We saw him pushing his rickety bicycle jammed with bags of all sizes, bursting to seams with the recyclable waste he had collected from the residential areas. Everything from empty beer cans, and bottles, to cardboard boxes and magazines had found a rightful place in their respective bags. The only thing which did not fit into the ensemble was a basket filled with onions and tomatoes. Or so we thought.
This 60-year-old entrepreneur of sorts, named Kannan has been buying people's waste in exchange for tomatoes and onions for the last eighteen years. These two commodities are bought at low cost from the local farmers, and doled out to his customers according to the weight of the waste they are ready to part with!
We bring out our stack of old magazines, some wine bottles, a few Kingfisher cans, Amazon boxes. And in return we get a pound of onions and two pounds of tomatoes! Feels like s deal, almost as though we have just won a lottery! Veggies for our waste! What an idea.
It is the first time Kannan has ventured into our neighborhood. We ask him if he can include us in his regular rounds so we can avail of his precious services. He doesn't fully commit. And when we want him to pose for a photograph, he definitely looks cross. He needs to move on; he still has much territory to cover.
Unfortunately, people like Kannan have become a novelty in modern India. Yet, there was a time when these small-time traders flocked the erstwhile quiet streets of urban neighbourhoods. I remember the rural women going from house to house, carrying an array of shiny plastic wares, right from mugs and jugs, to buckets and containers. These were not for sale, but were meant to be exchanged for old clothes, bedsheets, bedcovers and sarees. We will bring out our heap of unwanted, unused clothings and linens, which these women would assess and offer us some of their goodies in return. A fair share of haggling would be followed by a satisfactory settlement for both the parties. A wreath of smiles and promises to return would be thrown in for free as a farewell gift.
The raddiwala, translated roughly as a scrap dealer, came once a month. He would weigh our stack of old newspapers and magazines, and give us some amount of money in return, according to the total weight of our throwaways.
When the winds changed, the gypsy women, clad in colorful dresses, and silver jewelry knocked at our doors, offering to glean out the unwanted tidbits off the big sack of wheat before it was taken to the local mill to be ground into flour. This much-in-demand service came in exchange for some elemental food supplies.
The blacksmith who sharpened the knife, the qalaiwalla who shined old brass and copper utensils, the Kashmiri carpet vendors, they all passed through our neighborhood at least a couple of times a year. And everytime they came, it felt like a celebration.
However, all this changed in the nineties. With the beginning of insurgency in Kashmir and an increasing number of bomb blasts in buses and markets in metropolises across India, the urban-scapes in the country were soon reeling under the spell of fear and insecurity. Almost overnight, the government appartment complex we lived in, had turned into a gated community with a fleet of watchmen to guard the place 24/7. The small-time traders suddenly became a potential terror threat and were no longer allowed in. A whole way of life was brought to a halt. Surprisingly, this phase happened to coincide with the period India opened up to the global competition and invited multinationals to give a new impetus to the Indian economy. Go figure.
Awesome <3
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