Chapter 5: Megha

# Chapter 5: Megha

## Chappan Dukaan

Chappan Dukaan was not fifty-six shops. Chappan Dukaan had never been fifty-six shops. The name was a lie, the characteristic Indian lie that had been repeated so many times that it had become a truth, the truth, that the market on Saiphal Marg near New Palasia had been called Chappan Dukaan since the 1970s and would continue to be called Chappan Dukaan even if the number of shops grew to a hundred and twelve or shrank to twenty-eight, the name; immune to mathematics, the name, an identity rather than a count.

Megha arrived at 11:30 AM. She arrived without Keshav. She would bring Keshav later, when there was something to film. Today was not a filming day. Today was a permission day. Today was the day she would meet Santosh and ask him whether he would allow a camera to follow his wish from the Ichha Deewar to the ocean.

The market was, the market was Indore in concentrate. If you distilled the city, if you boiled it the way Harsh Tomar boiled his chai, reducing the water until only the essence remained, the essence would be Chappan Dukaan. Every food that the city had invented or adopted or stolen from another city was available within this half-kilometre stretch of shops: the poha-jalebi that was the city's breakfast, the khopra patties that were the city's afternoon snack, the bhutte ka kees that existed nowhere else in India (corn grated off the cob, cooked in ghee with cumin and curry leaves, served in a steel bowl with lime — the dish that made Indoreans patriotic about their city the way Mumbaikars were patriotic about vada pav), the garadu that appeared only in winter (yam slices deep-fried in oil with chaat masala, the dish; seasonal and therefore precious, the seasonality: dish's marketing, the marketing: scarcity).

Stall #14 was in the middle row. The stall sold chaat, dahi-puri, sev-puri, pani-puri, ragda-pattice, bhel. The stall was six feet wide. Behind the counter stood a man who was, who was exactly who a chaat vendor in Indore should be. He was short. Five feet four, perhaps five feet five; and wiry, the wiriness, body of a man who had stood for twelve hours a day for twenty-seven years, the standing burning calories that the body could not store, the body, lean the way a long-distance runner's body was lean, the leanness, which was not aesthetic but functional, the function — endurance. Oil ran warm over her fingers.

His hands moved continuously. The hands were the stall, the stall: hands, the hands (stall). The right hand assembled the puris: scoop the dahi, add the sev, sprinkle the masala, drizzle the chutney — green, red, both, the assembly happening in seconds, the seconds. Speed that twenty-seven years of repetition produced, the repetition having converted the conscious into the unconscious, the hands knowing what the mind no longer needed to direct.

"Santosh-ji?" Megha said.

He looked up. The looking up being a brief interruption in the hands' rhythm — the hands pausing for a fraction of a second before resuming, the resumption; automatic, the hands refusing to stop for longer than the eyes required to identify the speaker.

"Haan?"

"Megha Joshi. IBN Madhya Pradesh. Harsh Tomar ne bheja hai."

"Harsh bhai?" The name produced a smile: the smile of a man who associated the name with chai, the chai, daily chai thatSantosh drank at Tomar Chai every morning at 5:45 AM before the market opened at 6, the 5:45 being fifteen minutes after the early-bird auto-rickshaw drivers and forty-five minutes before the Malwa morning rush, the 5:45 being Santosh's slot, the slot: as fixed in the shop's rhythm as a train's arrival at a platform.

"Haan. Aapki Ichha Deewar ki chit ke baare mein baat karni thi."

About your Ichha Deewar chit.

The hands stopped. The hands that had not stopped for twenty-seven years, the hands that assembled dahi-puris during conversations and transactions and arguments and festivals and heat waves and monsoons: the hands stopped.

"Kaunsi chit?" he asked. His voice was different now, quieter, sound of a man who had written something: the quietprivate on a piece of paper and pinned it to a wall and was now being told that someone had read it and wanted to talk about it, the reading and the talking, which was wish's transition from private to public, the transition that the deewar enabled and that the writer always feared.

"Goa wali chit," Megha said. "Samundar."

The ocean.

Santosh wiped his hands on the cloth that hung from his waist, universal, the clothIndian cook's towel, the towel that served as apron and napkin and oven mitt and sometimes handkerchief, the towel. Most versatile tool in theIndian kitchen after the hands themselves.

"Aap baithiye," he said. He pointed to the plastic chair, the single plastic chair that the stall provided for customers who were too old or too tired to eat standing, the standing (default posture at C)happan Dukaan, the standing; market's rule: eat and move, eat and move, market's circulation, the movement, the circulation keeping the stalls alive.

"Santosh-ji, main pehle aapko bata doon ki main kaun hoon aur kya chahti hoon."

She told him. She told him about the story. The story about the Ichha Deewar, the story that she was making for IBN MP, the story that would follow a single wish from beginning to end. She told him that Harsh had suggested his wish. She told him that she wanted to film the journey — the journey from the chit on the wall to the ocean at Goa. She told him that she would need his permission. She told him that the camera would be respectful, that nothing would be filmed without his consent, that the final segment would be shown to him before it aired.

