The city of Bangalore was at its peak-hour, but nothing could stop Saaji from navigating through the pockets of space in the traffic. He rode towards Tin Factory in search of customers who would book his bike taxi. It was sunny, with a cool breeze blowing the sweat off his neck. By the time he rode from Baiyappanahalli to Tin Factory, his coffee-brown shirt had a root-like pattern of sweat formed on his back. His yellow helmet in the sun helped him get noticed, but not enough to earn a fare. It seemed no one was interested in booking a bike taxi today.
Taking a break from his search for his Sahachari (fellow
traveler)—that’s what he called his customers—Saaji stopped under a metro
pillar to have some water. He noticed the people around him, waiting for buses.
The buses were getting crowded with workers ready to hustle through their day.
It was a painfully funny sight for him when an electric bus stopped at the bus
stop. On the side of the electric bus, it said “Let Our City Breathe.” The
irony struck him—the people outside the bus could breathe better than those
inside it.
The sound of his riding app notification pulled him out of
his thoughts. He wiped his salty beard and accepted the ride request. It was a
ride to Eco Space, Bellandur, from Phoenix Market City Mall, Whitefield. As
Saaji left Tin Factory and headed toward Phoenix Mall, the wind hit his face.
For a moment, it felt like a force field, transporting him to the future—a
future where his six-year-old daughter, smiled at him, growing into a strong
woman who would make him proud. He was pulled out of this beautiful daydream as
he reached Phoenix Mall. He picked up his passenger, gave an helmet and began
his ride to Eco Space.
Saaji juggled various jobs—he was a porter, a food delivery
man, and more. As soon as he reached Eco Space, another delivery request popped
up, this time for a café in Koramangala. The customer had ordered a café latte
and French toast from a small café called “Just Loaf.” Saaji had a friend in
Koramangala who worked at a bookshop near the café, so he decided to meet him
and grab something to eat while waiting for the food to be ready.
He reached early and met his friend, Venky, at the bookshop
called “In Touch.” The name itself was a commentary on the modern world, which,
in Saaji’s opinion, was often out of touch with the physical experience of book
shopping, with everything now available online. Venky sat behind Saaji and
asked, “Yellig hogonvo?” (Where shall we go?).
Saaji replied, “Veerayodharavana park.”
“Aaythu nadi” (Okay, let’s go), said Venky.
They walked to the park and sat on a bench. Saaji looked at
Venky and asked, “Venky hosdaagi ethu pusthakam odichu?” (Venky, which book did
you read recently?).
Venky, with a smile on his face, answered, “Saaju, namm
Jayant Kaikini avr Toofan Mail odide kano, Sakkath aagide” (Saaji, I read
Jayant Kaikini’s book Toofan Mail, it’s awesome).
Saaji smiled and asked, “Give it to me if you get a
second-hand copy; I’ll give it to my daughter.”
“Okay,” Venky said.
They sat in silence, eating the pulao Saaji had packed in
his tiffin, looking at the trees in the park. Sunlight filtered through the
leaves, casting long rays that created streaks of light. The peace of the
moment lasted until the park keeper started using the blower to clear the
leaves off the ground. The dust flew up, catching the light, making it shimmer
like tiny stars caught in a breeze.
“If only our lives were this sparkly,” Venky murmured,
watching the dust shimmer in the air.
Saaji kept his hand on Venky’s shoulder and said, “Ellām
okayākum” (Everything will be fine).
Venky nodded, replying softly, “Houdu” (Yes), and placed his
hand on Saaji’s.
Both of them got up and left for their respective work.
Saaji delivered the food, completed several rides, and eventually made his way
back home.
He stayed near HAL, in a home made from scraps, tucked away in an unauthorized settlement. The walls creaked whenever a jet flew overhead, and it seemed like it could fall apart at any moment—a testament to the uncertainty of his life. Yet, the certainty of his life stood outside, waiting for him: Sama,
his daughter. The six-year-old stood there in her yellow dress with a smiley on
it. As soon as Saaji stopped, she ran towards him, eager to hold his hand.
With a soft voice, Sama asked, “Achha, yenaka ice-cream
vanum?” (Dad, I want ice cream).
Saaji smiled and replied, “Mole, ippom athu edukkaam!”
(Child, let’s get it now). He gently placed Sama’s monkey cap on her head, and
together, they walked towards HAL to get the ice cream.
As they walked, they passed a wet concrete footpath in front
of the HAL campus. Saaji paused and looked down at the fresh, smooth surface.
He motioned for Sama to step onto it, watching as her small footmarks left an
imprint. Looking up at the sky, where a jet flew by, he said, “Someday, Samu,
you will be flying that plane. And from here, where your footprints are
stamped, I will call out, ‘Mole, ice cream veno?’ (Hey, child, do you want
ice-cream?).”
He smiled to himself, imagining the future where his little
girl would soar above the clouds, her dreams taking flight just as he hoped.
P.S. Sama means sky in Arabic.
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