First Day First Show
Abdu sat on a concrete slab placed strategically under the tree, watching the sea. His deft hands needed no supervision as they continued to roll small cones out of newspaper squares in automated precision. He stacked each completed cone into the previous one meticulously, thereby fashioning a long and neat train of paper cones. A large jute bag of groundnuts leaned on to the tree trunk waiting to be salted and roasted, well in time for the late afternoon when the sun would extend a morsel of mercy and the public would come out to play. A small burner, a can of kerosine, a blackened metal wok and an overworked steel spatula rested under a soiled rag as the team waited patiently for the day’s work to begin.
After the early morning commotion of the fisher folk dragging in the catch of the day, the passersby who stop on their tracks to watch, and the local vendors, restaurateurs and the occasional seafood enthusiast haggling for the best prices, there is a strange calm that takes over. An inexplicable quietness in the way the frothy waves, the sand, a murder of crows and the empty fishing boats are left to themselves. As the day gets hotter, and as Abdu and the other vendors arrive to start preparation for their workdays under the shade of a tree or blue tarpaulin sheets, the beach transforms into perhaps the loneliest place on earth. Save for the lone couple or two who come by for a starry-eyed stroll in the blistering sun, or for a quick round of tongue wrestling under a drab, black umbrella, far from the prying eyes of family, friends and with luck, the moral police brigade, there is rarely a soul in sight during the hottest hours of the day. Perhaps there’s no sunscreen more potent than new love; no drug more convincing than raw lust. And the vast expanse of dry sand naps, pockmarked with the thousands of footprints standing testament to the stories that have walked these sands of time, right here under the clear blue sky.
Abdu, finished with the cone making for the day, lifted himself up from his seat, brushed the sand from his frayed trousers of no discernible colour, stretched his arms and scratched his scanty beard. It was now time to open the lunch packet Marykutty packs for him just as he steps out of their home every morning, rain or shine; in sickness and in health. But before he sat down to eat, out of habit, he made his way to the other side of the road where an older man stood under the cool of a tarpaulin, mixing the batter for Vadas on a hand cart now converted into a busy workspace. Among the scores of vendors selling fried snacks, popcorn, ice cream, bubbles and balloons, Balan is Abdu’s lone friend; almost a sibling. Sharing the blue shade, sat a young boy of about 15, building small windmills with foil paper in red, green and gold, and sticks. The boy wore a clean, striped shirt which could fit at least two of him and black trousers he had clearly outgrown. White and blue rubber slippers.
The sea during these hours is a true vision. Dressed in a vast sheet of blue grey metal that shimmers in the hot sun, she stretches on for as far as the eye can reach, all the way until she kisses the sky in the distance. She looks strangely malleable as she rises and falls in a rhythm unbeknownst to mere mortals as though she is breathing; as though she holds life. But for all the people like Abdu, she did bestow them with life; with food, with a livelihood.
“How are the preps coming along, Balan Chetta?”
Chettan. Older brother.
Abdu walked up to the duo at work in the filtered blue light. The older man waved his battered hand and smiled showing all his yellow teeth.
“Ah it’s going on. Today I am provisioning for at least 50 extra vadas. Last weekend, I ran out remember? Why say no when she tries to help?” Balan nodded his shiny bald head at goddess Mahalakshmi smiling out of a small and rusty frame hanging on one of the poles, as she sat on an oversized pink lotus dressed in silk and jewels. Abdu let out a small chuckle as he poured himself a glass of water from the pink plastic jug sitting next to Balan’s stove. An incandescent lantern awaited the darkness of dusk. A wireless radio crackled and brought out the monotonous baritone of what sounded like a man with a thick beard.
“That’s true… I think this weekend will also be busy – the sky is clear. Anyway, don’t forget to keep aside two for Marykutty as usual. Who is this boy?” Abdu looked at the thin, lanky frame sitting with his oiled head lowered as he built windmills out of foil paper, one at a time in silence and salty sea breeze. After completing each one, the boy tested the dynamics against the wind.
“Ayyo, I almost forgot. This is Vinod – he lives two houses away from me.’ At the mention of his name, Vinod looked up at the two men but did not smile. Wide, unblinking eyes set in a pale, almost grey face gave away nervousness. “Today is his first day here. Paavam, his mother is very sick and has two younger siblings. He needs to do something to make enough money so, I asked him to come to the beach while we figure out better alternatives. The boy is good with his hands… see…” Balan smiled kindly at the boy with a scared face and dusty feet.
