The aphrodisiac salesman

“Say it loudly three times after me,” Nehru ji spurred us on from the ramparts of the Red Fort every 15th August, “JAI HIND!’

And we school kids, seated on the soggy lawns below, screamed our tonsils out. But we never found out what Nehru chacha thought of our tonsils’ display. Three jais over, we stood up with all that grass and mud patches on our bums and broke into Jana gana mana, with max lung power to conclude the ceremonies.

Jais and the anthem were rehearsed for days. During the breaks, we kids loitered around the small road leading to the Fort’s Lahore Gate. It was a buzzing tourist bazaar: monkeys danced to the Doog-Doogy; cobras swayed to the snake charmer’s Been…his cheeks threatening to explode as he pumped air into the instrument; vendors peddled flutes, toys, beads, single-string violins; a sardarji chased British tourists vending a book titled Mad Bulls and Englishmen. But we kids loved Panna. He sold chooran; a tasty digestive powder reputed to help in consuming even wood and stones. My mouth still waters for his chooran. It certainly helped me chew pencils during the math lessons.

One day Panna went missing and we loitered around aimlessly. Suddenly a tonga trotted in with speakers mounted on each side, pulled by a scrawny horse. From the rear of the tonga alighted a salesman called Daji; long legged, curled moustaches, kohl-lined eyes, cummerbund and cowboy boots. He quickly connected a long wired mike to the amplifier on the front seat. “1.2.3.4...Hello, hello…10, 9, 8, 7…Testing, testing…” Daji adjusted the acoustics.

As Daji mounted a box, a small crowd assembled and we joined in.   “Bhaijan, meherban, kadardan, bhagyawaan…” Daji’s address began, “there’s a new pen in Delhi’s market; it is called the Biro,” he pulled one out of his pocket and waved it to the crowd, “it is also called the ballpoint. The ballpoint is as good as its ball; if it stops working you get a new refill. But the day is not far when the entire pen will be thrown away for a new one.” Daji chucked it in the air for effect and the Tonga Walla behind him took a marvellous catch.

“Don’t get me wrong brothers,” he resumed, “I am not here to sell pens, I am here to save you from becoming a replaceable ballpoint which often happens to us men when our manhood starts waning, the woman’s taunts hurt us like snakebites, and we hang our head with shame.” Daji noticed several eyes close in self pity. “Cheer up;” he shouted into the microphone, “I have good news for you,” Daji tweaked his moustache, “I have descended from the Himalayas after a long search for two ancient sages.

I found them in a cave doing a samadhi, and I had to wait for week for their audience. The sages rewarded my patience by handing me a restorative elixir of youth prepared from the rarest herbs that grow somewhere only they know where. I now offer this magic potion to you. Come and get it. Rs 5 for a small bottle...Rs 8 for a…”

There was minor stampede. Eager hands held out the rupees, and a delighted Daji handed out the bottles. But suddenly the Tonga Walla shouted, “Police, Police!” And Daji’s face took a turmeric hue; he broke away and dived onto the backseat of the tonga. The impact lifted the poor horse on all fours in the air. The Tonga Walla quickly restored the equilibrium by climbing on to the front seat. The horse, who detested the cops more than Daji, galloped away like the Chetak.

Two policemen on motorbikes came thundering down from the opposite direction towards the tonga, but our Chetak did not bother. The cops had to split, and like the stuntmen they braked heavily to turn 180 degrees around, but both hit the ground. We bachhas clapped. The tonga was speeding away, the mike, still live, was being dragged on the road and the speakers made the racket like demons taking a beating from our macho Dara Singh in Hanuman’s role. It drowned the cops’ cry for help.