Blast from the Past

Every evening, as the evening crumbles into dusk and night falls, the still silence of the colony is punctured every few minutes with the sound of a blow-horn. Not the staccato sound of the car horn, but the traditional air-filled rubber ball that makes a squeaky, almost cacophonous sound when pressed? Sometime later, in rides a man on a bicycle. He cuts a striking figure on his bicycle, despite the fact that he’s not very tall. As he swings his leg off the cycle, dressed in his customary white paithani, his head wrapped in a traditional red chequered scarf, his mehendi stained beard immaculately trimmed, he blows the horn to announce his arrival. It’s the baida-walla, who cycles up from the neighbouring locality every evening and goes from building to building selling eggs, bread, pav and biscuits made at his local bakery. Initially I was amused by the idea that a baida-walla would visit every evening and everyone in the society would come out of their homes, often in pyjamas to buy their eggs and bread, thinking it was true-blue “blast from the past” concept, finding it rather quaint that the vendor goes from door to door selling his wares! But over time, I've become accustomed to this sheer luxury of having someone come right up to your door-step for your daily supply of bread and eggs. No need to go to the neighbourhood grocery store or the supermarket, just run down the stairs and you have everything you need for the next day’s breakfast! But more than that, is the pleasure of exchanging a few words with some one with such a marvellously old-world charm, who hands over the change with a smile, acknowledging your thanks with a “mention not.” I must admit that over the last nine months, I’ve slowly come to welcome the sound of that horn, and that some things haven't changed…

PS The promised book review of The Robber Bride, is up on Literay Mosaic.