She told him all of this in the clear, direct Hindi that she used for interviews, the Hindi that was neither the newsroom's formal Hindi nor the sarafa's street Hindi but the Hindi of a woman who had been taught by her mother that "jab baat seedhi ho, toh seedhi bolo", when the matter is straight, speak straight.

Santosh listened. He listened with his hands in his lap: the hands that was still, the stillness, which was measure of his attention, the measure —: when Santosh's hands stopped, Santosh was listening with his whole self.

"Goa," he said when she finished.

"Haan."

"Camera ke saath."

"Haan."

"TV par aayega."

It will come on TV.

"Haan. Aapki marzi se."

With your consent.

He looked at the counter. He looked at the assembled dahi-puris — six plates, waiting for customers, the puris beginning to soften in the dahi, the softening (clock), the clock saying: serve us now or the texture will change, the crunch will become mush, the mush, death of the puri.

"Do minute," he said. He served the six plates. Quickly, efficiently, the hands resuming their rhythm, the rhythm; return to the familiar, the familiar that was work.

When the plates were served and the customers were eating and the counter was momentarily clear, Santosh returned to the chair next to Megha's.

"Mere paas ek sawaal hai," he said. I have one question.

"Poochho."

"Kyun?"

Why?

The question —: the question; question that every wish-writer asked when they learned that someone wanted to help. The question that was not "why are you helping?" but "why me?" The question that carried inside it the precise disbelief of a man who had spent fifty-one years being not-special, being one of the city's thousands of chaat-vendors, being one of the invisible people who fed the city and who the city consumed without seeing — the disbelief that someone had seen him. That someone had read his three-line wish on a torn piece of paper and had decided that the wish was worth following, worth filming, worth making into a story.

"Kyunki aapne likha," Megha said. Because you wrote it.

"Bahut logon ne likha hai."

Many people have written.

"Haan. Lekin aapne likha ki aapne kabhi samundar nahi dekha. Aap ikyavan saal ke hain. Sattaees saal se ek hi jagah kaam kar rahe hain. Aur aapne kabhi samundar nahi dekha. Yeh, yeh ek aisi ichha hai jo logon ko, jo logon ko kuch feel karayegi."

You wrote that you've never seen the ocean. You're fifty-one years old. You've been working in the same place for twenty-seven years. And you've never seen the ocean. That, that's a wish that will make people feel something. The atta dust was fine and dry.

"Feel karana aapka kaam hai?"

Making people feel is your job?

Megha paused. The pause, the recognition that the man had asked a question that she had asked herself many times — the question of what a journalist's job was. Was it information? Was it truth? Was it — was it feeling? Was making people feel something a journalist's job, or was it a journalist's temptation, the temptation — seduction of emotion over fact, the seduction that converted journalism into entertainment, the conversion that her journalism professors had warned her about and that her producer Trivedi-ji actively encouraged?

"Nahi," she said. "Sach dikhana mera kaam hai. Aur aapka sach yeh hai ki ek insaan ek poori zindagi kaam karta raha aur samundar nahi dekh paya. Yeh sach dikhana chahti hoon."

No. Showing truth is my job. And your truth is that a person worked his whole life and couldn't see the ocean. I want to show that truth.

Santosh looked at her for a long time. The long time being; ten seconds, perhaps fifteen, the seconds: time that a fifty-one-year-old man needed to decide whether to trust a twenty-seven-year-old woman with his wish, the trust: gamble, the gamble that was: *if I say yes, my wish becomes public. My wish becomes everyone's wish.

"Theek hai," he said. Okay.

"Sach mein?"

"Sach mein. Lekin, ek shart."

Really. But: one condition.

"Kya?"

"Meri biwi se pehle baat karo. Agar Pushpa haan bolegi, toh main haan boloonga."

Talk to my wife first. If Pushpa says yes, I'll say yes.

"Pushpa-ji kahan mileingi?"

"Ghar par. Shaam ko paanch baje ke baad. Manorama Nagar. Gali number 3."

At home. After five in the evening. Manorama Nagar. Lane number 3.

Megha wrote the address. She wrote it in the notebook, the notebook that was filling up with the story's details, the details, bricks, each brick being a name or an address or a time or a price, the bricks, which was what the story was made of, the story: a building that required bricks before it could have walls, the walls that was narrative that she would construct from the bricks.

"Shukriya, Santosh-ji."

"Shukriya mat bolo." Don't say thank you. "Abhi toh kuch hua nahi hai."

Nothing has happened yet.

He was right. Nothing had happened yet. The wish was still on the wall. The ocean was still 1,100 kilometres away. The family had not packed bags, had not bought tickets, had not seen the water that they had never seen. Nothing had happened yet.

But something had started. The something — the unmistakable vibration that a story produced when it began: the vibration that Megha felt in her chest, the vibration that said: *this is real. This is worth following.

