores without being asked for or told to.

We moved to Bombay and subsequently his visits reduced. There was a pale emptiness to the new home we had – albeit large, it always smelled of diminishing royalty. My mother, just like every righteous women – patch worked the house into a warm, modest yet large hearted home. New set of leeches took over and we were older to distance ourselves from the smiling faces. The faces were nice but not warm and they did not get us gifts. They bought Cadbury dairy milk! And I missed fruits, missed stationary, and I missed the young men with all the clatter and their stories of Shillong, Nepal, Nainital, Bhuj, Jodhpur – I missed the ‘Bhabhiji aap ko ye batana tha, Bhabhiji aapke liye special laya hoon, Bhabhiji aap ko bahut miss kiya…'. I missed it, the new lot called her ‘Mrs. Dadhe’. Not even remotely warm.

He came long ago, almost a decade later, and I saw him, older, father of two – talking fondly to his daughters about our antics as kids. He was in the sunny verandah in our once beautiful home. We had relocated and were miles away from him – I think he understood that. We saw him never again – we were farther in mind than the distance.

It’s been over a month when his wife called to inform us of his impending krankheit. And the seriousness of the situation only seeped into Loud mouth (he was much older, and knew him closely; better than us, for sure)– as for my optimistic mind, there is a cure for everything in this world. So, I slept over it. A week before Loud mouth decided to take a journey to him – he died.

A fortnight later when Loud mouth has collected himself over multiple evenings of whiskey; his absence seems to hit me! The late riser, slow learner and the watchdog of life that I am – I type out all that I remember of him. I am unwilling to forgo what remains of him – he was the man who made a grouchy child smile. The Candy man will be fondly missed.'

Tales from Samovar

There was a time, there is a time and there will be a time. The time won’t change but everything around it will, and if it wouldn’t it’ll be mighty tasteless.

That’s what happened to an impulsive K, when she strolled out of MB and walked straight into the Jehangir Art Gallery ,turned right and entered Samovar. K, was heavy with expectation, burdened with memories of art love & debates; and filled to the brim with passion of a young adult, who once wanted to spin the parliament around. And Samovar, like Kayani, Sarovar, Metro cafe, Café New York, Café Cadel, Ideal Café, etc… had been a witness to this naïve madness. At times, K thought that it was the place that made her who she was. The environs demanded her to be idealistic and revolutionary, or maybe it was her slowly growing mental age. (Especially the café near Horniman circle, whose name she can not recollect, whose owner hoped that she would write about his café one day, when she got really famous. Well, she will.)

Samovar was a little different. The owner did not care; the waiters always took the wrong orders, and everyone there was pseudo elite – talking Kafka, Monet and Braque. The overheard conversations, the quick notes in the scrap book, the Google(ing) it all in the college library – was then a shameless way to acquire more knowledge. Samovar was also a place where K saw Mushy the first time – years before they actually met. (On random note: K saw Pudgy fingers the first time at Gokul’s, before she met him 6 years later, in his office!)

Sitting there, K mulled over everything - the unchanged, crammed, familiar furniture, the shaky wooden tables, host of oddballs sipping on the lassi, art novices and barons, the mesmerized newbie’s face and somewhere, sitting solitary in a corner, was a woman waiting for her déjà vu moment.

The moment did not come. There was a suspension at the very heart of the experience. As K walked out of the gallery, she knew that she had out-grown the Essel World of ivory tower talks. The books are now back into the shelf on Art and Literary Criticism. Noone she knew referred to the ‘Beauty Myth’ before picking up a copy of Vogue, or a pair of pumps from Aldo.

An Evening ...

I refused, pondered, made calls and decided to go to the Loquations almost after six months (or more). I missed the lady and the reading - above all I missed the memories - NCPA memories, sunken garden memories, Monaco memories, crowded memories, flirtatious memories, memories that carried a beacon assuring there was more to life, Baudelaire memories, Jim Morrison memories, my feet on wet cold grass memories, Fat cat on broad steps memories, Q memories, Tenzin memories, old woman with onyx, sapphire and penthouse without an heir memories, memories of sane men succumbing to depression, losing sight, losing wives - and finding refuge in arguing over other dead people.

My teeth are sunk too deep in this addiction... I leave, drift apart and return to feel these random ones - like the evening at Leopold's with half of me stepped over with two others and half of me left behind with three young faces.

The knowledge of now has often been the knowledge of what I had, and what I can have.