The boy who sold books at the traffic intersection

The flashy red car screeched to a halt, the 20-something college student pursing his lips in resentment at having missed the 60-second green pass at the traffic signal below the flyover. It was a scorching June evening, and despite the effective air-conditioning in his car, he would have to wait an 'agonizing' 180 seconds before he could take a speedy right turn and zoom towards his waiting-at-home-iced cola.

A blue car pulled up next to the first – albeit slowly, the middle-aged man driving it fishing out his phone to return that unattended call...

The cab of riotous young corporates sidled up next – clearly having the time of their lives by singing at the top of their voices – it was a Friday and they looked forward to a well-deserved weekend with family and friends...

A pretty young thing sat in the passenger seat of the sleek 30-lac plus pair of wheels that had purred alongside the cab. She looked at what appeared to be a chipped nail from an otherwise perfect manicure, a plaintive look writ large over her subtly made-up face.

The couple in the adjacent car had erupted into another fight, the hapless guy wringing his hands uneasily – his beau had issued yet another ultimatum to him, perhaps.

A motorcyclist doffed his bulky helmet, relishing what could only be described as a gust of blasting-hot wind. He then proceeds to give equal attention between the quarrelling couple and the pretty young thing.

And then everyone saw him.

A boy of barely 14 staggered-up to the stationary vehicles. At first glance, it appeared as if a stack of books were trudging valiantly to the waiting motorists. Of course that was highly improbable and a closer look revealed a spindly-thin boy who huffed-and-puffed his steps towards these people.

Self help books, potboilers, best sellers, science fiction, biographies, memoirs, travelogues, romances, anthologies, horror – he had them all. He wiped his dripping-with-perspiration face, and ventures to the first car.

The still-checking-out-her-chipped-nail girl glanced at him, dismissing him with a condescending eye.

The college-goer with the flashy red car displays all his pearlies to the boy, shaking his head vigorously from side to side. Whether it was to discourage the boy from making a customer out of him or to keep sync with the music that blared from the music-player, it had the desired effect – the boy nodded, happy to have seen one cheerful, friendly face, and moves on.

Next is the motorcyclist who scratches his head, clucks his tongue in annoyance, growling at the boy to leave him in peace.

The middle-aged man too, in the midst of an earnest conversation, frowns at him. The boy, not to be brushed aside so easily, proceeds with jabbing at one particular novel, murmuring how it was the latest bestseller. The man, clearly in no mood for purchasing the latest Jeffrey Archer, rolls down his window and rebukes – ‘Samajh main nahi aata – nahi chahiyey?(Don’t you understand – I don’t want?’)

The boy flinches, an alarmed look on his face, and plods to the office cab.

The noisy corporates jeer at him, composing songs about people who read books and died sad, lonely deaths.

Recoiling from their attack, the puzzled boy shuffles to the squabbling couple who looked close to exchanging blows and inflicting some serious physical damage on each other. The girl pauses to catch her breath from her nagging, cribbing bout, and the same second espies the young bookseller. She rolls down the car window and rattles off the names of a couple of books. The boy nods, checks with her if she would pay the quoted price, and when she replies in the affirmative, leaves all his books trustingly on the pavement below the flyover, dashing off to the next traffic intersection. Within less than a minute, he had returned with one of the two titles that the girl had asked for, and clasps the hundred-rupee note victoriously that she held out.

The run was worth it, and he caresses the currency note, smoothening out its creases, pocketing it, and returning to the pavement where he had placed his books.

The light turned green, and it was time for him to move to the next traffic signal.

With a spring in his step, despite the blazing heat, he wipes the perspiration from his forehead yet again, hums a tuneless song, and lumbers to the next batch of waiting motorists.

After all, even after he paid his daily quota to his owner, he could buy a humble meal for his mother and himself.

Maybe he would also pretend to read to her from one of the many books he sold – she would smile with great pride that her son could ‘Angrezi’ (English), not knowing that he usually created stories for her based on the many people he came across everyday at the traffic signals he frequented…

It was a good day and he looked up at the sky in gratitude...

Of pink eyes and dark sunglasses...

My particularly vengeful bout of conjunctivitis could put the cheesy Red-eyed Terminator to shame, what with the redness in my eyes clearly surpassing its inset LED.

But the similarity ends here - while the cyborg was on an unstoppable mission to 'terminate' a certain Sarah Connor, I on the other hand, long for normal un-blurry vision - when newspapers, television and the silver screen could see my active viewership again.

It really is no fun sitting near the idior box and looking like an idiot in the other direction, wondering whether the booming voice that emanated from it belongs to Brendan Fraser or Hugh Jackman. More pity if it is the latter and you are denied a look at that awesome Aussie.

