The mad rush in those haath bazaars. The aroma of freshly brewed chai mixed with the pungent waft of fresh spices. The colorful woolen shawls neatly decorated in Ratan chacha’s little shop. The green parrot shouting Namaste from the cage of an astrologer who predicted doom for almost everybody. This is the Shimla my memory carries till date. The city where I met Karim Chacha.
Karim Chacha!The famous balloonwaala. Blue, red, green, yellow, white. He had every color in his balloon bouquet. Rs 2 for one balloon. In those days Rs 2 could buy a child a smile. But Karim Chacha wasn’t as famous for his balloons as he was for the stories he brought with him everyday. At around 6.30 pm as the sun began to set in the hills, Karim Chacha opened his jukebox of stories. Stories about fairies, demons, witches, kings, princesses, magicians and happy endings. The story sessions lasted for an hour. In that one hour every child in the neighbourhood opened his/her mouth or dropped his/her jaw in amazement or amusement a thousand times. That one hour was full of joy and anticipation, but as the story neared an end, which was always happy, the faces around Karim Chacha turned sad. The day’s story was over. Another 24 hours had to pass before the next began.
One day I asked Karim Chacha about the stories and his love for them. He replied with a smile ‘Aree, My kid forces me to tell him stories each day. So all I do is repeat the stories I tell him when I come to the market.’ I looked at Karim Chacha in awe. He was over fifty and was talking about his kid when he should be talking about his grandkid. Probably a late marriage or the third or fourth in row I figured out. Whatever it was, the neighbourhood kids were lucky that Karim Chacha’s had such a stubborn kid.
The months progressed and then came Eid. It was the last month of my stay in Shimla and I happened to tell this to Karim Chacha. In return he invited me home for an Eid dawaat(dinner). I went with flowers and a little wooden doll. Neatly wrapped in decorative paper. Karim Chacha and his old wife welcomed me in. And invited me to the inner side of the courtyard where dinner was served. I wouldn’t say the dinner was fit for a king, but then too it had a homely touch I was longing for since long.
Finally as I was leaving I asked Karim Chacha about his famous kid, the one whom the kids of our neighbourhood needed to thank. He smiled and directed me inside the house. And that’s where I met the kid.
Seated with his hand dangling towards one side of the chair, in a white kurta and a croquette cap, he hardly looked like a kid, with his moustache and light beard. Almost 24 I figured out. Karim Chacha slowly went close to him, raised his face. The man on the chair blinked his eye. Karim Chacha waved a refusal. He blinked twice. Once again came the refusal. Finally there were a shower of blinks after which Karim Chacha sat and started his story. The story lasted for 30 minutes after which the man on the chair smiled. Karim Chacha kissed his forehead and wiped his own glistened eye.
I walked out of his house that day. Carrying in me the picture of a balloonwaala who was also a storyteller and now the father, a kid who was a man with a paralysed body and adamant not by words, but by blinks, a city where I saw finally and truly, what we all boast about- Unconditional Love.
