It was the evening before Mahalaya, and I was headed home through the thick evening traffic. It had started to rain unexpectedly, and although I was not far from home, the traffic was frustratingly slow. As I stared aimlessly through the car window at the raindrops streaming down the glass, I noticed an old man bent with age, carrying a toolbox. There was something familiar about him. After taxing my old grey cells, it came back to me. Of course—this was Damu Kaka, as my father had always addressed him. Growing up, I knew him as the man my father called whenever anything electrical needed repairing, from light fixtures to household appliances. In those days, he was tall and ramrod-straight, with thick-rimmed glasses. He always wore an impeccably ironed, half-sleeved white shirt and black trousers. Perched on his Atlas bicycle, he looked more like a high-ranking executive than an electrical handyman. His dignified manner of speaking made me hold him in high regard. Whenever he vis...
It was the evening before Mahalaya, and Mori Road was once again bedecked like a bride—resplendent with rows of shining lights and people rushing about, putting the finishing touches on the pandal that was getting ready to welcome the Goddess. The evening before is always busy, and as usual, I was delayed with chores. I eventually found myself at Chandu’s kirana store, asking for a long list of things—much to his disdain, as he hates being rushed. “You’re always in a hurry,” he admonished while attending to a demanding customer. Nearby, a boy of ten or twelve was negotiating hard with Chandu for a few pieces of chocolate. “It’s my father’s birthday tomorrow—can you give me a discount?” he asked. Chandu was not one to part with discounts, but I suppose the boy had been at it for a while, and finally, he gave in. “I don’t have change,” Chandu said, as the boy handed him a fifty-rupee note. The boy turned to me and asked, “Uncle, can you help with change?” I obliged and settled his bill ...