Chai when you cry.

Photograph of Sardar Bridge, Ahmedabad

Monsoon has hijacked the month of July. Showers that won’t stop?! Come on! How long will you mope for? What’s your ransom? Smelly feet? Soggy shoes? Runny noses? Just tell already!

And if you’d care to notice, you would have found me waiting under a shade near the college gates, for the downpour to turn into drizzles at least, before stepping out for an outdoor assignment.

“Go there without a purpose, into a public space, and simply observe. Give the space time to make itself available to you. And make yourself available to the space. Get into the rhythm of the space, slow down, be at peace…” Tell me! Who briefs so vaguely for an assignment in this day and age? We are in the era of conciseness, accuracy, new theory, constantly evolving technology. We’re supposed to be preparing for the future.

There’s no time.

You should have seen me, give up waiting (thank you for that), and walk exasperated, out the gates to Sardar Bridge, umbrella clutched tightly, dupatta draped around my head and neck to protect me from the cold.

Sardar Bridge, along with several sister bridges, helps pedestrians and motorists cross the Sabarmati River.

It was my third day at the bridge. There was a fair amount of morning rush; of the people on their scooters and cars, desperate to reach their workplaces. The rain was harsh and I found myself ankle deep in cold rainwater. There was a slight smell of sewage, not the smell of trash like the previous day; the trash seemed to have been washed clean in this downpour. This was sewage.

It was there, by the footpath of the bridge, where you’d find umbrella sellers, with rows of colourful umbrellas, bright with rain, reigned down with ropes, lest they gallop with the wind. Most of them live in the nearby slums. They sell pots and vessels in the summer, and umbrellas in the rain. Each man had his own troop lined up, hunting for prey: broken umbrellas, snapped by the storm, or forgotten umbrellas, lying sadly in the racks at home – all these to them are gifts from the Rain Gods.

Observe. You must understand, this is not something I would have done if it weren’t an assignment. Every morning I had to visit the Sardar Bridge to observe.

Ha! Or rather, be observed. It was just not possible to blend in among them. I stood out like a sore thumb, or a neon signage, flashing. Heads on bikes and auto-rikshaws turned a whole 180^o to get as much of a look as possible in the fleeting seconds they passed me by, and I found myself constantly pulling my dupatta up tightly to hide my shortly cropped hair. I was dressed as simply as I could too. What more do you expect me to do? Turn myself into an umbrella?

I remember the first day. Gazes penetrated like lasers. I had stationed myself next to a little girl, around twelve years of age, selling umbrellas. She was clearly on her own, but within minutes of my arrival, several of the men-folk selling umbrellas gathered next to her, almost as if to protect her. No guys, I have no intention of suing you for violating child rights! I’m just here to observe and I’ll g o  a w a y.

I remember the uneasy looks in my direction. A function-less stranger in a new environment sure scares everyone. The father of the girl had arrived. I could tell who he was by the way he had brought her tea in a plastic packet. He was in his later middle ages, his hair was already greying, his shirt was oversized. Slowly the little gathering had dispersed.

The popular umbrella seller from the footpath across the road, however, had noticed me a little late. When his numerous customers finally left him, he took the courtesy to cross two lanes of impatient traffic to come see me. He fell into conversation with the father, and they had tried to inconspicuously glance at me, several times. It was so obvious what they were talking about. They suddenly pointed in the direction of my college and burst out laughing. It looked like the father had cracked the joke, as he had held his hand out for a low-five, which Mr. Popular promptly had responded to with a resounding clap before he’d walked back to his post.

I had tried talking to the little girl. Rekha, she had told me her name was. All Rekha had kept asking for, was whether I had someone to help me clean my house, wash my vessels and cook my food. I didn’t know how I could’ve helped her.

I wondered if the third day would be any better.

I tried to look for Rekha and her spot, but most of the shrubbery by the side of the bridge where she had been sitting was missing. I finally identified Rekha's father, standing with a new, much older girl. Both smiled widely at me. Like old friends. Or maybe smiles of amusement. Then I found the piece of thermocol I had been fiddling with my feet the previous day. But the large shrubbery behind the parapet from hadn't survived the last night’s storm.

The parapet itself was drenched. I spread my dupatta across my back and leaned against the parapet. But the water soaked through to my skin and I got off. I decided to walk ahead along the bridge instead and have a look at the river.

 The wind got stronger and you didn’t seem to be lightening up. I passed by several umbrella men and women. I smiled at them. Some were too busy. Some found it weird, I guess. But some smiles were returned.  I asked one of them why he didn’t bother covering himself. He laughed and replied that it had become a habit, so he’d be alright. He was one of the few smiling, and anyone who smiles must be a good man, I hope.

Auto-wallas stopped to ask me if there's somewhere I wanted to go. I nodded no. I passed three more vendors, and then there were no more.

As I reached the center of the bridge, I found other people there, standing in long rows along the parapet, watching the Sabarmati below flow, rapidly, now that they’ve let open the dams due to storm. It was brown. Heavy, brown waves that gushed down carrying mud and filth and everything this city dumps in its river.

Suddenly, a strong crosswind broke out and my umbrella began dancing in the wind.

I couldn’t control it.

I barely held on when a gust caught it fiercely and turned it upside down!

Rude child!

In seconds, I wrenched it shut and opened it back the right way again. And in those seconds, a barrage of rainwater drenched me from head to toe.

If this was your idea of a joke, please work on your sense of humor.

Water soaked through my white kurta, and clung to me, cold and translucent. I was embarrassed, and upset.

Some nasty bikers called out from behind, driving too close to the footpath, splashing water from roadside puddles. They have no idea for how long I scrubbed mud off my kurta later, and an orange stain stubbornly remains.

I began walking back, past all the umbrella sellers.

Quick steps.

Eyes fixed on the footpath under my feet.

I just wanted to get back home.

Suddenly, Rekha’s father called out to me as I crossed him. He pulled out a plastic packet and produced a small plastic cup. “Here, have some chai.”

“No, no, it’s alright…”

“Na, na you must. Just a little.” He put the cup into my hand.

“Thank you..”

The usually coffee-loving me found that little cup of chai the warmest and longest drink I’ve ever had.

As I thanked him again and began to leave, another old woman, with sparse grey hair peeping from underneath her saree pulled over her head, told me, “Be careful, my child, and hurry home. There’s lots of rain today. You may catch a cold.” But all I felt was a little warmer and a big happy smile crept over my face.

I still have that plastic cup with me. If you stop bawling for once and look, I’ll show you. Now, whenever you cry, I never miss an opportunity for chai. You know what! It might cheer you up too! Care for a sip?

Based on my experiences at Sardar Bridge.

Special thanks and love to all the umbrella sellers.
Cheers!
Reshma