The
farmer is here!
On a comfortable
winter morning – if you are not too snobbish about the winter in Mumbai - the
farmer parked his truck on the camber of the street. He was turned out for business
in loose white trousers, a full-sleeved white shirt and topi – a monochrome
bright figure against the gray backdrop of paver blocks. He was from Nashik; as
the large vehicle very proudly declared. A woman, his co-farmer and perhaps his
wife sat in the truck’s bed surrounded by bright blue crates. A young lad
dressed in overused jeans and checked shirt stood next to the farmer and was
likely his son. He discernably felt out of place amid the milling urbane crowd
as he looked uncertainly about him.
‘The farmer
is here!’ Over the ambient buzz of grocery shoppers in that restful locked down
street, the farmer’s voice rang loud and clear.
‘Get
yourself the sweetest grapes from Nashik.’ The Nashik grape-grower hollered once
twice thrice and on and on.
Would he
sell his grapes or would they sour his hopes? Drawn to the voice, I went to the
balcony and watched him. So did the people in the street. Women with shopping
bags stopped, scooters veered toward the curb and sanitation workers paused their
brooms; all stupefied by the impromptu recital. The farmer handed a grape to
each bystander – a translucent maroon sphere of sweetness. Those who did not
want the free sample waved their palms and went on their way. Oh, what a pity,
thought I.
The grapes remained
packed in the crates, the sale had not started and the farmer’s loud entreaties
went on. The young man too tried to coax customers. But the shy, hesitant
language of his body showed he disliked the task.
An hour into
shouting, a customer finally walked up to the truck; and then another. Later, they
appeared together like bees around a hive. For two hours straight, the farmer
hollered that day till his crates were empty. Yes, the grapes were worth it. A
farmer was here! And it was a great beginning to my day.
***
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