Chapter 8 of 25

MEETHI KHWAAHISHEIN

Chapter 8: Harsh

3,097 words | 12 min read

# Chapter 8: Harsh

## The Collection

The collection began at Chappan Dukaan at 6:15 AM, the time when the market was setting up, when the shopkeepers were unloading supplies from tempos and auto-rickshaws, when the stalls were still shuttered but the people behind the shutters were awake and preparing, the preparing, hour before the opening, the hour that belonged to the shopkeepers and not to the customers, the hour, the market's private time.

Harsh had closed Tomar Chai at 11:30 PM the previous night. He had woken at 3:45 AM, thirty-seven minutes before the alarm, the thirty-seven minutes that was body's surplus increased by anxiety, the anxiety: today is the first day of the collection. Today I ask people for money. Today I discover whether the mohalla will send Santosh to the ocean.

He had made the morning batch. He had served Bahadur and the auto-rickshaw drivers and the sweepers. He had left the shop in the hands of Dinesh; Dinesh's son, Raju, who was seventeen and who helped at the shop during morning hours before his college started at 10 AM, Raju being the shop's only employee other than Harsh, the employment — familial rather than contractual, the contract: you are family. You help. You are paid in chai and ₹200 per day and the knowledge that the shop will someday need you fully.

Harsh carried a notebook. The notebook was not the deewar's notebook, the notebook where he tracked wishes. This was a new notebook. Purchased last night from the stationery shop near Krishnapura Chhatri for ₹30, the notebook — a ruled register, the ruled — necessary for accounting, the accounting —: who gave, how much, when.

Stall #1 was the poha stall. Vijay Namkeen, run by Vijay Malviya, sixty-three, who had been at Chappan Dukaan since 1991. Vijay was the market's elder: not the oldest (that was Ramprasad of Stall #47, who was seventy-eight and who still came to the market every morning at 5 AM because retirement was a concept that his body did not recognise) but the most respected, the respect, earned through three decades of consistent quality and consistent character, thing that the market valued above all el: the consistencyse.

"Vijay kaka."

"Aa, Harsh beta. Chai laaya?"

"Aaj chai nahi laaya. Aaj ek baat laaya hoon."

Today I didn't bring chai. Today I brought something to say.

He told Vijay about Santosh. He told him about the wish. He told him about the ocean: the ocean that Santosh had never seen, the twenty-seven years without a holiday, the family of five, the ₹28,000-₹35,000 that the trip would cost. He told him about the collection, the collection that would ask each stall at Chappan Dukaan for ₹500, the ₹500 being the amount that would, if sixty stalls contributed, cover the entire trip.

Vijay listened while kneading the poha, the hands working the flattened rice with onion and turmeric and curry leaves and peanuts, the working: automatic, the automatic, which was thirty-five years of muscle memory, the memory — in the fingers rather than the mind, the mind, which was free to listen while the fingers worked.

"₹500?" Vijay said.

"Haan. Zyada lage toh kam bhi chalega. Jo bhi de sako."

If ₹500 is too much, less is also fine. Whatever you can give.

"₹500 zyada nahi hai. ₹500 toh; ₹500 toh ek din ki kamaayi ka chautha hissa bhi nahi hai." ₹500 isn't too much. ₹500 is less than a quarter of a day's earnings.

Vijay wiped his hands. He reached into the steel box under his counter, the box that served as the stall's cash register, the box containing the day's float, the float; ₹2,000 in small notes and coins that the stall kept for change. He pulled out a ₹500 note.

"Yeh le. Aur Santosh ko bol — samundar se ek photograph laa ke dena. Deewar pe lagaunga."

Take this. And tell Santosh. Bring a photograph from the ocean. I'll hang it on my wall.

First donation. ₹500. The atta dust was fine and dry.

