Tag: Assam Tribune

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

As one grows older, there is a growing concern about failing health even if no major health issues are detected. Anything that causes a minor aggravation calls for a timely consultation to prevent complications later. Driven by the lure of preventive benefits, I chose to visit a general physician for the comforting thought that a medical practitioner was checking my pulse, monitoring my blood pressure and oxygen levels, pricking my finger for sugar spike, and noting the abnormalities on the electronic gadgets under his control. While he carried out the standard procedural check-ups for deviations, I was finding it difficult to trust these devices just like the opposition political parties cannot trust the EVM for accurate polling results. Since the readings confirmed my overall good health, I ruled out the need to worry about the hidden, undetected alarms ticking away like a time bomb in my system.

I cannot keep my mouth shut when I am in the presence of a doctor – I end up sharing minor details that do not add up to anything significant. My talkative disposition irritates the doctor as he is bombarded with piles of information that prevents him from completing a quick diagnosis. He gets mired in the sea of irrelevant information so most of the medical practitioners, including my dentist, prefer specific, short answers instead of long, rambling inputs.

There is a sense of healing in opening up ones heart in front of doctors but, unfortunately, they do not understand this angle. The catharsis of sorts soothes the mind and the patient feels relieved much before popping the prescribed pills. In one such case, I observed the doctor threatened that he would refer me to the couch of a psychiatrist if I was so fond of conversing. It was a brazen attempt to silence my voice inside his chamber and meekly accept the prescription and walk out.

My attempt to praise his handwriting – even though it was a classic example of illegible scrawl – did not bring a smile on the doctor’s face that resembled the dull visage of a chronic depression patient battling negative thoughts. I had noted the model of the car with doctor’s sign parked outside the chamber and admired his choice in terms of mileage and pickup. Whenever a patient tries to cheer up and behave like a normal person, perhaps the doctor feels a sense of creeping discomfort that he is examining someone who looks healthier than him.

Taking off the shirt in front of a male doctor and his assistant feels like performing in a stripper’s club. Usually, I oppose this assault on my dignity but when there is a need to test or inject, I have to expose. I prefer to be properly clothed with protective innerwear since I do not have a gym-trained body to stoke envy in any gender.

The sagging flesh around the waist and the bulging tummy reminds me of the need to land up on the weighing machine that moves rapidly before stabilizing itself to indicate I am overweight by twenty kilos at least. Wearing a smart watch that calculates the heart rate while a doctor feels my pulse seems like a gross distrust of his expertise. While the doctor writes the pulse rate is normal, the smart watch reads it as elevated. Finally, reposing full faith in what the doctor records, I choose to consider the smart watch as a fun object which you use when you feel something throbbing within all of a sudden.

During a recent visit to a general practitioner who had never set up a private clinic practice before his retirement as a doctor in the railways, I finally woke up to his operational modesty inside a non-airconditioned cubicle sliced off from a chemist store and separated by a curtain. That the medical store hoped to sell more medicines based on his prescriptions was obvious.

This doctor was also known to generally avoid antibiotics and write mild, affordable medicines to prevent side-effects on health and monthly budget. His low consultation fees made him affordable for the middle-class patients. Earlier, he was entitled to a fixed monthly income but now he was enjoying the daily inflow of money to buy fuel and fruits. Even though he did not attract more than twenty patients in a day, he was punctual in attending the chamber in the morning and the evening for six days in a week. This availability of a doctor every day in the same location improved his connection with the local people. He was initially recommended by a friend of mine who said he was dependable for common ailments like seasonal cold and cough, gastric problems, and viral fever. I wanted to promote him as my family doctor but the plan was put on hold. My association with him began for a minor complication that did not resolve with self-medication with over-the-counter drugs.   

My visit did not go down well as it appeared I had irritated him by showering fake praises on his line of treatment. He asked me to stick to my problem. I began by clarifying I did not suffer from constipation throughout my life, that the frequent trips to the loo made me think I suffered from irritable bowel syndrome. This was a medical term I had picked up from online medical sites after matching the syndromes. I was under the impression that his irritation peaked with my self-diagnosis and he was going to throw me out of his chamber where I was seated on a wobbly wooden stool. His own hearing was low as he lowered his left ear to bring it closer to my mouth to follow me clearly. I noticed a fancy aid much smaller than an ear-pod tucked behind to amplify his hearing.

