LIFE ON A CAROUSEL

The Old Story Teller Nizamuddin, New Delhi, India, 1970 I remember his eyes, calm and steady as they gaze through the bottle-bottom spectacles. When he looks at you, you do not see the wrinkled face or the dusty, once-white rags that flutter about his emaciated limbs. In another incarnation he might have been a miniature St. Nicholas but, in this existence, he is an old story-teller, begging out his life on the teeming streets of New Delhi. He is a tiny man, shorter than my five foot two, fragile-looking under his load of cloths. His garments could hardly be called clothes, yet they wrap him round in familiar comfort; garments by day, bed clothes by night. He carries a small bundle, a bamboo walking stick and a black umbrella. The bundle contains his life's possessions, the stick gives steadiness to his faltering steps, and the umbrella provides a roof against the sun and rain. He is waiting for me one day, sitting quietly on my front steps. Usually the gate to our yard is locked so that beggars cannot wander in off the streets. I go over to shoo him away and instead bring him tea — hot, milky, and full of sugar — the way old men like it. In doing so, I know that I am only encouraging him to return but I have not the heart to refuse such a small thing to someone with such a tenuous hold on life. Inevitably, he returns. This time my young sons are in the garden and, certain that at the very least he carries lice and tuberculosis, I hurry to bring them inside. They are seated on the steps at his feet. Only their eyes move as he unfolds a tale of Ram and his search for his beloved Sita. The story is told in the soft, fluid tones of a language they do not know; however, the language is irrelevant, they are enthralled. Once again, instead of sending him away, I go inside to see to his tea which I make by bring a generous cup and a half of whole water buffalo milk to a boil and adding a soup spoon of black tea leaves, an inch of cinnamon bark and a green cardamom pod, crushed. I give it a stir and take the pot off the heat until it stops bubbling. I bring it to a boil again and again take it off the heat. I add two soup spoons of dark unrefined sugar and return it to a boil and then remove it from the heat. I pour it into his chipped enamel mug and let the tea leaves settle. It takes him an hour to sip his way through the large enamel mug full of strong chai. He gets to keep the tea leaves; for the rest of the day he has only to pay the chai wallah, tea seller, for the hot water—he already has the tea leaves. A few annas from another customer will pay for the sugar; a few from another will purchase the milk. He owns the mug He accepts the tea and some small coins with a slight nod of his head. This is no hand-out; he had rendered his service in the telling of the tale and the payment is his due. He is a regular visitor during the remainder of our stay in India. It is not necessary to leave the gate unlocked for him and, although I watch, I never see him enter the grounds. I just find him resting patiently in the shade of our porch until someone takes notice of him. If my boys are not there to provide him with an audience, he tells his stories to the shrubs and flowers so that the tea and the coins can never be called charity. I sometimes see the children from the servant’s quarters hiding behind the bushes, listening avidly. They will not come out if I am there, although my sons say they come if they are alone. I do not regret the coins or the endless cups of sweet tea; however, I will regret forever that I never asked his name. We called him Bubuji—Old Uncle.