Musings at Mori Road

  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...