On the roadside they sell cucumbers, not goodwill

I was upset with the hilly route. My stomach was whirling, intestines colliding against the walls of the abdomen and my chest cavity nauseated by the absorption of the emitting diesel smoke from the silencer just below my window pane. It was a tough time subduing the upheaval within me.

On the contrary, the cold moist wind was blowing against my face carrying tufts of hair in different turns with the bends. The far stretched mountains and the deep green valleys along the banks of the Ganga was something that I had not really seen much in the past many years. Indeed I was not just seeing it, rather also enjoying it. But had I been a bit less upset with the route, I would have absorbed more tranquility and solitude of the hills.

I was on my way to take a Personality Development program (PDP) in a government engineering college set amidst the hills of Gharwal, Uttarakhand; to be more precise I was heading to Pauri. My commute started at six in the morning for which I woke up at five and boarded the bus with an empty stomach, and that added more troubles to the journey. In the course of the travel I made my blames towards various departments and MLAs of my nation for the deteriorated road conditions and non AC terminals for this route.

It was at the exact verge of tolerance and discomfort that the bus halted for refreshment at the roadside dhabas. I felt relieved and the cyclone within me started settling. I lay semi-unconscious with my head back on the chair for a few minutes coping with the disorders coming to a halt. With the situation under control, I stepped down and looked sideways to fix my gaze back to normal. The streets were silent and the only possible heard noises were of the draining water streams from the rocks and the chattering crickets.

Along the roadside were small shops made in the cavity of the hills, sheltered under tarpaulins and old discarded advertisement hoardings. Old, feeble men and undernourished teens mounted there uncomfortably on their calves behind piles of cucumbers and lemonade glasses. Their anticipated gazes looked down at me and an old man understanding my piteous state offered me a cucumber. I went to his shop, splashed some fresh cold water of the rocks on my face and rinsed my mouth with the same. Thereafter, I accepted the fruit and with the first bite into the soft mush flavored with the salt of grinded spice and coriander leaves my anxiety of the route disappeared. Finishing it I asked for more, there was certainly immense improvement with it.

As I gathered myself back to normal, a group of bikers, foreigners, halted together near the vendors. Then in English mixed with heavy gestures and the local dialect they tried talking to them. From the best of my observance all I made out was an interrogation about a left back cell-phone and a camera. They moved from one counter to another speaking only words ‘WHITE’, ‘CAMERA’, ‘PHONE’ and other similar synonyms. Then in a matter of minutes an old shopkeeper, probably in his late sixties came running from the farther end of the street. In his hands with immense safety was a handbag clutched tightly, that read in bold ‘Adidas’. He halted before the tall white skinned man and with a sheer smile extended the bag to him. He told them that it was him who had just responded back to their phone call. They accepted the bag and without checking its contents hung it over their shoulder. Then they joined their hands in the Indian tradition and paid their tribute to the old man’s generosity. Their faces were happily lit. One of them extended a five hundred rupee note to the old man who refused to accept it saying in his mother tongue, “Hum sirf kakdi bechte hain sahib, emaan nahi. Yeh paise aap rakhiye maine inke liye mehnat kari hi nai.” (We just sell cucumbers sir, not our goodwill. You keep this money, I have not worked for it.)

Then as they sat back on their bike, kicked start and throttled past us, they kept their hands joined in respect to the old man’s honesty and kindness. The man also waved them off, his face lit with pride. In no less time the story of his benevolent deed exchanged lips and ears and he had already made himself an exemplary figure of the day. But, nothing else matched the satisfaction that he carried on his face back to his stall. Surely for him it had become a moment worth remembering for an entire lifespan, and passing on to his grandchildren as a story with a good moral of honesty.

My bus honked, and I climbed back to my seat. Though it was the same hilly route that had severely troubled me for the past few hours, but for now I carried with me immense strength from the old man’s deeds. I had started loving the place, and of course the route was an integral part of it. We passed the small cucumber and lemonade shops, and in my last gaze I carried with me their shabby clothes, wrinkled faces and pure hearts.