My quick clearance update had no effect on him as he broke his silence with a different query related to bloating.  He simplified it by using the word gas though I had already gathered its meaning. I needed time to decide whether I was bloated. He asked for my full name and age and began to write the prescription. I disturbed his thought process by adding another complication related to blood pressure. I told him I also thought that my BP became high when I am stressed or anxious. I clarified my diet was low on salt. I began to explain what I ate every day, the butter intake and caffeine intake, adding unhealthy snack items from my menu.

The patients waiting outside must have heard the loud listing of samosas, chops, and oily chips and imagined my current situation. Caring two hoots for my narrative, he resumed writing the prescription while I played a bit of tabla on my tummy to show him whether it was making any sort of sound that he could identify with a medical condition in case he heard it properly. But it was nothing more than a case of empty vessels sounding much. While the doctor ignored it, this was my playful attempt to stay relaxed in front of him. He wrote three medicines and started to explain in his soft voice how I should take them. It was hard to understand what he said in his low voice and that made me doubt my own hearing capacity. I noticed he did not prescribe any test at this stage. I wondered if he should have sent me for ultrasound. This fear was grounded when he ignored my crazy musical indulgence and signed off the prescription, asking me to report after a month again. I took a detailed look at it, understanding it was mentioned as a confirmed case of fatty liver. I wanted to opt for google pay but he insisted on cash, unwilling to share his scanner in the fear of being scammed. Since I had consumed a lot of his valuable time, he pressed the calling bell to ask for the next patient. 

As I stomped out of the chamber, the chemist grabbed the prescription from my hand. He fished out those prescribed pills from the plastic boxes placed on the lower shelves and calculated the total payable price after a nominal discount. Since it was relatively low, I managed to buy the stock for the entire month. He specified the time for the medication and there were also ‘after-food’ and ‘before-food’ labels on the packets. When I came home and tried to google their composition, I found the doctor had added a psychiatric pill that is common in treating bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. I wanted to grab him by the collar to ask him why he put me on brain-related drugs as it could slow down my creativity and ruin my fledgling business by keeping me asleep most of my time.

The chemist explained that brain-gut health is interlinked and any disturbance in the gut could generate a counter-effect on the brain. Since they could not be discontinued as per my will and required medical guidance in lowering the dosage first, I dumped the entire pack in the dustbin when he refused to give me a refund. I had annoyed this doctor so much that he thought the best way to punish me was to give me a strong mental dose to contain my erratic mood swings and sudden bursts of laughter noted down as the key symptoms of an unsound mind that mirrored emotional upheaval inside.  

Thirty days later I went again but this time I began with a fresh complaint of worms, those small intestinal worms causing embarrassing itching in public spaces after consuming sweets and chocolates. I showed him graphically using my index finger the approximate size of the ultra slim white worms I had seen moving gently in the mound of poop. Such a vivid description made the doctor feel outraged and he stopped my narrative by writing down a pill for use for two consecutive days and then repeating the same dosage after three weeks.

He wrote this medicine on the reverse side of the old prescription and then proceeded to ask me if I had seen any improvement in my previous complication. I said I could not confirm much improvement, but there was no deterioration either. The status quo prevailed and I laughed out loud which offended him again, making him infer once again I was a mentally deranged fellow who needed psychiatric help.

I paid him with a soiled note and spoiled his mood. He said I could safely continue the pills for another month but I need not return since I had no faith on him. I thought I should have confessed I did not consume his mental health pills even for a day. And the ones for fatty liver were herbal supplements that I was willing to donate to the pharmacy. Why did I make him write prescriptions when I had no intention of consuming his pills and capsules?  Was that a practice exercise for him or a test of his competence?

His clients included older adults who felt comfortable discussing their hernia and bladder health. He wanted to test the strength of his diagnosis without relying on medical tests. Although he failed in this objective, he seemed to have made this a habit. He sounded eager to confirm a disease before the report confirmed it. Many other patients were caught in this trap as his diagnosis did not always match with the test reports conducted late after his experimentation had ended in a fiasco.   

Some months later, I went to consult him again since he was easily available without a long wait. I told him about my neck problem due to improper sitting posture and he wrote some herbal pills and asked me to go for an x-ray as it was a clear case of spondylosis. I shared a few symptoms but he said I did not need a collar yet. When the x-ray econfirmed there was a mild lordosis, he looked happy as he had guessed it right after a long time. A clear case of hitting the bull’s eye on the basis of his medical instinct developed over the decades!

