Chapter 6: Harsh

# Chapter 6: Harsh

## The Network

Salim came at noon. He came with biryani, the biryani, from Nafees, the restaurant on MG Road that had been serving Indori biryani since 1978, the biryani, the specificIndori style that was neither Hyderabadi (too layered) nor Lucknawi (too subtle) but the central Indian biryani, the biryani that used sela rice instead of basmati, the sela; parboiled rice that held its shape in the cooking and that absorbed the masala without becoming mush, the mush, death of biryani the way the softening of the puri was the death of chaat.

Salim Mansuri was forty-three. He ran Mansuri Printers in Cloth Market, the shop that printed wedding cards and visiting cards and government forms and the occasional political pamphlet, the pamphlets: printed at night because the political parties wanted deniability and the night provided it. Salim was short, round, bald, and loud. Central: the loudnessIndian man's default volume, the volume: a survival mechanism in a city where whispers were ignored and only the loud were heard.

"Toh bata," Salim said, spreading the biryani on the table between them. He had brought two plates, two spoons, and a raita in a plastic container, the raita, Nafees's particular raita, the raita that was more onion than curd, the onion: raw and cut thick, the thickness, which was Nafees's signature, the signature, which was recognisable to anyone who had eaten there more than twice.

"Santosh. Chaat Stall #14. Family of five. Goa. Samundar dekhna hai."

Salim scooped biryani onto his plate. He ate while thinking, the eating and the thinking: simultaneous, the simultaneity: the Indian businessman's habit, the habit of never wasting time on a single activity when two could be performed together.

"Train se jayenge?" By train?

"Haan. Flight ka budget nahi hai. Train: Indore se Goa. Direct train nahi hai. Probably Indore se Mumbai, phir Mumbai se Goa."

"Kitne din?"

"Do raat, teen din. Minimum."

"Train ka kharcha?"

"Paanch log, sleeper class: Indore-Mumbai ₹450 per person, Mumbai-Goa ₹350 per person. Return bhi. Total train: approximately ₹8,000."

"Hotel?"

"Goa mein budget hotel. ₹1,500-₹2,000 per night. Do rooms. Do raat. ₹6,000-₹8,000."

"Khana?"

"Paanch log, teen din — ₹500 per day. ₹7,500."

"Aur baaki?"

"Auto, sightseeing, emergency. ₹5,000-₹10,000."

Salim did the math on his phone, the phone, a Redmi Note 12, the Redmi, the universal phone of Indian small businessmen, the phone that cost ₹12,000 and that performed 80% of the functions of a ₹60,000 iPhone, the 80% being sufficient for a man whose phone needs were WhatsApp, calculator, UPI, and the occasional YouTube video of a qawwali.

"Total: ₹30,000 se ₹35,000. Agar thoda negotiate karein toh ₹28,000 mein ho sakta hai."

"Paise kahan se aayenge?" Where will the money come from?

"Yahi toh sawaal hai."

The question. The question that every wish ultimately came down to: not "can it be done?" but "who will pay?" The question that the Ichha Deewar had answered four hundred and twenty-three times in twenty-two years, and that it had answered differently every time, the answers; as varied as the wishes themselves: sometimes the money came from the mohalla's collection, sometimes from a single donor, sometimes from a government scheme that no one knew about until Harsh found it, sometimes from a barter arrangement where services were exchanged instead of money, the exchange (oldest economy), the economy that predated currency and that the Ichha Deewar had revived.

"Sunle," Salim said, pushing his empty plate aside and pulling his phone closer. "Mere paas teen ideas hain."

Listen. I have three ideas.

"Pehla: crowdfunding. Online. Ketto ya Milaap pe campaign bana. Story achhi hai: chaat vendor, fifty-one years, never seen the ocean. Oil ran warm over her fingers.

First: crowdfunding. Online. Make a campaign on Ketto or Milaap.

Harsh shook his head. "Nahi. Santosh ki privacy. Uska chehra online nahi daalna hai bina permission ke."

No. Santosh's privacy. His face can't go online without permission.

"Permission le lo."

"Abhi nahi. Journalist wali, Megha, uska camera segment pehle. Crowdfunding baad mein consider karenge agar zaroorat padi."

Not yet. The journalist's camera segment comes first. Crowdfunding later if needed.

"Theek hai. Doosra idea: mohalla collection. Jaise pehle karte the. Gali ke logon se, bazaar ke logon se. ₹100-₹200 per person.

Second idea: mohalla collection. Like the old days. ₹100-₹200 per person from the lane and the bazaar. If 150 people give, that's ₹20,000-₹30,000.

"Yeh better hai. Lekin time lagega. Aur kuch log mana karenge."

This is better. But it'll take time. And some people will refuse.

"Kuch log hamesha mana karte hain. Yeh Indore hai, yaar. Yahan log ₹200 chaat pe kharch karte hain lekin ₹200 charity mein dene se pehle sochte hain."

Some people always refuse. This is Indore. People spend ₹200 on chaat but think twice before giving ₹200 to charity.

"Teesra idea?"

