The Man from Kaiwara Cross

I met an interesting chap yesterday.

Chap. Considering he was more than 60 years old, I think I should change “chap” to “man”. Chap, man, elderly gentleman, senior citizen… what’s the difference. So chap it remains.

He asked me if I was from around here, Bangalore, and I proudly say yes. I take great pride in being a Bangalorean.

I asked him if he was from around here, and he says he was born in Kaiwara Cross.

Kaiwara Cross?

He says its in Chintamani. I have heard that name before, and well, may be someone had told me where it was, but I couldn’t picture it, so I asked him where is Chintamani.

For some stupid reason, there’s an ICICI insurance ad that’s playing in my head where they were selling Income Tax saving bonds where Mr Chintamani, says “no Chinta, only money”.

Strayed a little off course there, but that’s how it was when this chap mentioned Chintamani and that tune kept playing in my head for a good hour or so. Chintamani, chintamani, chin ta money, you know the jingle. I hope it rings in your head for a while too. Chintamani, chintamani, chin ta money.

He’s not a very talkative man. He had uttered only three words in the hour before I met him. But I'm different.

He mumbled they have a big market there in Chintamani. They stack groundnuts in huge heaps that tower into the sky. As big as mountains. Big market Sir. They also trade oxen and cows and bullocks and buffaloes there. Big market.

Impressive. May be I should go there sometime,Chintamani. Never really been to a cattle fair, although some of the job expos in Bangalore I am told come very close. The only difference is that in Chintamani, they trade in real cattle and not corporate slaves.

He’s been stuck in the same profession for over twenty years. He spent four or six, I think four….. whatever. He spent fours years, before he started work as a professional, as a trainee without salary.

Who the hell spends four years in learning a craft? And what he does, is not something you really need four years to master. Its not like you spent four years in improving your handwriting and you can now do calligraphy or like in my case learn to draw. I can spend a lifetime trying to draw and paint without making any progress. Thus I don’t even try. But I can learn to do what he does in about a month.

He did a lot of other stupid things for long periods of time. I guess career growth wasn’t much of an option for him.

He tells me that his brother left for his heavenly abode twenty days ago. He asks me if I knew his brother. I shake my head. What was he thinking?

I try to change topics as I couldn’t get much of his mumblings.

It’s the day after Ugadi, the second leg where it’s a meat extravaganza. He tells me that his nephew has gone home to gorge on mutton, chicken and fish. He hopes they will leave him some but he’s not really bothered. He's lost all his teeth I guess.

He goes on to tell me that his brother had nine children and all the boys have taken in to the family profession, carefully handed down one generation to another. Believe me, they are not into making jewellery or sophisticated watches.

Do you know my nephew? I shake my head again. How am I supposed to know his nephew?

He grows quiet.

Then I ask him more questions on his own life and he starts all over again.

The man from Kaiwar cross, after his four years as a trainee and some years of practice, then moves into Bangalore. He finds a place to stay in a little Muslim neighbourhood, near Fun World, Palace grounds. Its an old neighbourhood but a well known one. That sounds fine.

But not to his prospective father-in-law.

Back then, Hindus and Muslims were at each others throats in some distant part of the country. That is sufficient reason for him to refuse the then young man his bride. Considering not much has changed, I don't know whose side to be on.

The man-from-Kaiwar-cross is unmarried till this date. He’s old and he’s feeble, has a dry cough, but his hands, thankfully, are still steady.

He then asks me if I know Yesvanthpur. Of course I know Yesvanthpur! Then he asks if I know Jalahalli. Of course I know Jalahalli! Then he asks if I know Jalahalli East. What? He tells me that Jalahalli and Jalahalli East are not the same. I am given directions on a road I am sure he last traveled by bullock cart in the late seventies. I pretend to be paying attention.

Hmmm, yeah, hmmmm yeah, oh ok. Hmmmm.

Stupid old chap.

Man, it is a hot day today. The ceiling fan is blowing hot air from one corner of the room to the other. I glance towards my bicycle enjoying the beams of light from vehicles passing by dancing on the rims, little pieces of chrome and the shiny red paint. I had spent half an hour cleaning her that evening. Job well done.

The Man-from-Kaiwar-Cross then switches off the fan. Punishment for not paying attention?

No.

He pulls out the powder tin, shakes some onto my neck, and brushes it off with his thick, fat brush.

The haircut’s over. The fan’s switched on again.

The hot air blows from one corner of the room to another.

I dig into my wallet and settle his dues wondering, who on earth would spend four years learning to cut hair?

Why would anyone stay bachelor just because one man refused him his daughter, irrespective of where he stayed. Why couldn't he just move?

He spent two years of his life just drawing water from a well and filling pots and a tank with water.

May be he’s just a nitwit.


The End.