He directed me to consult a physiotherapist and undergo sessions of neck movement exercises for long-term relief and suggested ergonomic back support for better cervical alignment. He advised I should cut down on cold items like sherbet and ice cream. I was asked not to carry heavy objects. But I needed to handwash two buckets of clothes every day for my daily exercise and carry large bags of fruits and vegetables every week. He warned me to cross streets carefully and avoid sudden turning of the neck, to reduce strain and contain the symptoms of vertigo in this ailment. But the sudden appearance of beautiful women on the roads made me forget this alert.

I applied almond oil to relax my muscles and made it a habit to take slow turns like a robot. Much of this was not documented but doled out as verbal advice from a senior doctor who seemed to regret his past misdemeanor.

I chose to exit before he could press the bell this time as I heard the voice of a woman patient waiting outside with a bawling baby to seek urgent consultation. I gave a fake smile and stood up to leave, not ready to wait for his reaction. I came out and told the chemist to give me something for stress and he suggested meditation as the best antidote. Chemists love to supply drugs of their choice and they feel good as compounders consulted for free medical advice. 

When I chose to meditate, I could not find peace. But when I wrote a story, I got peace. I liked this trick and wrote many stories following the same process, ready with an eclectic collection worth publishing. The next visit to the doctor’s chamber was decided after the self-test reports for B12 and Vitamin D3 confirmed a minor decline. Trying to appear fit, I climbed the comfy sponge bed after placing the reports on the doctor’s glass-topped desk. He was basking in the winter sun in the balcony. As I called out to him, he stared at me as if wondering if I were playing the fool again.

My frankness peeved the doctor who was convinced after this episode that I was a hypochondriac obsessed with health hazards all the time. Before he could prescribe anything for it, I mentioned whether there was any possibility of memory loss that could worsen into dementia in the middle years. I wanted to know from him if there was an urgent need to undergo a complete body check-up including CT scan and MRI. It was a pleasure to be diagnosed as a serious patient when he quietly wrote down all that I wanted him to write. The best testing lab and diagnostic centre was giving a mega discount for the first time and I wanted to grab this lifetime offer available for two days!

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

The arrival of royalty cheques should fulfill the dream of royal living. And the finest way to showcase royalty is by purchasing a horse and hiring a personal bodyguard. The rest of the worldly acquisitions are bank financed and hence lack appeal. Before I buy a well-bred horse instead of a swanky car, I need to learn how to ride and lose my weight to reduce the physical burden on the stud. Putting this idea into suspension mode for the time being, my present focus is on hiring a bodyguard first.

It is undeniable that the worldly possessions purchased on bank credit are not a genuine indicator of social status. What works better to reflect wealth and worthiness is the hiring of a personal bodyguard who has to be paid a handsome salary out of monthly income. A gun-toting escort, dressed in black, keeping a hawk’s eye all around, is the ultimate sign of luxury that has scaled up my ambition to pursue material success. Jealous folks and sworn enemies cannot bear the sight of a writer being shadowed all the time, protected every minute while they stay exposed to all kinds of threats.

Before they choose to emulate, they need to tell their families what level of threat exists for real and what is just a figment of their imagination. A similar demand raised by other members of the family makes the proposal difficult to implement. Insurance keeps the family financially afloat and hence the householder fails to get an instant approval for hiring a bodyguard. They do not care if a gangster shoots the earning member as the insurance company keeps the family protected with the insured amount in case of his untimely bump-off on a deserted highway or a crowded throughfare.  

A security guard of any housing society cannot be employed for this purpose as the ideal bodyguard needs to be agile, gym-trained, and a sharpshooter as well. Such a rare combination of talents can emerge only after screening multiple experienced candidates with an interesting portfolio of crisis management.

Other people – my fake friends – ask me whether I have written a controversial book that has provoked a fanatic in any part of the world. Writing about myself, making fun of myself, sharing encounters with birds and animals should not ruffle feathers. The question of hurting sentiments does not arise and the justification to get state-sponsored security does not have a valid ground as there is no perceived threat perception. Writing engaging content in a non-discriminatory voice about nature is most unlikely to offend a tiger or a crocodile, not if I do not tend to ignore some and focus on just a few. For me as a writer, the tiny ones and the giant ones provide equal pleasure in equal measure.