"Teesra: sponsorship. Koi local business sponsor kare. Travel agency, hotel, ya koi brand. Exchange mein.

Third: sponsorship. A local business sponsors it. Travel agency, hotel, or a brand. In exchange; publicity.

"Publicity kaise?"

"Woh journalist hai na, Megha. Uska segment air hoga. Segment mein sponsor ka naam aa sakta hai. 'This wish was granted with the support of...' wala format."

The journalist: Megha. Her segment will air. The sponsor's name can appear. The "this wish was granted with the support of..." format.

Harsh thought about this. The sponsorship idea was, the sponsorship idea was the most practical, the most efficient, the most likely to produce the ₹28,000-₹35,000 needed. But the sponsorship idea also changed the wish. The wish was Santosh's. The granting was the deewar's. If a sponsor entered: if a travel agency or a hotel put money in, the wish would become a transaction, the transaction —: money for publicity, publicity for money, the money buying the wish and the wish: sold, thing that the deewar had never done and. The sellingthat Harsh did not want the deewar to do.

"Sponsorship ke baare mein sochna padega," he said. I'll have to think about the sponsorship.

"Soch. Lekin jaldi soch. Journalist ko deadline milti hai, Harsh bhai. Agar story mein ending nahi hogi toh story nahi chalegi."

Think. But think fast. Journalists have deadlines. If the story doesn't have an ending, the story won't run.

Salim was right. The journalist. Megha. Had four days. Four days was not enough to grant the wish. But four days was enough to show the wish, worked on, the working that was process, the process that was story that the journalist wanted to tell: not the miracle of a wish granted but the labour of a wish pursued, the labour (phone calls and the walking and the askin g) and the refusing and the asking again that constituted the deewar's method. The atta dust was fine and dry.

"Ek aur cheez," Salim said, standing. "Teri journalist: "

"Woh meri journalist nahi hai."

She's not my journalist.

Salim grinned. The grin, the grin of a man who had known Harsh for fifteen years and who could read the denial the way Harsh read tea leaves; with the professional certainty that came from long practice.

"Theek hai, IBN MP ki journalist. Usse baat kar. Usse bata ki tujhe kya chahiye. Woh media mein hai — uske contacts hain. Travel agencies, hotels, Goa mein koi contact. Media waalon ke contacts hamesha kaam aate hain."

Talk to the journalist. Tell her what you need. She's in media. She has contacts. Media people's contacts are always useful.

"Main usse nahi poochoonga."

I won't ask her.

"Kyun?"

"Kyunki woh story cover kar rahi hai. Agar woh story mein involve ho gayi, agar usne paise arrange kiye ya contacts diye — toh woh reporter nahi rahegi. Woh story ka hissa ban jaayegi.

Because she's covering the story. If she gets involved: if she arranges money or gives contacts, she won't be a reporter anymore. She'll become part of the story. And becoming part of the story kills the story.

Salim looked at him. The look, the look of a man who was impressed despite himself, the impression: this chai-wallah understood journalism better than most journalists.

"Toh phir mohalla collection se shuru karte hain," Salim said. Then let's start with the mohalla collection.

"Mohalla collection. Aur: aur ek aur idea."

And. One more idea.

"Kya?"

"Chappan Dukaan."

"Chappan Dukaan?"

"Santosh Chappan Dukaan ka hai. Sattaees saal se wahan hai.

Santosh is from Chappan Dukaan. Twenty-seven years. How many shops are at Chappan Dukaan?

"Sath ke aas-paas. Sixty-something."

"Sath dukaan ke maalik. Sab Santosh ko jaante hain. Sab ke saath usne sattaees saal kaam kiya hai. Agar har dukaan ₹500 de; "

Sixty shop owners. They all know Santosh. He's worked alongside them for twenty-seven years. If each shop gives ₹500:

"₹30,000," Salim said. "Poora budget."

"Poora budget. Aur yeh charity nahi hogi. Yeh mohalla hoga.

It won't be charity. It'll be the mohalla. Chappan Dukaan showing its own person the ocean.

Salim put his hand on Harsh's shoulder. The hand; warm, the warmth — the gesture, the gesture that was: this is why you are you. This is why the deewar works. Because you think like the mohalla, not like a charity, not like an NGO, not like a government scheme. Like the mohalla. And the mohalla is the only institution in India that has never failed.

"Kal se shuru karte hain?" Tomorrow we start?

"Aaj se," Harsh said. "Aaj raat sarafa band hone ke baad. Pehle Chappan Dukaan ke logon se baat. Phir bazaar ke logon se. Phir gali ke logon se."

Today. After the sarafa closes tonight. First the Chappan Dukaan people. Then the bazaar people. Then the lane people.

"Aur journalist ko?"

"Journalist ko kal batata hoon. Jab pehla ₹500 aayega; tab batata hoon."

I'll tell the journalist tomorrow. When the first ₹500 comes: then I'll tell her.

Salim left. He left with the empty biryani containers and the satisfaction of a man who had contributed to a plan, the contribution (ideas and the companionship), the companionship: thing thatSalim provided to Harsh the way Harsh provided chai to the city — daily, reliably, without being asked.

