JOIN USNewspaper narrative
Not a day goes by that I do not find my newspaper ready and waiting for me in my portico first thing each morning, and I grab it to scan the headlines. This is thanks to the unfailing supplier who drops it off at 6 am. Mr Farooq is his name. As a resident of the Shivajinagar area for decades and a septuagenarian like me, we relate well.
I’d describe him as a bygone Bangalorean: genteel, well-groomed; a soft-spoken gentleman who sits for a while to chat with me on his monthly visit, when he totals his bill and accepts my payment.
No need for calculators; being of similar ilk and vintage, mental arithmetic is ingrained in us, I observe, as is meticulous handwriting. So, too, is the recycling of the other side of the used paper, cut into neat scraps to write out the details, and sign it off with his old-fashioned rubber stamp. Another remarkable trait, and the first I’ve ever encountered when dealing with monthly newspaper billing, is that this gentleman will not charge for days on which no newspaper was published, on account of a festival holiday.
One evening last year, it was unduly sultry as he sat down for the said exchange, and he sighed as he mentioned suffering acute tiredness. I therefore asked him, why, at this age, he decided to walk around the area, distributing newspapers, because it surely wouldn’t be lucrative enough to sustain his financial needs.
He replied that it satisfied a more substantial one at his age, which was to be of service to others, share some memories, or express philosophical anxieties about ageing with his dozen or so customers, many of whom live, like I do, at this senior citizens’ home.
His daily beat also enables his early morning exercise, as he strolls from home to home in comparative peace, safety, and calm from the hustling, bustling traffic.
With Ramzan Roza and Iftaar starting that week, I asked if he followed the fast. “No, I cannot at this age,” he replied. “Instead, I daily hand out Zakat in the form of dried fruits, especially dates, to those who fast but are unable to afford these for breaking their fast.” Thoughtful and generous, he leaves me with a charming smile and the promise of a goodwill gesture on our next visit.
“I shall bring you briyani on Ramadan. My Beebi makes it special!” True to his word, he did, and her biryani, etc., was delicious. Sadly, before Ramzan 2022, he lost his wife and seems so woebegone, but despite this, he brought me Biryani once more. He also drops in for a chat now and then to assuage his pain.
This reminded me of my growing-up years when we flitted from home to home to share our festivals, admiring the finery of friends’ new clothes and devouring the occasion’s food delights, quite oblivious to religious or community divides that ruefully seem to
rule today.