Stall #3 was the jalebi stall. Stall #3's owner, Prakash Halwai, was less generous. Prakash was, Prakash was the market's miser, the miserliness, which was legendary, the legend, that Prakash had once refused to give a free jalebi to a child who was crying, the refusal that was story that the market told aboutPrakash whenever Prakash's name came up, the story: unfair (the child had been crying because he wanted a toy, not a jalebi, and Prakash had in fact given the child a jalebi after the crying stopped, the giving: conditional on the stopping, the condition, which was Prakash's philosophy: rewards are for the calm, not the hysterical).

"₹500? Santosh ke liye?"

"Haan."

"Santosh achha aadmi hai. Lekin ₹500, nahi, Harsh. ₹200 de sakta hoon."

Santosh is a good man. But ₹500. No. I can give ₹200.

"₹200 bhi bahut hai, Prakash-ji. Shukriya."

₹200 is also a lot. Thank you.

Second donation. ₹200. Prakash Halwai, Stall #3. ₹200. 6:31 AM.

Stall #7 — the bhutte-ka-kees stall, seasonal, currently closed because bhutte-ka-kees was a winter dish and the winter had not yet arrived. The stall's owner, Ramesh Patel, was reached by phone.

"Ramesh bhai, Harsh bol raha hoon. Tomar Chai wala."

"Bol, Harsh."

"Santosh ke liye ek collection chal raha hai. Goa bhejna hai use. Samundar dekhna chahta hai."

"Samundar? Santosh ne samundar nahi dekha?"

"Kabhi nahi."

"Yaar; sattaees saal se woh mere baaju mein khada hai. Mujhe pata nahi tha."

Twenty-seven years he's been standing next to me. I didn't know.

"₹500 de sakta hai?"

"₹1,000 le. Mere taraf se aur meri biwi ke taraf se."

Take ₹1,000. From me and my wife.

Third donation. ₹1,000. Ramesh Patel, Stall #7. ₹1,000. 6:38 AM. (Phone.)

By 8 AM, Harsh had visited or called twenty-three stalls. The tally:

Total from 23 stalls: ₹10,600.

Twenty-three stalls visited. Ten refusals. Thirteen more to visit.

The refusals. The refusals were, the refusals were the part that Harsh did not enjoy. The refusals were the "abhi nahi" (not now) and the "sochenge" (we'll think) and the "paisa tight hai" (money is tight) and the one honest refusal from Stall #29's owner who had said, simply: "Main nahi doonga. Meri marzi." I won't give. My choice.

The honest refusal was the one that Harsh respected most. The honest refusal was better than the "sochenge": better because the honesty saved time, the time: thing thatHarsh could not afford to waste, the wasting: enemy of the deewar's method, the method —: move quickly. Ask everyone. Accept the no. Find the yes.

He returned to Tomar Chai at 8:15 AM. The morning rush was in full swing, Raju behind the counter, struggling slightly, the struggling. Seventeen-year-old's struggle, the struggle of a body that knew the recipe but whose hands had not yet achieved the automaticity that thirty years of practice produced.

"Sab theek hai?" Harsh asked.

"Haan, bhaiya. Bus, ek uncle ne bola chai thandi thi."

Yes, brother. Just. One uncle said the chai was cold.

"Kaunsa uncle?"

"Woh — woh lambe wale. Spectacles wale."

"Saxena-ji."

"Haan."

"Saxena-ji ko chai hamesha thandi lagti hai. Unhe chai agar lava ke temperature pe bhi do toh thandi bolenge.

Saxena-ji always finds the chai cold. Even if you serve it at lava temperature, he'll say it's cold. Don't worry.

Raju laughed. The laugh, which was the laugh of a boy who was learning, not the recipe (the recipe was in the hands) but the customers (the customers were in the heart, and the heart learned slower than the hands).

Harsh took over the counter. He made chai. He served. He poured, the high pour, the pour that the morning crowd expected and that the morning crowd watched, the watching: the ritual, the ritual: thing that distinguishedTomar Chai from the seventeen other chai shops within a one-kilometre radius, the distinction, not the recipe (the recipes were similar) but the pour (the pour was singular).

At 10 AM, between the morning rush and the lunch quiet, he called Salim.

"Kitna hua?" Salim asked. How much?