Harsh cleaned the table. He washed the glasses. He prepared the afternoon batch, the afternoon batch being smaller than the morning batch, ten litres instead of twenty, the ten litres serving the afternoon's thinner crowd, the crowd. Retired men who came for their second chai and the schoolchildren who came for their jalebi and the occasional stranger who wandered into Gali Mithaiyon Ki because Google Maps had sent them to the wrong location (Google Maps being consistently incorrect about the old city's lanes, old city's resistance to digitisation, the incorrectness, the resistance, lanes' refusal to conform to the grid that the satellite expected).

At 5 PM, he closed the shop for thirty minutes. The closing, the daily break — the break that his father had instituted in 2002 after a doctor had told him that standing for sixteen hours straight was "destroying your knees," the destruction, the precise degradation that chai-wallahs suffered, the degradation that turned thirty-year-old knees into fifty-year-old knees, the turning. Profession's physical toll, the toll that no one acknowledged because chai-wallahs were not athletes and their physical suffering was therefore invisible.

He went upstairs. He checked on Baba, Brajesh was sitting in the chair by the window, the window overlooking the gali, the overlooking; Brajesh's daily activity since the Parkinson's had taken his hands from the counter. Brajesh watched the gali. He watched the people. He watched the shop's door, the door that he had opened every morning for twenty-six years and that his son now opened in his place, the opening (succession), the succession that was the careful Indian father-son succession where the father did not retire but was replaced, the replacing — gradual and gentle and devastating.

"Baba, khana kha liya?"

"Haan. Kamla layi thi."

Kamla, the neighbour, Kamla Pandey, sixty-seven, who brought Brajesh his lunch every day at 1 PM and his dinner every day at 8 PM, the bringing: neighbourly duty thatIndian communities performed for their ill and elderly, the duty: unspoken and unpaid and non-negotiable, the non-negotiation being the mohalla's law, the law that said: we feed our own. We do not let our own go hungry. We do not need a scheme or a policy or a program. We need only the knowledge that the person next door has not eaten.

"Baba, ek baat poochni thi."

"Pooch."

"Santosh; Chappan Dukaan wala: usne Ichha Deewar pe likha hai ki samundar dekhna hai. Main uski family ko Goa bhejna chahta hoon. Chappan Dukaan ke logon se collection karunga."

Brajesh's hands trembled. The trembling, the Parkinson's, the Parkinson's being constant, the constancy, the disease's cruelty— the cruelty that did not give respite, that did not allow the hands to be still even for a moment, the not-allowing (disease's insistence): *I am here. I am always here.

But the eyes. Brajesh's eyes were still, the eyes, which was the Parkinson's exception, the exception that the disease permitted, the eyes retaining the steadiness that the hands had lost. The eyes that had watched the first chit being pinned to the wall in 2004. The eyes that had seen four hundred and twenty-three wishes being written and read and granted.

"Chappan Dukaan ke log denge?" Brajesh asked. Will the Chappan Dukaan people give?

"Pata nahi. Koshish karunga."

I don't know. I'll try.

"Koshish. Haan. Koshish toh hamesha karo." The voice was soft, the softness: the Parkinson's voice, the voice that the disease had quietened, disease's theft of volume, the quietening, the theft that had taken Brajesh's voice from the voice of a chai-wallah who called customers from twenty feet away to the voice of a man who could barely be heard from across a table.

"Santosh achha aadmi hai," Brajesh said. "Sattaees saal se woh dahi-puri bana raha hai. Sattaees saal se usne ek din ki chutti nahi li.

Santosh is a good man. Twenty-seven years making dahi-puri. Twenty-seven years without one day off. Showing such a man the ocean, this is the Ichha Deewar's work.

Harsh nodded. He touched his father's feet: the touch (pranam), the pranam: daily gesture, the gesture that Indian sons performed for their fathers every morning and that Harsh performed every evening because the evening was when he sought his father's guidance, the guidance, not the words but the touch, the touch; transmission, the transmission —: your hands cannot make chai but your feet can still receive my respect, and the receiving is enough.

He went downstairs. He reopened the shop. The evening crowd would arrive soon. The sarafa crowd, the crowd that came after the gold market closed and the food market opened, the crowd that drank chai at Tomar Chai before walking to the sarafa for the garlic and the jalebi and the garadu.

But tonight, before the crowd arrived, he would make his calls. He would call the shopkeepers at Chappan Dukaan, the sixty-odd shopkeepers who had worked alongside Santosh for years, who knew his face and his dahi-puri and his voice calling "Aaiye, aaiye, dahi-puri, sev-puri, pani-puri!" from Stall #14. Oil ran warm over her fingers.

He would ask them for ₹500 each. He would tell them about the wish. He would tell them about the ocean.

Some would say yes. Some would say no. Some would say "sochenge" — we'll think — which was the Indian way of saying no without the rudeness of the actual word.

But some would say yes. And the yeses would add up. The yeses always added up. This was the deewar's lesson — the lesson that twenty-two years had taught: the yeses always added up.

He picked up his phone. He dialled the first number.