On a recent visit to a builder’s office to search for a studio apartment, I was surprised to find the owner entering the premises flanked by two bouncer bodyguards who stood waiting outside the teak-wood door when he walked into his cabin. I was in a hurry so I wanted a quick word but the bodyguards stopped me and scanned me as if I was a big threat to security. When they suspected I was still not tamed and neutralised, they brandished a gun to scare me, hoping that discipline would follow. I told them that this behaviour offended my sentiments and I no longer wished to buy anything from the boss.

The threat of losing a client should have alarmed them but they did not seem perturbed. Instead, they looked ready to cart me away as an unwanted pesky visitor who looked impatient and troublesome, who managed sneak in beyond the reception desk like an intruder crossing the border. That I was not ready to discuss anything with the manager seemed to annoy them but the flip side suggests these builders need to be seen and observed so that one can form an idea if they are likely to siphon off funds and run away to a foreign land without delivering the promised homes. In such an eventuality, their managers would not be found hanging around the rented office to offer possession of the property that has not developed beyond a skeleton in five years. 

Hearing the noise outside, the builder called them in, and the open door offered him the chance to scan me and feel safe enough to allow me in. The bodyguards were surprised! As the boss was in a good mood, I sought a hefty discount and he seemed to agree with a say-cheese smile. The presence of guns did not scare me. I spoke without fear. The builder perhaps appreciated  my courage to speak boldly in the presence of his weaponised bodyguards. He accepted my suggestions and offered a park-facing property with a waiver of preferential location charges. A little bit of courage helped ease off the incoming installment burden.

In the midst of our smooth conversation, he received some threat call on the landline and the security guys became busy with that. A healthy crossfire of abusive words in three languages followed, leaving me clueless and inconclusive since there was no written waiver in my favour yet. The verbal assurance did not satisfy me, but the bodyguards shooed me away, saying that the builder does not write anything on paper.

Maybe he had fears of his signature getting forged and misused. That he said his was the final word was something nobody could question in this office is what I was told. With these bodyguards as my prime witness to my big savings deal, I finally went to the manager and told him what had happened. He seemed to suggest I had broken the protocol as I was pretty fast in reaching out to the owner for discount. He said the property I had finalised had been booked just a few moments ago and the owner was not yet intimated of the closed deal. I could guess this was his trick as he offered the discounted price for a road-facing property instead of a park-facing one with a view of the swimming pool.  

The brazen display of power in front of an ordinary citizen made me look at security as a new symbol of social status. I knew the builder was paying the salary by selling the homes at a premium price and his middle-class customers were bearing the burden for his safety. The corridor was sanitized. They ensured no obstructions remained as the builder had spent an hour in the office and it was time to move out for his next task. The manager said it was time for the boss to visit the welfare centre for animals. His social service ventures consumed much time. His bodyguards escorted him to the car while I was left stranded there without a solution to my problem.

The job of escorting the boss looked easy but the risk of ensuring his safety was high. With threats looming large, especially kidnapping, the bodyguards seemed to be under constant stress, and they deserved the high salary they were paid. One mistake and they could end up losing their lives and jobs if the boss suffered. While it was a good idea to be escorted, the loss of privacy was also a concern as the bodyguards entered the washroom as well. When the nature’s call cannot be answered alone in peace, the build-up of pressure is evident. In case I chose to hire a bodyguard, a similar situation would be unavoidable.  

While a builder has multiple threats from rivals and gangsters, a writer must record an episode of brutal attack or life threat for offending an individual or a community. Since none of that exists in my case, the justification to hire a bodyguard is missing. Besides, the royalty earnings look inadequate to maintain the salary burden of the bodyguard who might point a gun at the writer in case his salary gets delayed.

Creative people who prefer having a pet have to think twice before hiring bodyguards unless they acquire the tag of being a best-seller. The bodyguard dies in a crossfire while saving the employer, but he gets no gallantry award for that. In most of the cases, they end up running away from the scene of crime, to disappear into a thick jungle or a distant village without claiming salary dues in order to save their precious lives. One needs to pore over this practical aspect before signing up a bodyguard.

In case of a heated argument on any issue of conflict or disagreement, the bodyguard could end up losing calm and blow up my head by pulling the trigger. This would cause irreparable loss to the creative world, although other writers might celebrate this untimely ending in private. Imagine the bodyguard staying alert outside but the glass of poisoned water on the bed-side table leads to death or a family member kills while the writer sleep.