"₹10,600. Teeis stalls mein se."

"Teeis mein se kitne ne diya?"

Out of twenty-three, how many gave?

"Terah ne diya. Dus ne mana kiya."

Thirteen gave. Ten refused.

"Aur baaki?"

"Baaki terah stalls abhi baat nahi hui. Dopahar mein jaunga."

Thirteen more stalls, haven't talked yet. I'll go in the Indori afternoon, heavy with garlic and possibility.

"₹10,600 toh theek hai.

₹10,600 is okay. If eight to ten of the remaining thirteen give, that'll be ₹15,000-₹18,000.

"Phir bhi ₹10,000-₹15,000 ki kami rahegi."

Still ₹10,000-₹15,000 short.

"Gali ke logon se baat karega?"

Will you talk to the lane people?

"Haan. Aaj raat. Sarafa ke baad."

Yes. Tonight. After the sarafa.

"Aur, Harsh, ek aur idea aaya hai."

And — I had another idea.

"Bol."

"Journalist se baat kar. Nahi nahi. Sun pehle. Main nahi bol raha ki woh paise de. Main bol raha hoon ki woh segment jab air kare, segment mein ek number daal de. UPI number ya account number. Logo ko bol de; 'agar aap bhi madad karna chahte hain toh yahan donate karein.' Woh crowdfunding nahi hai, woh toh audience participation hai."

Talk to the journalist. No, listen first. I'm not saying she gives money. I'm saying when her segment airs. Put a number in the segment. UPI or account number. Tell people: "if you also want to help, donate here." That's not crowdfunding, that's audience participation.

Harsh considered this. The idea was, the idea was good. The idea maintained the boundary between the journalist and the story. The journalist did not give money, the journalist did not arrange the trip, the journalist simply informed the audience and the audience chose. The choosing, the audience's agency. The agency, which was the thing that made the giving meaningful. Meaningful because it was voluntary, voluntary because the audience had seen the story and had decided, on their own, to participate.

"Yeh achha idea hai," Harsh admitted. "Lekin. Megha se baat karni padegi. Uske producer se bhi. Channel ki policy hogi."

This is a good idea. But. I'll have to talk to Megha. And her producer. The channel will have a policy.

"Baat kar. Kya jaata hai?"

Talk to her. What do you have to lose?

What did he have to lose? The answer was: the boundary. The boundary between the chai-wallah and the journalist. The boundary that he had established on the second visit, the boundary that said: I will not ask you for help. You are the observer. I am the subject. The observer does not help the subject. The observer watches.

But the boundary was already. The boundary was already not a wall. The boundary was a line drawn in sand, and Megha had been crossing it since the first kesar chai, the crossing: small (she returned her glass to the counter instead of leaving it on the table) and large (she had found Pushpa's wish — the sari wish, and had brought it to him as if bringing a gift).

The boundary was a fiction. The fiction, which was that a journalist could enter a chai shop and read a wishing wall and meet a chaat vendor's wife and hear about a new sari for the ocean and remain detached. Detachment was the journalist's mythology. The mythology, which was: we observe but we do not feel. We report but we do not participate. We are cameras with legs. The mythology, false, because cameras did not drink kesar chai, and cameras did not sit on the floor with Pushpa, and cameras did not write in notebooks with the careful hand of someone who knew that the sentence was the story.

"Aaj shaam baat karta hoon," Harsh said. I'll talk to her this evening.

He hung up. He went to the counter. He made chai. He served. The morning became the afternoon. The afternoon brought the wishes.

Three new chits today:

Meri nani ki aankhen kamzor ho gayi hain. Chasma purana hai. Naya chasma chahiye lekin number nikalna padega pehle. — Sonal

My grandmother's eyes have become weak. Her spectacles are old. She needs new ones but first the number needs to be checked.

Ek computer seekhna hai. Job ke liye zaruri hai. Lekin coaching ki fees ₹5,000 hai. — Imran

I want to learn computer. It's necessary for the job. But coaching fees are ₹5,000.

