Reflecting on human bonds through an unexpected encounter

I cannot resist a handshake with this teenage boy selling roasted peanuts with shells outside my hotel in Haridwar. Every day I return from work or lunch or dinner, I tend to buy a couple of handfuls of peanuts from him. As soon as he sees me approach his cart, he flashes a smile and extends his right hand over a big, hot wok resting on a wood-fuelled mud stove (Chulah). If he is mixing peanuts and salt, he leaves the spatula, wrapped in a rag at the centre of its handle, and shakes hands with me. If he is adding more wood to the stove or removing any from it in case it is overheating, he rubs his right hand with his pants to give me the impression that he cleaned it and then shakes hands with me. It is hard to tell how and when he took a liking to shaking my hand or if he thinks it is customary to do that with me. He doesn’t even know where I am from, and I don’t see him do that with other customers who happen to be there when I am.
The boy’s calloused and soiled hands remind me of my younger brother’s and father’s, which on a rough day at work would often bear the resemblance to his hands, with an addition of some scratches here and there. The other similarity that I found is that neither this boy from Haridwar seemed to mind these cuts nor did my younger brother, whose life needed many miracles to transition from the age of adolescence to adulthood.
Over a week ago, as I was pulling out my wallet from my backpack, a man in his early thirties walked up to the cart and asked If I could give him 10 rupees. I had no cash on me, and upon his insistence, I paid the teenage boy an extra 10 rupees through UPI for the man. There seemed nothing off about it. I left the two and headed back to my hotel. However, the next day, the boy reluctantly shook hands with me, his downcast eyes revealing that he was upset with me.
“Your 10 rupees cost me my peace of mind yesterday,” the boy complained, trying very hard to have a smile on his face so that I did not feel embarrassed about it.
“What happened,” I was quick to ask. “First, that man bought peanuts worth 10 rupees and left, only to reappear 20 minutes later to return them, saying ‘I need my money instead’. He had already eaten some but did not accept that the peanuts weighed less than what I had given him. On the contrary, he kept telling me that you were his cousin and that he would only leave if I paid the amount in cash. I know he is not related to you, but he became such a nuisance that I eventually had to pay,” the boy got it all out of his chest.
I apologized for this unexpected turn of events and the inconvenience caused to the boy as a result. “It is okay, sir. There are people like this,” the boy said. He began pouring peanuts into the bowl resting atop a weighing scale and packed them for me.
“It is okay,” my younger brother also said when I remember, he found out that he would have to undergo surgery after a short-arm cast did not help his fractured wrist heal properly. His left hand appeared weaker with fingers only able to move slightly and only in a certain direction. In winter, he could hardly feel his hand. Yet, he would continue to work. On many occasions, I would spot a wrist brace on his left arm, and he would still be working, which involved lifting crates of vegetables, gunnysacks full of walnuts and rice and anything that was part of the goods to be bought or sold. One day, as all of my family members were sitting together, I hesitantly asked him to remove his shirt and extend his arms out. He was reluctant at first, but our mother knew why I had asked him to do so, so she also joined in. The left arm was visibly weaker than the right one, and with that seen, our mother burst into tears, accompanying them with sentences like ‘I have been telling you all’ and ‘You never listen to me’. As was his temperament, my younger brother picked up his shirt and left the room.
It eats me from inside whenever I get to see my younger brother and remember the trials and tribulations of his life. There are certain things that, despite being in our control and easy-looking, don’t happen. It feels as if you are under a spell and come back to your senses only after it is undone. A strange world where ailments and emotions are ignored, where your own priorities mean nothing, and you always think of changing things around you. Yet, nothing actually changes but gets worse with each passing day.
This teenage boy in Haridwar is going to start selling fruits as the winter chill begins to alleviate, he told me. His grind will continue, and so will my younger brother’s, my father’s, and mine.
About the writer
Younis is a short story writer from Kashmir. Previously, he was a Delhi-based Correspondent at FORCE Newsmagazine, a monthly magazine on national security and aerospace, where he wrote on paramilitary forces and latest defence technologies. He was also part of Kus Bani Koshur Krorepaet season 1 (Kashmiri version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? produced by Studio Next – Sony Pictures Networks India – for DD Kashir) where he worked as Assistant Director and Casting Producer. Younis is the author of Jiji: the trials and tribulations of Parveena Ahangar (Hawakal Publishers 2020). He specialized in Narrative Journalism with Masters in Convergent Journalism from the Central University of Kashmir. He was awarded the 2013 Student of the Year prize and Best Debater of the College by SP College, Srinagar. He can be reached at [email protected]

Younis Ahmad Kaloo