And lest I have to make another trip to the ophthalmologist for yet more bottles of eye-drops, I think it is in order to bring a halt to this otherwise small post (by my standards), and give some much-needed rest to my laptop.

Sigh!

Spinning my tunes at the radio station

Ahh, the sheer thrill of being on air.

A couple of weeks back, hubby and I pulled up outside our home, keeping the car lights out except the one that lit up the dial, turning down the radio knob, and willing the phone to ring.

It did, putting us live on a local radio station, where we matched our wits with the spunky Radio Jockey. After the thoroughly enjoyable 3-minute plus conversation, we were richer by a couple tickets to a special screening of a much-touted sci-fi action thriller, slated for an official release next week.

The incident brought back a spate of fond memories from the year 2007, when best pal accompanied me to the office of the radio station where I was to host a show. How I landed this honour requires a lengthy narration, probably best suited for another day...

And that’s how I was ushered to the sound-proof studio where the RJ sat – let’s call him P - a popular voice, sans face, who entertained thousands every evening. He effortlessly hosted an English show – a boon for avid music lovers who turned up the knob when they recognized the strains of their favourite English cult classic. There was of course no script, and he would pepper the show with his tongue-in-cheek humour, speaking with cheerful abandon with the many people who called in. He spoke with them all – the incessantly giggling sorts, the eternally gloomy, the crisp professional, the completely-in-awe of him chaps, the rude losers, and even those who’ve perhaps seen ‘Sleepless in Seattle’ more times than necessary…

I was to observe him for a few minutes, and once comfortable, take over from him – for the rest of the 45-50 minutes. As a bonus, I could play my favourite tracks, whether or not they were requested for by those who called-in.

It was my first time in a recording studio, and I was understandably curious, my eyes darting and taking in all of the room. A large console (board) bang in the middle of the room occupied most of the space. After cracking a joke for the listeners and cranking up the volume for a catchy ‘80s number, the RJ turned to me, and after a warm welcome, proceeded to give me a rapid intro to what was what…

The two screens on the console controlled the Radio station – this was the first bit of info that came my way. Second – the walls had special soundproofing. The digital system stored songs, promos and commercials on it. A couple of laptops were hidden from view by P’s large frame – they had various fancy-sounding software for editing phone calls, beeping any cussing sounds that may be used. What was probably most fascinating, besides the console where you could crank up the volume of a song, were the bright orange microphones with ‘wind-screens’ over them. Apparently even the sound of one’s breathing blowing into the microphone could make one sound as if trapped in the middle of a storm. There was also a handy list of several songs listings – including, much to my pleasure, many of my preferred tunes.

A variety of paraphernalia lay scattered in the brightly-lit room – the last slice of someone’s pepperoni pizza (P’s I guess), a guitar, cymbals, a tambourine, three mouth organs, and some other musical instruments I didn’t know the names of. Posters lined two of the walls. Several music CDs overflowed from a half-opened drawer.

The above was all within a span of 4-5 minutes, during which time, the air-conditioning had wiped out any traces of humidity from that Friday evening, and pretty soon, it was time for 3...2...1, and I was on my own. Well, almost...

Steering clear of the lame introduction that I had thought of in the previous five minutes, I plunged into the show. Light-hearted bantering between P and me on prime-time seemed to be going well, as I could gauge from my sternest critic – best buddy, who nodded his head after regular intervals. It was time for a song and I succeeded in bullying P to airing one of my favourite tunes – ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ All this while, my phone buzzed merrily with messages from friends who had been informed well in advance to block an hour of their time, and who were dutifully listening in.

I was more comfortable and ever – and volunteered to pick the next call, a feisty girl who wanted to chatter about all and sundry. Of course, she wanted to listen to that dying breed – boy bands. After her was a chap, a self-proclaimed culturally-rich sort, who was disdainful of today’s theatre performances. He had no music request, which meant I was free to play what I wanted, which in this case, meant Lynyrd Skynyrd. Hurray!

The next few minutes were interspersed by more bantering, some commercials, 3 (or was it 4) songs, and finally it was time to wrap-up, much to my gloom after my 45 minutes of fame. Apparently, as soon as the clock struck 10, it was time for the next programme, which would play back Bollywood numbers, and spilling time over from one programme to another was frowned upon.

But well, surprise surprise - I wasn’t complaining.

After all,
I’d spun some tunes,
Talked to complete strangers without hanging up,
Had a super chatter-away time,
Revelled in that heady rush of being live on air,
Now, how many people can claim that? At least the last one?*



*And there it is – my modesty - back in action in my swollen head...
Sometimes I wonder why I wasn’t spanked when I was a kid. Should have had. Would have done me some good...