He showed his teeth .. when we praised the taste of his rice .. appreciated the little time it needed for cooking .. and even when we disapproved of few grits mixed in them. But this time he'd promise not to allow us to complain the next time. Clad in a lungi and vest - his classic outfit, he came ridden in his vehicle - a high-seated, old, worn-out hercules bicycle; a discontinued model - its body gone red with rust. It made an intermittent sound quite similar to air being pumped into the tyres when it rolled along the lane; amongst the regular creaks and squeaks associated with an old bike - we could easily recognize him from the sound of his bicycle, far away.
A disgruntled framework of iron complaining of heavy tasks it was being subjected to at an old age - laden with giant sacks - both on the mud guard of the front wheel and the carrier over the rear wheel. (Well, certainly at our age those sacks of rice had appeared much larger in proportion than they actually were. Otherwise how could anyone ride with elan - burdened with the load of about one's weight and threatening to topple the rider every moment ?) But what grabbed the attention of the children of our locality was his long beard and clean shaven moustache - something we weren't accustomed to see. The ones too young feared him though and would run away to their houses upon spotting him. It wasn't long before Farid Mian became a household name in our colony. But it took us long to understand that he belonged to another community with rules and traditions quite different from ours. Perhaps it was because we had few muslims in our colony and our parents had not found the necessity for demarcation on the basis of religion till then.
Even much later, when we understood the differences in religion and reflected upon the many incidents of my childhood I couldn't find his behavior with us - the relation which stemmed from the name we addressed him with - to be even a bit obtrusive or faked than had we belonged to his community . It was unconditional love for his nephews and nieces, so what they were not of his kin ? Religion could hardly come in between. The elders called him Farid bhai but to the children and even to their parents in many households he became popular as just 'Chacha'.
He probably lived somewhere down the winding red muram road abutting the Peer Baba mosque, leading to the green fields across the B.T. road - an hour and a half distance on pedals from our railway traffic quarters. We would watch in amusement as Chacha narrated humorous anecdotes from his village life - in between weighing the rice and emptying the scales into our gunny sacks - his soorma clad eyes reduced to mere black dots as he laughed. And as he did his beard shook, which amused us more. Often we'd interrupt his countings and confuse him as he got angry - having to start all over again and we found it difficult to suppress our giggles. 'I'd have to tell your parents.. if you continue with your mischief. But he never complained and we knew he'd never do.
Come monsoons and Chacha would often get detained inside our house while coming to sell rice . He'd be treated to several cups of tea and a big bowl of puffed rice as he squatted on our veranda - conversing with the aged members of the family - watching the rains in between and extending his hands outside at times to feel the intensity of dounpour on his palms. We understood little of what they discussed and would long for his stories. 'Okay. I'd take you to my village one day. You can see for yourselves. In our minds we built images of Chacha's mud house - its thatched roof making strange noises as wind passed through the straws - the quacking of ducks in the ponds - the smell of earth before approaching rains - the persistent croaking of frogs at night - the bullock-driven carts. We had watched 'Pather Panchali' by Satyajit Ray on our black and white TV screens by then and had many fantasies etched in our minds regarding rural life.
Other times - particularly during the summer, after he was done with his job he'd settle down on the veranda in a half-sit half-lay position. The sweltering heat made it difficult for him to negotiate his bicycle rides laden with heavy rice sacks at that time of the year . My father would request him to wait for sometime. A glass of cold sharbet would be served to him along with a few sweets. My mother would request him to have lunch before leaving which he'd decline politely on the pretext of the urgency to deliver rice to some households - which would've deplenished their stocks by that date . He would begin telling stories from his childhood with his eyes almost closed and suddenly we'd find him snoring.
Now it was another source of fun for us to go near him and watch his nostrils widen as the sounds were emitted - his mouth open and his chin move up and down along with his beard. One of us would even go to the extent of pushing a twig into his nose. He'd get up, rub his eyes and scold us for our mischief. He couldn't stop laughing himself and would declare nonchalantly. 'I used to indulge in delvilry too like you when I was of your age'. Then he'd go along to tell us the story where he had placed a frog inside the shoes of a teacher who caned the students mercilessly upon failing to answer in class while he himself enjoyed his afternoon siesta - sitting cross-legged on his chair with an ankle over a knee. 'What happened after that ? Did the teacher find it out it was you ? We all asked in chorus - our faces expectant of an answer such as Chacha to have received a sound thrashing by his father or more still his name having been struck off the rolls. But Chacha amazed us by bringing an end to the story we hardly expected. 'We didn't find that teacher in our school after that day', Chacha said ecstatically - his eyes reduced to that same pair of black dots we were so accustomed to watching.
Chacha would often bring us pumpkins, bottle gourds, varieties of spinach and father could never convince him to take money for them. 'We grow these in our fields for our own families .. we don't sell them' My father would always feel guilty later on. 'These are petty tradesmen who buy rice from the wholesale rice merchants and sell to us at a meagre profit margin. Often people would keep their payments pending and these poor souls had to pay heavy interests to the money-lenders . They could hardly complain - the loss of even few customers meant a lot to them.'
As he became closer to us we didn't find it wrong to give him entry to our homes. Of course few of the families had an old granny or nanny in their quarters even at that time. Nuclearization of families was inevitable as often new railway recruits had to leave their ancestral home and brave themselves at alien locations. For instance Kharagpur - where my father was given his first posting leaving him with no other choice than leave his family behind at Kolkata. If it had been other wise I doubt whether a mussalman - evident from his cap, beard and outfit - walking in and out of a hindu home would've been such easy. Every month Chacha would carry the sack of grains on his back after weighing to our store room and rest it just beside my tricycle I'd abandoned about a year ago. I had later learnt that he asked for the cycle from father for his six year old grandson. My father had agreed to give it away to him since I would never ride it now - my lessons of half-pedalling with rented bicycles was in full swing. The gashes in my knees and feet bore testimony to the earnestness with which I wanted to learn the toy played by bigger boys - as a means of escape from my boyhood to manhood.
But Chacha didn't agree to take away anything for nothing. He wanted to pay the sale price of the second hand tricycle according to its market value but my father found it demeaning to take money. When I later discovered the tricycle to be missing after a couple of days and when I grew up a little more, I asked my mother if there had been a deal with Chacha. I learnt that even my stubborn father had to give in to the requests of a man who held such self-respect.