I have given this a second thought and decided to hire one bodyguard for a month just to get the royal experience. A bodyguard employed outside returned home when the bombing in a foreign city began so I offered him a job for a month for his pocket expenses. He accepted my modest offer and started following me. But he looked pretty relaxed during his duty hours. I told him I work as a writer who has many hidden enemies. He was not impacted by my words. There was a wide gap between us. For instance, he was still in the cafe while I was about to cross the main road. I told him these counted as lapses. He still wondered why a person would kill an innocent soul like me. I said you never know fanatics. No logic works when they pump bullets from point-blank range. He was not affected by these grave words.

He ate burgers and pizzas with me and went for shopping trips. He stood outside my writing chamber and felt bored. I opened the garden-facing window one day and he rushed to the front side of the lawn. He advised me not to open the window as a sniper with a laser gun from another building rooftop might target me. His guideline was clear: If you want to write, keep windows shut. Working in an enclosed space made me claustrophobic. I could not write in peace and under surveillance all the time.

I posted his pictures on my social media handles – to boast that I had a bodyguard watching over me. There were weird comments as to why I was wasting resources that should be saved for my retirement. After getting trolled, I defended myself by saying I was gathering experience of this kind to peep into the lives of security personnel, to know what it meant to follow and get followed. But it evoked emojis of laughter. I paid the bodyguard his monthly salary and asked him to deposit the air gun to avoid any potential misuse. 

In this entire exercise I noticed that my image of a bold, fearless writer took a severe blow. I lost scores of followers and readers who concluded I was a scared type of writer who was not worthy of being inspiring.  

 .

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Sometimes I think of setting up a small business and nothing attracts me more than becoming a fruit-seller. The foremost reason is the steady supply of fresh fruits for my own consumption every day. When the copywriting gig flops, this is one venture that promises a fruitful outcome to take care of post-retirement needs. Without disclosing my real intention, I chose to grow friendly with a fruit vendor in the local market.

Becoming a regular customer who bought almost every fruit in kilos, I managed to get recognised as one of his top three customers for billings and behaviour. He acknowledged the fact that I never bargained with him so he was generous in giving me more than what he gave to other customers. He cited the unfamiliar names of two other customers and their professions, displaying curiosity about my domicile and my work. I shared my brief details but he was not clear what copywriting and advertising meant. The example he gave of painting the walls and putting up those flex banners from one lamp post to another revealed he was confused. I said he was getting it somewhat right though he still was a bit lost about how I could afford to eat avocados every week just by putting up hoardings. It was useless trying to explain the savings due to non-alcoholic and vegetarian lifestyle were blown up on a fruit-rich diet to avoid consultations with doctors and popping their prescribed pills.  

The fruit seller had placed his cart and occupied a large corner space for many years. The wheels of the wooden cart had not moved an inch for years and they went deep into the earth gradually, small creepers entwined the wheels for a rich green, decorative feel. Since it was close to a public urinal, customers would tend to avoid it. He lit rolls of dhoop batti or incense sticks every hour to keep flies and insects away, to spread fragrance, to beat the pervading stench. Contrary to my assessment, his was the busiest fruit stall, with customers emerging from sedans and SUVs to buy fruits, local and exotic, for premium quality, without pinching their noses, without feeling any pocket-pinch. With bricks cemented unevenly on the ground, and a wooden wobbly stool placed on it, he stood tall on this raised platform to keep an eye on customers and picked up blueberries and persimmons from the upper shelves that required a long hand and extra effort. If you quizzed him about the country of origin of any fruit, he was quick to specify the state or the city it was plucked from. He was aware of the care and temperature his fruits needed to grow well since he had a farmer’s background.

I was a relatively new customer and he introduced me to the exotic fruits on display with a different sales pitch. A lady customer had picked up avocados in my presence and, after she left, the fruit-seller said she managed to save her husband’s life. Seeing me curious, he divulged the complete story of how six months of regular consumption of avocado had reversed the heart disease her husband suffered from. He said the angiogram performed after six months showed arterial blockages were gone. Though it was a true story, I could not believe it completely Maybe the condition did not worsen or there was some improvement. Worrying about my own heart health had already stressed me out so I thought avocado was better than coronary bypass. To keep a healthy heart, it was necessary to drink an avocado smoothie or bite into an avocado toast. I reminded him that the pleasure of exaggeration was irresistible to those who tell fanciful stories and also for the consumers. He asked me to verify online videos if I had doubts regarding the leading role of avocados on heart health. He played it safe with fear – just like clever marketeers do when they make actors wear white robes with a stethoscope in hand and then promote a cooking oil brand as healthy for the heart. However, the bottom-line was clear: I could not bypass the avocado if I wanted to avoid bypass surgery.