“Yes, I can see that. How old are you?” Abdu asked looking deep into the boy’s eyes. He did not answer, but instead stared blankly back at Abdu, a nervous frown now taking shape on his brow that glistened in the humidity.
“Eda Vinode tell him. Abdu is an old friend and I have known him since he was about your age.” Balan laughed at the boys concerned expression. “If you are nice to him, Abdu might even be kind enough to let you tag along with him today. You can get acquainted with the tricks of the trade… perhaps even the unwritten rules of the business…” Balan winked dramatically at Abdu.
“I am almost 15.” The quiet voice snitched about the disfavour of puberty.
“Ah you are just a little older than when I began here, some 20 odd years ago.” Abdu ran his brown fingers through his thick mop of jet-black hair, a few sneaky strands of grey peeking at the temples. “How time flies, alle Balan Chetta?”
“Indeed! When I started here at this seashore, even I had a head full of hair!” The older men roared at the joke and a small smile began to take shape at the drooping edges of Vinod’s thin lips.
“Appo sheri enna, I am going to have my lunch before roasting the nuts. You can come with me today, I will show you around”, Abdu nodded to Vinod as he stepped out into the sun stretching his arms above his head. He adjusted his trouser buckle as he walked back to his spot under the tree. And as if he was reminded of something, he turned back while standing on the empty road and called out:
“Eda Vinode, have you brought any food?”
The boy remained quiet.
“Come eat with me then. Marykutty always sends enough for two.”
Vinod looked up at Balan imploringly like a child looks at his mother for permission when offered a biscuit or a toffee.
“You don’t need his consent to eat with me. Get up and come fast – I have work.” Abdu jogged back to the slab under tree making way for a car that whizzed past, an old Malayalam song blaring out of its open windows.
Sitting with his legs folded on a patch of dried grass, Abdu opened his lunch packet lovingly packed by Marykutty’s soft hands, on a thin bed of old newspapers. Vinod watched intently while a warm and inquisitive breeze lingered around the budding friendship. Inside the newspaper package was a generous helping of boiled rice, a fried sardine, remnants of a spoonful of spiced yoghurt and a brined gooseberry, all wrapped neatly in a wilted banana leaf.
“Do you not go to school?” Abdu asked as he divided the rice into two equal halves.
“I used to go, I wanted to become an engineer. But now… someone needs to earn something at home, daily expenses are getting increasingly difficult. Amma can’t work anymore.” Vinod gulped down a mouthful of spit as his stomach growled hard.
Abdu laughed and placed the shrivelled sardine on the small heap of rice in front of Vinod.
“Eat well, you have a lot of walking to do. I prefer the gooseberry anyway.”
After lunch, Vinod cleaned up their picnic spot as a docile thank you to his new friend. He then ran back to make a few more windmills after promising to meet Abdu at the steps leading to the beach in an hour. Abdu in the meantime, coaxed the fire in the burner and prepared to roast the salted nuts in hot sand – the sure-fire method to ensure perfectly roasted and fragrant groundnuts every single time. After roasting the entire bag of shelled (but not skinned) nuts, he packed them neatly in the paper cones and arranged them all correctly in the large bag that brought the nuts.
By the time he was done packing his ware for work, the air all round had cooled down slightly and brought with it the warm smell of savoury snacks frying in hot oil, salted popcorn and the sound of the first cars and bikes arriving along with bells from the ice cream carts – the trusty sign of a busy evening. The unmistakable sign of a pocket full of money. He got up, stretched and straightened out his shirt. Hastily neatened his hair and with the large bag of packed nuts propped on his lean frame, he made his way to the steps leading to the warm sands.
Vinod was already there, waiting with 20 of his colourful handiwork spinning enthusiastically in the wind. He had smartly arranged them all on a rickety wooden frame to facilitate convenient lugging around. Smart boy, thought Abdu.
“Ready?”
“Ready.” Pat came the answer along with a grateful smile.
The beach was now slowly waking up after a long and lazy siesta. The long stretch on the roadside allotted for parking automobiles was already filling up. Small groups of people, mostly families with young children sat in the sand gazing at the water, their eyes crinkling in the late afternoon sun. Kids made castles while adults made dream homes, some stood at the edge holding on to their parents’ hands squealing with joy as they waited for the cool waves to touch their small feet. Some others bawled pointing at the ice cream carts while exasperated parents dragged their screaming offspring away from sugar and guilt.
