An afternoon and an evening

On weekend afternoons the sleepy Bangalore of my youth became sleepier. The silence broken only by the familiar, rhythmic sounds from nearby home construction sites. Migrant workers went about their jobs in the hot sun as privileged Bangaloreans took in siestas.

There was no TV to speak of back then. At least nothing that blared on 24/7. It was mostly an evening activity. The cathode ray tubes firing on just as the sun was turning off. The afternoons were filled with something so rare these days. Inactivity. Not sleep, but just not doing anything. I lay on my bed doing nothing. Or nothing worth remembering. It was wonderful.

Sometimes, a pause in the hammering would be followed by a shout to retrieve a naked child that had wandered away from the workers’ onsite encampment.

The tarkari man with his gaadi would yell out what he has. It would always be unintelligible, and I’m convinced, deliberately so. I’d never have paid attention if he said “sop-see-gay” (dill). But instead he’d yell a very quick “ssop”, like a drill sergeant shouting a terse instruction at an erring cadet, and “see-gay” under his breath.

That would spur activity at home as my parents lowered whatever printed material was engaging them.

“Yenna?” my dad would say.

“Uh?” my mom would reply.

“Yenna cholkyodikro?”

“Yar uh?”

This back and forth would go on for a few more seconds until I yell out a clarifying “tarkari manushyo.” My dad would then run out to solve the mystery and return with some tarkari.

As a single guy in New York I was the receiver of unsolicited tips to navigate the dating scene. A friend advised me to speak very softly in noisy parties. The idea was to draw people in and create an intimate atmosphere. A variation of the tarkari man’s strategy with mystery being the common element.

In the evenings, the sounds of construction ceased and the smell of burning wood took over as the workers cooked their evening meal. The group of shadowy figures by the fire would pause as I walked by them towards the medical store to replenish our supply of Vicks Vaporub.

The smoke, the aluminum from the vessels, and years of back-breaking labor would end their lives sooner than the people whose home they were building. But at that moment, they seemed happy. Planning a better life seemed to be the privilege and curse of anyone who owned a sofa. You couldn’t do that squatting in the dark after ferrying bricks for 10 hours.