Mai Chronicles – 2: Kabaadi Wala

I do not know about people from other countries, but in India most of us would think more than once before discarding carton boxes, newspapers, and even plastic containers and bags. When I was a kid, every newspaper was diligently read, then special sections were cut and kept aside, followed by storing the newspapers in some corner of the kitchen/ storeroom. The journey of a newspaper was quite a long one. From being printed, delivered, and read – It would then be used as the cover of books, the covering for kitchen cabinets so that the newly painted rack is saved, as a substitute for tissue paper while frying pakoras, as fans during rampant power cuts in summers, and only when the newspaper was yellowed with oil/ masalas/ or time – will it be considered as a waste.

The same was the story of carton boxes, plastic containers, and bags. We even went to another level of segregation by saying – This plastic bag looks fancy and can be used to keep your writing pad during exam times or while exchanging gifts, and the other one is not that great – so we will use it to store other plastic bags 🙂

After couple of months, when the collection of these items had been “utilized” – only then will we think of disposing them.

Enter Kabaadi Wala.

For a kid who was high on Kabuli Wala story, the interactions with Kabaadi Wala were no less interesting. Usually, it was my grandmother AKA Mai’s job to handle these things. She apparently had a better sense of how much would the household rags cost, she could haggle with the Kabaadi Wala, make him understand Hindi and he would make her understand Malayalam. But at the end of the day, cost was decided by a show of fingers. That money apparently was my Mai’s way of “earning” extra pocket money. As a kid it was funny to see these interactions, and I loved to be around all the discarded things, just in case I happen to find something useful in there! 

There would be days when Mai would be waiting vehemently for this particular Kabaadi Wala – she refused to sell things to any other rag picker, as she thought that this guy was honest and sensible. When I think about it now, my Mai’s loyalty towards this guy is something which major brands would kill for. When her wait continued for days, my grandfather would say, the Kabaadi Wala is your Mai’s boyfriend – which I found funny, as even my Mai laughed at this joke.

What made this joke even funnier was how the Kabaadi Wala looked. He was very old. He was tall, stick thin – so thin, I once just kept observing the movement of the nerves on his neck, when he was talking. His complexion was dark with all the roaming around he did the entire day. He wore powered glasses, with a thick thread as one of the temples. His shirt perhaps never saw a detergent and his slippers too were fastened with thin ropes and safety pins. And this guy was my Mai’s boyfriend 🙂 There were occasions when this guy would show up and my Mai would not be at home. People at home would say, Mai’s boyfriend is here… but she has gone out.

Year after year this continued. There were times when Mai’s kids would tell her how all this is not needed, and she should not haggle on these things with Kabaadi Wala. Rather just throw the stuff like normal waste. But she did not give a damn to what they said. Her husband was fine with her doing this, then who are these people suggesting her what is appropriate and what is not.

Years passed and then one fine afternoon, Mai lost her husband. Just like that. Nothing wrong with his health. They had lunch together; he went on with his siesta – only to wake up with some kind of pain. She heard his voice, he somehow managed to walk and sit in the drawing room – and he was gone. Right in front of our eyes. Her more than 50 years of marriage came to an end. The older you get, the more emotionally dependent you are on your partner. Mai struggled every passing hour. 

The Kabaadi Wala got to know the news; he passed his condolences to Mai’s children. Few months later, Mai was sitting outside the house. It was afternoon, time for her kids to come home for lunch. Months back, she used to sit there waiting for her husband as well. But times have changed. She hardly felt hungry now. The Kabaadi Wala shows up. We say, yes there is some kabaad for sure. My Mai felt this is a good deviation and started stocking up the items. Only when they were about to close the deal, her eldest son arrives home. He sees the Kabaadi Wala. He does not say anything. Once the rag picker leaves, he goes to his mom and speaks. This is not appropriate, Mai. Especially now that times have changed. Mai’s face fell. She just nodded.

The next time Kabaadi Wala came, he was told we no longer need his services. Mai… Yes, yes… she is keeping well. No, she is at home only. Just resting. It took him 2 more visits to understand that the old widow is no longer allowed to interact with other men.

I was in college when all this happened, and not really happy about this new development. Even to this date what surprises me is how gracefully my Mai just accepted the verdict of the eldest son. It came quite naturally to her. She accepted it as her fate that the “man” of the family has made the decision for her. Even though she has mothered this “man”. Even though she made it a point to send one of her daughters-in-law for English language tuitions, because “zamana badal gaya hai”. She just accepted the backward thinking of her son and moved on with her life. 

Today, I am no longer in the city I grew up in. But old habits die hard. I too had piled up newspapers, carton boxes, and several plastic boxes (courtesy Swiggy & Zomato). I too thought all these things can be used someday. Though part of me always wanted to get rid of them. Yet fetching things from attic was too much work for me. This morning, I heard the Kabaadi Wala. The call to give away the rags was the same – the Kabaadi Wala different, the city different, and instead of Mai it was her granddaughter repeating the whole act.

Some memories are like those good old novels – buried deep down in a box, covered with layers of dust. This memory from my Mai’s life is just like that good old novel. 

To Mai. 

Wherever you are.