I was born in Cuttack and grew up in this small but historic town, which socio-culturally was like a village in those days. People were nice, helpful and lived a contented life. They accepted whatever life and circumstances threw at them. Instead of crying over spilt milk, they rather cuddled the cat that spilt the milk to lick the spoils. Whenever they were rewarded, they credited those to their good fortune and didn’t rue lost opportunities; almost transcending to a level where sorrows and joys merged into bliss. I have a feeling that Sahir Ludhianvi was inspired by such people when he wrote, “Main Zindagi Ka Saath Nibhata Chala Gaya” for yesteryear Hindi film Hum Dono.
In the locality where I lived, Jadu had a small ‘haircutting salon’; he was more interested in personal anecdotes and gossiping, than rendering professional service. If anyone complained, Jadu would advise him to go to bigger salons having ‘air-coolers’. At his workplace, he was the boss. One day while I was waiting for my turn, he opened the drawer where he kept the money and announced, “Oh! I have already earned more than I had thought for the day. You can come tomorrow.” My complaints had little impact. “Don’t worry, your hair won’t grow by an inch overnight,”he said. Jadu, as a barber, had a critical and ritualistic role to play when someone died. And he invariably attended to this social responsibility even at the expense of his business.
Opposite Jadu’s salon, Halu ran his bicycle repair shop. In fact, his establishment was in the open, on the roadside, which extended to a covered space that was an apology of a shed. This was his world; he lived and operated his business from there, at least since 1968 when I owned my first bicycle and till I left for Dehradun on central deputation in 1993. I saw him all the time working bare chest and wearing a pair of khaki half pants that were mostly soiled. Maybe he didn’t have anything else. He was ready to provide service round-the-clock. Although he hardly went beyond 200 metres from the shop, he strongly believed Cuttack was the best place in the world. “What is not available here?” he would ask. He was particularly proud of the two bridges over the Mahanadi and the Kathajodi. “Is there any bridge bigger than these two?” he would query. Neither did he care to listen to anyone’s answer nor did anyone ever reason with him. However, he had occasionally and very reluctantly accepted that there perhaps was a Howrah bridge, which was bigger. Once I asked him, “You always talk about these two bridges, how often do you go there?” I was amazed to hear, “Babu, I have seen the Kathjodi bridge, but have only heard about the Mahanadi bridge.” Imagine, someone’s world limited to a radius of just about 200 metres and still so convinced and contented.
Cuttack had several tea stalls, which could be considered miniature and ‘desi’ versions of “Coffee House”. People assembled there to discuss anything and everything under the sun, from local politics to geopolitics, from household wrangles to Indo-Pak tension. Sadia had one such tea stall in a busy marketplace. He didn’t offer a chair to sit down on, but everyone was welcome to sit on a couple of benches outside his shop and gossip endlessly. Even buying a cup of tea was not mandatory for those gathering there. Sadia happily provided tea and eatables, even to those who asked for deferred payment. He would listen to serious discussions with apparent nonchalance. But when the debates became too hot to handle, he would trivialise the whole issue with his expert comments. He could make fun of everything in his characteristic style. I cherish and would narrate one such comical incident.
It was sometime in April 2003, and the ‘intellectuals’ assembled at his tea stall were hotly discussing the fate of Saddam Hussain, who was on the run after the US action in Iraq. And Sadia decided to intervene with his political analysis. “What Saddam Hussain are you all talking about? Do you know, his actual name is Sudam Sahu and he is from Cuttack?” Everyone became quiet, anticipating a hilarious story to unfold. He continued, “Sudam was a contractor here and was doing good business with the government. He decided to go to that country to earn more money. Since it was a Muslim country, he changed his surname from Sahu to Hussain. He was doing pretty well as a contractor and one day this came to the notice of Biju Babu. He was impressed that an Odia boy was doing so well there. So, he made him the President.” Someone from the gathering, a novice in the setting protested: “How can Biju Patnaik make someone President of another country?” Sadia brushed him aside and asserted, “Biju Babu was capable of doing anything. If you don’t believe then that is your ignorance.”
Sadia continued entertaining the gathering, “Sudam as President was smoothly running the country and do you think George Bush could have ever defeated him? But his background as a contractor let him down. He had purchased all his weaponry and bombs through a tender process from the lowest bidder (L1). So, during the war, those didn’t fire and Bush defeated him.” The day’s proceedings ended with everyone in splits. Humour apart, I must admit I have never heard a better commentary on the government process of procuring goods and services through a tendering process and awarding contracts to the L1 bidder.
All these persons spent most of their lives in working spaces of less than 100 square feet and never qualitatively improved in their lifestyles. Yet, they were happy and contented, without any complaints, regrets or expectations; at least that is what they wanted everyone to believe. They were simple; did not contribute to global warming or stock exchange crashes or communal clashes and definitely didn’t influence George Bush to invade Iraq.
