I was sipping on my post lunch espresso. Lounging in the easy chair at at home that everyone, including our younger cat Nimi, covets, when I heard a twang from the Gulmohar tree covered lane behind me. And then more. Twang. Twang. Twang. For a moment drowning the Bang. Bang. Bang of hammers. Or the eeeeeeeeeeee-uuu of drilling. The cacophony that screams of continuous construction and reconstruction across Mumbai, including in our lane which is tucked away in a less crowded corner of Bandra.
I did not need to get up to find out the source of the tune that was so familiar to me. One that took me back to Calcutta in 1980-81.
Come November and the cotton-wala would come down the lane. Strumming tool of his trade. Twang. Twang. Twang.
Winter was coming and ‘leps’ (thick duvets) had to be reinforced with tuli (cotton). And while at it, pillows and mattresses too. The concept of ‘use and throw’ didn’t exist. Mattresses, pillows, leps, beds, told the story of many generations. At times that of migration across distant lands. And the stories would go on, written every winter. Penned by the neighbourhood cotton-wala, after the lady of the house and him had bargained over every precious coin till they arrived at a mutually acceptable price.
He would then sit on the uthon or baranda. Transforming pillowy white cotton into stuffing for pillows and more. That was a time when houses had alcoves or verandahs on the ground floor. With just a floor or so above. With no ambition to reach for the sky.
The biggest, and only, fans of his wizardry were children who looked on in awe.
Today, 43 years later, in a city on the other extreme of the country, I sat and listened till the twanging of the cotton-wala receded in to the horizon. No one called out to him. No one had any work for him.
Yet, he soldiered on. Twang. Twang. Twang.
