Short story -
THE PAPAYA SELLER
It was on a cold winter morning, that I sat on my balcony sipping a hot cup of tea & blankly stared at the street that was slowly waking up to welcome the day. Early risers were returning from their morning walk, some covered in thick layers of winter clothing, rubbing their hands or waving them about to keep warm.
Being a journalist just starting off my career, I had been asked to cover a particular political meeting to be held at one of those decrepit venues which I hated most to do. I had the whole morning off, the reason for my sitting on the balcony sipping my tea. It was just an off glance that I saw a man pushing a cart filled with Papaya’s of all sizes and shapes, lined neatly in a row on the push cart. The cart was being pushed by a man probably in his mid 40’s, and tagged along with him were two boys aged maybe around 8 & 6 years. Both had on brown uniforms, so I presumed they were his children and he was dropping them off at school on his way.
As he wore a white skull cap on his head and was attired in white overflowing robe, I presumed and rightly so, that he was a "Mohammedan". For want of a name, I decided to call him “Ali”, which to my sense was a very common name. What fascinated me was the bonhomie with which he pushed the cart chatting freely with his children, making gestures and the children laughing gleefully at every word of his. To tell the truth, I too felt elated seeing them passing by.
Soon, they went past me and beyond, mingling into the melee of the early morning rush. But, the thought of what I had witnessed did not leave me and soon I decided to take a closer look at his stall, as I guessed where he might set up his stall. After my morning rituals and a leisurely lunch, I took a small nap to wake up around 4.00 past noon. Something in my conscience was asking me to go have a look at Ali’s stall, so I took a stroll towards where I assumed his stall would be. But I was not having any luck as I could not see it. Dejected, I returned back home and took a book to read and spend some time.
As I had to be at the dinner meeting at 8.00, I once again sat on the balcony doing absolutely nothing, but watching the day end. I could see many office goers returning back tired & listless. It was at this juncture that I happened to look up the road to see Ali returning back. He not only had his two children along with him, but also a woman dressed in a brown burqa. She had not covered her head and I could see that she was quite pretty as she had an almost round head with long hair streaking down her back. She too seemed to be blissful just walking silently behind Ali and his two children. As they went past my window I could see that she was much prettier than I had imagined. There was something about her that I could not fathom and left me perplexed.
The same scene repeated the next day too and soon I had to go back to my original place of work, Ali & his family drifted away from my thoughts. It was almost 6 months later that I was back to the same flat & had the opportunity to see Ali walk past my balcony. As I had arrived in the morning train, I could not see him going bye to set up his stall, but I was fortunate to see him return back. This time he was accompanied not only by his sons and wife, but also a young man, who was walking behind talking excitedly with Ali’s wife. I could see that the lady was taken by his humor and constantly smiled and patted him. Everyone seemed to be happy, Oh! What a wonderful world.
Being a journalist, I sniffed around searching for stories, but here there was nothing as these were ordinary people and I did not expect anything to happen that would be newsworthy. But, something fascinated me and I decided to find out where Ali put up his stall. It took me some time to discover and once done, I found myself with a plate of freshly cut papaya in my hand. As I ate these deep orange papaya pieces, well sprinkled with salt & pepper, I watched Ali holding a fresh papaya and peeling the skin off in swift strokes of his thin knife (a ground hacksaw blade with a wooden handle). The deftness with which he slashed the knife removing a thin sliver of skin off the papaya was a fascinating site.
Ali and his papaya slowly drifted out of my mind and it was nearly 6 years later that I happened to return back to his stall to partake in another plate of papaya. Strangely, I felt there was a remarkable difference in Ali’s demeanor, he seemed like he had added on a few too many years and looked a bit beaten. As I did not know the man, I had no way of ascertaining why?
As usual I sat on the balcony to see him go by and as expected I saw him pushing his cart, but now alone as his children probably grown up now, were on their own. But the lack of his wife tagging along with him too was a bit of a let down. Had it not been for a chance encounter, I would have been denied the story of Ali’s life. It so happened that I had to take a local bus to travel to a nearby town to attend another one of those meetings. It was a Sunday and as I stood for the bus, I saw Ali standing nearby. I was a little queasy going forward to meet him, but he seemed to have no such uneasiness. He warmly spoke to me as I introduced myself. He too was going on the same bus and we sat together chatting during the nearly 2 hour journey. During the course of the journey he slowly opened up to me and narrated the whole sordid story.
For the past ten years, he had been selling papaya at the same street corner, shouting out deals to passing customers. His hands were rough from years of handling fruit and his eyes, though tired, still held warmth—especially when he looked at his two children.
Ali’s wife, Noor, had left them five years ago. She ran away with her own nephew, a man ten years younger than her, who had dreams of making it big in the film industry. Together, they fled to Mumbai, where she somehow found her way into the world of low-budget cinema. Someone once told Ali she had become a C-grade movie star, acting in films nobody really talked about in respectable circles.
At first, Ali had been furious, then sad, now he simply didn’t care. He had two mouths to feed, two children to raise, and no time for regrets. As time went by, Ali came to know of how his wife had become a movie star of a kind & people started to ask him about it. He would provide them the same nonchalant reply "She left us for her dreams. I stayed for reality." As he narrated this to me, there was no remorse in Ali’s words, he said it like he was just stating a fact, nothing more.