Mere pati ko BP ki dawai ₹400 ki aati hai. Har mahine. Koi sasti dawai ka jugaad ho jaaye toh achha, Anon

My husband's BP medicine costs ₹400. Every month. If some cheaper medicine could be arranged, that would be good.

Small wishes. Manageable wishes. The wishes that the deewar could grant without the mohalla's collection, without the journalist's segment, without the elaborate machinery that the Santosh wish required. These wishes needed only phone calls — a phone call to the eye hospital that ran free camps, a phone call to the government's PMGDISHA centre that taught basic computer skills for free, a phone call to the Jan Aushadhi store that sold generic medicines at one-third the branded price.

Harsh made the phone calls. He made them between serving chai and collecting payments and wiping the counter and crushing cardamom and boiling water and pouring the high pour. The phone calls being the deewar's invisible work, the work that happened behind the counter, between the pours, in the minutes that the chai was boiling and the hands were free, the free hands picking up the phone and dialling and speaking and arranging, the arranging, the chai-wallah's second craft, the craft of connecting people who needed with people who had, the connecting (thread that the deewar wove through the c i)ty.

By 5 PM, the three wishes were in progress:

Sonal's grandmother: Referred to Choithram Hospital's free eye camp, scheduled for next Saturday. Camp provides free checkup and free spectacles if needed.

Imran's computer coaching: Connected to PMGDISHA centre in Pardesipura, which offers free basic computer training. Registration form filled over phone. Imran to visit centre tomorrow with Aadhaar card. Oil ran warm over her fingers.

BP medicine: Located Jan Aushadhi store in Siyaganj. Same composition as branded medicine (Amlodipine 5mg + Atenolol 50mg), price ₹87 per month instead of ₹400. Will inform the anonymous writer through a notice on the deewar.

Three wishes. Three phone calls. Total time: forty-seven minutes. Total cost: zero rupees.

The mathematics of kindness: forty-seven minutes of a chai-wallah's time could save a grandmother's vision, start a young man's career, and reduce a family's monthly medical bill by ₹313.

These were the deewar's small victories. The victories that no journalist would film, that no segment would feature, that no audience would see. The victories that happened between the pours, in the silence between the chai's boiling and the chai's serving, in the minutes that the world did not notice because the world was drinking chai and the chai was good and the goodness of the chai was the only thing the world had time to notice.

Harsh did not mind the invisibility. The invisibility was the point. The point —: the deewar did not grant wishes for the camera. The deewar granted wishes for the people.

The camera was: the camera was new. The camera was Megha. The camera was the thing that had arrived three days ago in the form of a woman in a cotton print kurta who had ordered "ek chai aur ek conversation" and who had been returning every day since.

The camera would come again tonight. The camera would sit at the table near the wall. The camera would order kesar chai. The camera would ask questions. The camera would write in the notebook.

And tonight, Harsh would cross the boundary. Tonight, he would ask the camera for help.

Not for Santosh. For the segment. For the number, the UPI number, the audience participation, the thing that Salim had suggested. The thing that would turn the audience from watchers into participants. The thing that would turn the story from a story into an action.

Tonight, he would ask.

The asking, which was, the asking: hardest thing. Harder than making chai at 4:22 AM. Harder than the high pour. Harder than the collection at Chappan Dukaan.

The asking, which was hard because the asking changed the relationship. The asking said: I need you. I am not self-sufficient. The deewar is not self-sufficient. The mohalla is not enough. I need the world. I need the camera. I need you.

And needing someone, needing Megha, was the one wish that Harsh had not written on the deewar. The one wish that he carried in his chest instead of on a chit. The one wish that was private. The one wish that the blue board with its coloured pushpins could not hold because the wish was too large for a three-by-five-inch piece of paper and too fragile for a coloured pushpin and too new for the Godrej box.

He made the evening batch. He crushed the cardamom: six pods, his father's six. He boiled the water. He added the CTC. He waited three minutes. He added the sugar. He added the milk. He waited two minutes. He strained. He poured.

The chai was correct. The chai was always correct. The chai did not change.

Everything else was changing.