Covid consumed a jolly vendor
N J Ravi Chander
“Tomato, soppu, tarakari”, the shout rang out every morning, attracting the attention of households and stirring late risers out of their beds. It was Murthy, the humble pushcart vendor, heralding his arrival. Attired in a dhoti – pulled up to his knees – and cotton shirt, he was a familiar figure on the streets of Kalyan Nagar, Bengaluru. An astute vendor, he won over customers with a glib tongue.
Murthy zoomed off to the market on his rickety old scooter at the crack of dawn to fetch fresh produce. Knowing his customers’ tastes and preferences, he sold only fast-moving vegetables but would bring in a specific variety if required by somebody. He had carried on this routine for years after dropping out of school.
We patronised him often, resulting in a unique camaraderie. His calls stirred people out of their homes. As the cart drew near, the air filled with the aroma of fresh produce. The vegetables, reasonably priced, had a little extra loaded for the door-to-door service.
Whenever someone claimed that the fruits were too sweet, he would quip, “They are sugar-injected”. He prided himself in selling tomatoes of the nattu variety (home-grown). Murthy also profited by buying and selling old newspapers, cardboard boxes or other discarded household items.
On finding something valuable in the bundle, he would restore it to the seller. Murthy was a hesitant eater but was a beedi and cigarette addict. Nevertheless, he soldiered on from one area to the next, come rain or shine. He had his regulars who trusted him, and his business relied on them.
Murthy rarely made a trip to the doctor, relying on his knowledge of native medicine. However, once we noticed a sore on his right heel – the result of a glass shard – and admonished him for being negligent, he pulled out a box of matches, removed the potassium chlorate, mixed it with water and applied it to the wound. And presto, a few days later, the wound healed! Murthy would also extol the virtues of fruits and vegetables, besides showing his lighter side by pulling pranks on people, resorting to unseemly haggling.
When the pandemic struck and lockdowns and restrictions clamped, Murthy struggled to make ends meet. He occasionally risked taking out his cart and going on his rounds, evading the authorities. His family survived on free food and rations doled out by the government during those dark days.
When the government offered financial assistance, he not only gleefully accepted it but exhorted other street vendors to claim the monetary compensation. A few generous residents also provided him with a helping hand.
The easing of restrictions post the second wave helped Murthy bounce back on his feet, and it was business as usual. The last time we saw him was a month ago when he appeared weary, sick and rundown.
Then, a week ago, a flower seller brought us grim news. “Murthy died of Covid”, he said, leaving us bitter and shaken. Murthy was unaware of Covid symptoms and never knew how to use an oximeter.
He had no insurance for treatment and was admitted late to the hospital. But, for one so young, it was no time to die. The death of this humble street entrepreneur has created a void in our lives and forced his significant other to pick up the baton. May his genial soul rest in eternal peace and joy!
(The author is a former banker who has taken to writing as a pastime. He regularly contributes to various national and regional publications)
KV Network