For paucity of time, I too did not pursue this more, but however on a visit to Mumbai, I suddenly remembered Ali and his movie star wife Noor. It was not very difficult to find out about her as she was featured in many sleazy magazines and posters. Even to this day, I will vouch for it that she was a pretty woman, but her fame was not for her face but for her bosom.
I tried calling her but there was no response, so I decided to search for her and was easily able to trace her to one of those bygone era dingy studios. Upon reaching there, I introduced myself as a reporter and wanted to have an interview with her. The response was astoundingly quick, as the producer would have felt it would be of great help if Noor was to say a few words on his upcoming cinema in a mainstream newspaper. I was ushered into a brightly lit room which was slightly bigger than a trial room in a garment store.
As I walked in, Noor leaned back in her vanity chair, staring at her reflection under the harsh yellow bulbs. The makeup artist dabbed powder on her face, trying to hide the exhaustion that even a thick foundation couldn't cover. She gave me a faint smile and ushered me to sit on a stool that seemed to have been placed there for my visit.
The first thing I wanted to ask her was “Why did you do it?”, but then it would have been inappropriate and I started with a few banters, but the twinkle in her eyes told me that she had a faint idea why I was here.
She suddenly asked me, “ How is Ali?” I was taken aback and blustered to provide a plausible reply. I gently told her I was not an emissary of Ali and I had come of my own will.
Soon she started opening up and told me she knew people gossiped about her and some called her shameless for running away with her own nephew. Some mocked her for starring in films that never made it past dingy theaters and late-night TV slots. She said she had no regrets. She wasn’t proud of how she left, but she wasn’t sorry either. Marrying Ali had been a mistake—not because he was a bad man, but because he was never meant for a woman like her. She had spent years watching him settle for less, watching him shrink his dreams down to what was available. Noor, on the other hand, had always wanted more. She wanted lights, cameras, and attention. She wanted to be seen. She did not want to be just "Ali’s wife."
More than me, she had many questions to ask me. She asked me repeatedly about her children, her eyes welling up as she remembered them. As I parted, she asked me to take some money to hand over to her children. I told her that it would be difficult as I had no idea when I would be able to meet them. She pleaded, but I flatly refused and told her to go and meet them. She gave me an indifferent look and I walked out.
It was almost a decade since that one night, I got a call from a man who introduced himself as Abdul. He was trying to introduce himself with great difficulty, but I quickly caught on that he was Noor’s nephew. He then told me that Noor wanted to meet me and her health had deteriorated. I immediately knew she wanted me to be an emissary, but then I had no choice and agreed to meet her.
I met her in her palatial home, garish and flamboyant. However, the stark difference in her appearance astounded me. She had bloated, not just bloated, she looked huge. Her belly was now much bigger than her bosom and she looked ugly. Dressed in a rather colorful gown, with unkempt hair, it was not the picture I had in mind, but that of a disaster of a woman. There was an all pervading pungent smell of alcohol and from her demeanor it was quite evident that she was drunk.
The first question she asked was “Have you met them any time recently?”
I replied “ No. I have not had the opportunity to visit the area”.
She looked ruffled. She murmured to herself “ They should have grown up now and may even have forgotten me”.
“I doubt that” I said, to break the monotony.
“Do you think it will be right for me to go now and meet them?” She asked.
I said “ Frankly, I don't know”.
Then she came down to why she had asked me to come over. She wanted to write a will and wanted me to be the witness, so if something happened to her, I would take the will and give it to Ali and her children. This was a queasy situation for me because I did not know what to do. If I refused it may be a great loss for her children, but then if I did, it may be like having the sword of Damocles over my head. I tried my best to get away from it, but to no avail.
Then all of a sudden one day I got a frantic call from her. She wanted me to accompany her to visit her husband. I asked her why? She said she wanted to go back and spend a day with him and her children as her end was near.
Thereafter, there was haste on my part in contacting Ali. It took me some time to locate him as he no longer was selling Papaya’s, and had moved into a better locale as both his sons had completed their studies and were well placed. She arrived in a car along with a nurse to help her on her way. I joined them and we left for Ali's home.
What surprised me was, Ali invited her home without any remorse and made her feel comfortable. He called her sons and asked them to come over. They came over, but were a bit hesitant to meet their mother after so many years. After some time when I was about to leave, he told me not to worry and he will take good care of her. I did visit again after two days to check on her and she seemed to be happy but there was a distant look on her face. Ali was exuberant and went about with a great sense of purpose doing whatever he could for her.
A week later, I heard from Ali that she had passed away in her sleep. I visited them for the last time that day and handed over the will to Ali. Ali gave me a blank stare and bid me goodbye.
It was years later, that I heard about what Ali had done when I met one of his sons accidentally. He told me that Ali had donated the entire sum to a charitable institution which helps artists who were in dire need. I was overawed hearing this, as the amount was not small & would have made Ali and their children financially very secure.
What fascinated me about Ali was “the sheer goodness in him, which no amount of money or fame can buy”.
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