“Rule number 1. Always keep change”, Abdu handed five ten-rupee notes to the boy as they walked along the beach, their feet digging into the sand warm from the day’s rest. “Most people don’t buy saying they have no change. This will come in handy when you begin every day.” Vinod looked back at him quizzically, clearly unsure whether to take the money or not.
‘Aye just take it boy. We are all in this together, whether we like it or not.”
To this, Vinod smiled and nodded, and stuffed the notes carefully into his trouser pocket. Abdu touched his frail shoulders lightly.
“Rule number 2. Pay attention to all the money you make at the end of the day. Write it down.” The older man pulled out a well-thumbed notepad with doggy ears and brown edges out of his own pocket and waved it. “You have to keep a book for that. Like mine.”
“Yes, Ikka.”
Ikka. Older brother.
“And if you plan to make any money at all, you can’t stay this silent. Do you understand?” Abdu clapped the newcomer on his shoulder with a laugh as they kept walking. “People need to see you, they need to notice you. Otherwise you will go back to your mother with all these fans in the evening… Now watch…”
And after taking a deep breath filling his chest and all the way up to his stomach and beyond if that was possible, Abdu yelled:
“Kappalandi…. Kappalandiii…”
Men, women and kids in the vicinity looked up. A man in the distance waved, beckoning them to come over. A family of four sat in the sand – mum, dad and two teenage girls.
“See?” Abdu grinned at his open mouthed apprentice as they made their way over to the family of four, the two of them almost waddling in the loose sand. The family bought two cones each of groundnuts and one windmill at Abdu’s insistence. Abdu stuffed a little more than the windmill’s share into Vinod’s shirt pocket before making their way to the next waving hand.
“Rule number 3. If you must stare at girls, go ahead but don’t make it too apparent. The parents don’t like it.” Their laughter rang in the wind as the orange sun prepared to call in a day. The sky left no traces of blue and instead put up a fine show in all imaginable hues of ambers and reds as the silhouettes of the two men, made their way through the sand, the younger one bending every now and then to pick up shells for his brothers. An invisible thread of familiarity bringing them closer with every step they took.
The duo continued to walk the full length of the beach over and over again, the newbie absorbing every bit of the lesson like a good student. As their feet ached, their wares grew lighter and their pockets fuller with coins and seashells, there was little left of the sun. The beach that witnessed the birth of a new friendship began to empty out as slowly as the wind changed its direction.
While they sat on the concrete barrier by the road under the yellow streetlight, catching their breath, the jute bag sat folded neatly on Abdu’s lap and Vinod held on to an empty wooden frame.
“Today I sold all your windmills. All of them. Tomorrow you must do it yourself okay?”
“Yes, Ikka. I will sell them tomorrow.”
“Remember. Don’t be shy to shout. No one cares and without the screaming, no one will see you. In the beginning, I was like you. I was shy and I had a large ego… larger than my body. But in hindsight, I think it was mostly fear. I thought I could sit in a corner with my perfectly roasted groundnuts and that people would stop to buy them; that people would make the effort to make me rich. I was very wrong… so wrong. No one stopped because no one saw me! No one cared. Hell, even the ice cream guys ring bells, haven’t you noticed! And it took me no time to learn that a wounded ego tastes much better than an empty stomach.”
Abdu laughed into the sky.
Vinod quietly held out five ten-rupee notes to his mentor.
Abdu pushed his sandy hand away while he looked into the boy’s wide eyes.
“I still owe Balan Chettan the first coins that landed in my pocket. So, you keep it. Someone else will need it tomorrow.”
That’s it for today, folks! :)
On the personal front, I am happy to report that I have finally put up the decoration and lights for the holiday season. We usually spend Christmas and NYE in India but clearly that is not happening this year. But I didn’t want to spend an extra cent on decor unnecessarily so, we made do with all the bits and bobs lying in the house. Haha. If you are celebrating, have you begun with your preps too?
Anyway, I look forward to hearing all that you have to say about this week’s issue of Late Afternoon Brews. As always, please don’t hesitate to reply to this email or drop me a comment in case you have something to say. I truly love reading all your messages.
So, until next week…
Much love from a cold Paris,
Anjali
Why aren't you just publishing... my heart's aching. These stories are sooooo good. Each one lights up my heart a little more.
Beautifully written Anjali :) The story of kindness, the apprenticeship, the picture of the beach that you painted - loved everything!
And, as always, I see a deeper powerful line of thought more like a quote in all your stories!
“Perhaps there’s no sunscreen more potent than new love; no drug more convincing than raw lust. “ Profound !!
And the reminder “even the ice cream guys ring bells”. Loved it :)