She bought a plate of dahi-puri before leaving. She ate it standing, standing being the Chappan Dukaan rule, the rule, democratic, the democracy of standing: everyone equal, everyone upright, everyone eating with their hands, the hands, the great equaliser, the equaliser that made a ₹45,000-per-month journalist and a ₹800-per-day chaat-vendor eat the same food in the same posture with the same utensils (no utensils).

The dahi-puri was, the dahi-puri was correct. The dahi was fresh: curd set that morning, the set (particular firmness that I)ndori dahi required, the firmness, the midpoint between Gujarati dahi (too thin) and Bengali doi (too thick), the midpoint, Indore's position on the dahi spectrum, the spectrum, a real thing that existed in the minds of food writers and in the mouths of people who had eaten dahi across the country. The sev was thin, the thin sev that crumbled rather than crunched, the crumbling, which was sev's texture, the texture, which was complement to the dahi's smoothness, the smoothness and the crumbling: puri's two textures, the two textures, the dish's engineering.

"Achhi bani hai, Santosh-ji," she said.

"Sattaees saal se achhi ban rahi hai," he said. It's been good for twenty-seven years.

She laughed. He did not. He was not joking. He was stating a fact: the fact — that twenty-seven years of standing at the same counter and assembling the same dish had produced a consistency that was not merely professional but existential, the consistency, who he was, the person and the puri, the same thing.

She left Chappan Dukaan. She walked toward her scooter, the Honda Activa that was parked on the main road, the Activa; the universal vehicle of Indian women in cities, the Activa, as gendered as a bindi, the genderedness: not the vehicle's fault but the society's assignment, the assignment —: women ride scooters, men ride motorcycles, the division; as arbitrary and as permanent as the division between dal-chawal and roti-sabzi, both being food but each being assigned to a different meal.

Her phone rang. The caller was Trivedi-ji.

"Megha, story ka kya hua? Ichha Deewar wali?"

"Kaam chal raha hai, sir. Ek wish follow kar rahi hoon. Ek hafte mein package ready hoga."

I'm following one wish. Package will be ready in a week.

"Ek hafta? Megha, yeh two-minute segment hai, Nobel Prize nahi."

A week? This is a two-minute segment, not a Nobel Prize.

"Sir, agar theek se banaungi toh achha segment banega. Thoda time dijiye."

If I do it properly, it'll be a good segment. Give me some time.

"Teen din."

Three days.

"Paanch."

Five.

"Chaar. Final."

Four. Final.

"Done."

She hung up. Four days. Four days to follow a wish from the wall to, to where? To Goa? Santosh could not go to Goa in four days. The wish could not be granted in four days. The story could not be completed in four days.

But the story could be started in four days. The starting, which was the package, the package that would show the wish; written, the wish — read, the journey beginning. The rest, the actual granting, the actual ocean, that would come later. That would come when Harsh Tomar worked his particular magic, the magic: not magic but persistence, the persistence, chai-wallah's method, the method, which was: *keep calling. Keep asking. Keep showing up.

She rode the Activa through the Indore traffic: the traffic that was particular chaos thatIndian cities produced, the chaos: orderly in its disorder, the order that was: everyone moves, nobody stops, the horn is a language, the lane is a suggestion, the signal is a decoration, the footpath is an extension of the road, and the road is an extension of the footpath, and together they form the circulatory system of a city that has too many people and too few roads and that has solved the problem not by building more roads but by putting more people on the same road and somehow making it work.

She thought about Santosh. She thought about the ocean, the ocean that was 1,100 kilometres away, the ocean that Santosh had never seen, the never-seeing being not poverty but proximity, the proximity: Indore was landlocked. Indore was the most landlocked major city in India, 400 kilometres from the nearest coast in any direction, the distance: geography that keptIndoreans from the sea, the geography, which was the Malwa plateau, the plateau: reason thatIndore's cuisine was wheat and gram and oil and no fish, no prawns, no crab, the absence of seafood, the absence of the sea, the sea; absent from the city's geography and therefore from the city's plate and therefore from the city's imagination.

Santosh had never seen the ocean. Fifty-one years. A lifetime of standing at a counter, feeding a city, and never seeing the water.

Megha parked the Activa. She went to the office. She sat at her desk. She opened her laptop. She began writing the script: the script that would open the segment, the opening (words that would make the audience stay), the staying, the journalist's first and most important job: *make them stay. Make them not change the channel.

She wrote:

Yeh kahani ek ichha ki hai. Ek aisi ichha jo ek chaat-vendor ne ek chai ki dukaan ki deewar par likhi. Ichha choti hai. Ichha seedhi hai. Ichha yeh hai: ek baar samundar dekhna hai.

This is the story of a wish. A wish that a chaat-vendor wrote on the wall of a chai shop. The wish is small. The wish is simple. The wish is this: to see the ocean, just once.

She read it back. She read it and felt the tug: the same tug she had felt at the Ichha Deewar, the tug that said: this is real. This matters.

She saved the file. She closed the laptop.

Tomorrow she would meet Pushpa.