As a savvy vendor, he showed me how the old gentleman picking up blueberries had saved his nerves. He was a retired professor with jangled nerves and his shaky hands added credibility to the narrative. He fished out the currency notes from his shirt pocket with an unsteady grip. That he was recovering from a mild stroke was another alert for me. Being engaged in creative overthinking required the brain to function optimally – to keep the cognitive abilities away from decline. Predictably, I became a frequent buyer of blueberries as well, exhausting my budget at times. Not that I noticed much improvement in my neurological performance but it was logical to think that the brain must be fed well since it was never introduced to the wondrous benefits of salmon and walnuts.  

A young lady came and dug her long, painted nails on the skin of the papaya to check its ripeness while another middle-aged lady walked in and sought to know when the hanging bunch of robust bananas in his stall would ripen. She wanted to know the exact time – in the morning or in the evening tomorrow. He said it would ripen by sunset the next day, without batting an eyelid. What made him so confident was unclear to me but I felt he made a wild guess.  He was no astrologer but such silly queries deserved prompt and silly answers. Surely, the lady would not come back to complain in case the fruit did not ripen within the specified time. In case she did so, he could always blame the bad weather for the lapse. When another customer demanded unripe bananas, he showed the same lot and said two days it would take to turn perfect ripe. His flexible truth changed on based in the need of the customer. Another eye-opener of sorts for me!

If a quarrelsome customer came to return a rotten fruit, he took it calmly and gave a fresh one even though he was sure the customer had not purchased it from him in the past seven days. He built a reputation for exchanging damaged fruits and he fed those to stray animals loitering around his cart. This was commendable as it added to his good deeds. Major irritants that tested his patience were queries on size. Customers always held a fruit in hand and asked for either a bigger one or a slightly smaller one but the one they held was not the ideal size for most customers. He was delighted to see me happy with the first watermelon I had picked up from the basket! Many customers, he said, behaved liked this but he had to stay unruffled as these customers were his source of income. Their word of mouth publicity was the most powerful form of advertising for him. Buyers trusted buyers as they were on the same side and the shopkeeper is the one who would always overcharge or sell inferior items. This was the common perception and many sellers followed such tricks and ruined the prospects of the business community. But he was unlike any of those.

One fine morning I was at his fruit stall, and a customer came smoking. He politely asked him to stub it out or finish smoking and then pick up the fruits of his choice. He did not like a smoker blowing out toxic fumes around his incense sticks and polluting the fruits with nicotine smoke. I was amazed he had the courage to say it to a customer and then I found him least affected when the offended customer walked away without buying anything. He did not mind losing such clients. When I argued that he was standing by the roadside and dust was piling up on the fruits, he pointed at the white cloth curtain meant to save his ware heat and dust and showed me the duster he kept handy to clear the dust from settling down on the fruits. Also, he had a sprinkler bottle ready to spray water on the fruits and keep them fresh for longer.

Interacting with him has been an informative exercise as I now know the kind of buyers one has to accost when one starts doing fruit-selling business. If I set it up, I must know how to handle bargaining pitches. I have seen him calculate the total bill and then voluntarily give a discount before the customer demanded it. In most of the cases, they did not argue because he himself chose to lessen the price so that the customer thought he was not being overcharged. That he did the same with me was effective to turn me into his regular client.

Now he calls me up on certain days he gets fresh fruits and offers me the freedom to open the sealed boxes and take the best pieces home, something these online delivery platforms cannot ensure in terms of quality. Surely, it’s a privilege I cannot resist and I do not mind paying him what he seeks for this special, exclusive privilege– be it apples, oranges, grapes or pomegranates or any other seasonal or delicate fruit. He knows my gentle touch on fruits would not cause any damage, rather worked as a blessing. The joy of unboxing the fruit packs in front of the vendor – using his knife – is an immense delight. Along with his compliment that I am a lucky customer who has brought for him more business, more clients, and more prosperity even though I have done nothing to boost his business. His sense of gratitude reflects in his words and reminds me of how much more I need to thank God for the good and all the good people in my life.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International