In the bylanes near my apartment a certain 'Bombay Sofaworks' pronounced itself. It was a typical ground floor, two door house with one part of the house filling as the workspace. It was here I found him; spartan in every sense of the word - dishevelled hair, unkempt beard and always clad in long, crumpled white. Everyday, sitting around a sewing machine with pieces of sofas or their parts strewn all over he was lost in his own sweet world. That probably meant the world to him; the machine making music to the dance of his feet and earned him his bread. Looking around one could see signs of a joint family. There was a makeshift yard with hens trotting along, kids playing and maidens strutting around under the pretence of laying out washed clothes. I wondered how he took care of all these people; was also flumoxed as to where these people disappeared. Always wondered that the single minded dedication came from the fact that he had so many people to support. He loved his work though - beneath the smug image there was happiness when he had work on hand. You always felt it in the air. There was the warmth of Rafi saab's voice around.
I had just moved to my new place. The sparkling newness of the place slowly gave way to a much more worldliness. We ordained that our sofa needed a second set of covering. My wife looked around her contacts and found Mohammed, uncle of our furniture wallahs tailor. Mohammed announced himself as a very competent tailor. He sounded almost too eager when I spoke to him over the phone, so much so that he immediately took measurements and gave me a price to complete this. We like to tread over eagerness with caution. I wasn't averse to getting this done but looked to take my time to say yes to Mohammed. He called me occasionally; sometimes at odd hours. I sensed a sound of desperation at times. I remember he had offered to get some good designs at his cost. Perhaps to entice me to get the work done by him. I now remembered his number from the frequent calls.
Mohammed calls though ebbed and flowed. I found that when my neighbourhood sofamaker had his courtyard jacked with work to do, my cellphone never heard from Mohammed. On the more sullen days the music from his courtyard never flared. I heard music courtesy via Mohammed though; he seemed bent to reach out to me and Rafi waxed from my phone. I was convinced the sofamaker I so admired and Mohammed the one I avoided uneasily was the same person. I needed to put the question to rest though. An evening walk with my wife to look at the sofamakers stifled paradise confirmed this. I was besotted with feelings of despair and thrill. Here was one person I had silently known for a while, someone I was worried about when he wasn't to be seen; someone I liked to see playing with his kids. Someone who's music I admired and paused sometimes to listen. That someone I had connected to and being worldly unwise decided to contemplate that extra bit before offering some of the work I needed done. I found myself smaller realising it pays to do things from the heart.
That instant I decided that he was doing the work at my home, promising to myself that I would call up Mohammed the next morning. He would have been happier that he got his work from the person he had tried to impress; not from a bystander who witnessed him at work and someone who he probably hadn't ever seen.
I called him up the next morning but couldn't reach him. While coming back from work that day I meandered over to his place only to be met with darkness; the house all locked up. Gone were the hens and the chirpy kids. There was an eerie silence. I went back both days of the weekend with a prayer on my lips hoping to find the family back but returned back disappointed. Life kind of bestowed some emptiness to my being; a sense of vacuum. I just wished though that the family had perhaps gone to visit their friends or their hometown.
And, I was right. Monday was back with the tune of Rafi's 'Aaj mausam bada bayiman hai...'. The living area was a collection of hordes of sofa material and work for a few days seemed to be at hand. I decided that my work could wait for a rainy day when the stack was empty and music hummed at its slighest.
I had just moved to my new place. The sparkling newness of the place slowly gave way to a much more worldliness. We ordained that our sofa needed a second set of covering. My wife looked around her contacts and found Mohammed, uncle of our furniture wallahs tailor. Mohammed announced himself as a very competent tailor. He sounded almost too eager when I spoke to him over the phone, so much so that he immediately took measurements and gave me a price to complete this. We like to tread over eagerness with caution. I wasn't averse to getting this done but looked to take my time to say yes to Mohammed. He called me occasionally; sometimes at odd hours. I sensed a sound of desperation at times. I remember he had offered to get some good designs at his cost. Perhaps to entice me to get the work done by him. I now remembered his number from the frequent calls.
Mohammed calls though ebbed and flowed. I found that when my neighbourhood sofamaker had his courtyard jacked with work to do, my cellphone never heard from Mohammed. On the more sullen days the music from his courtyard never flared. I heard music courtesy via Mohammed though; he seemed bent to reach out to me and Rafi waxed from my phone. I was convinced the sofamaker I so admired and Mohammed the one I avoided uneasily was the same person. I needed to put the question to rest though. An evening walk with my wife to look at the sofamakers stifled paradise confirmed this. I was besotted with feelings of despair and thrill. Here was one person I had silently known for a while, someone I was worried about when he wasn't to be seen; someone I liked to see playing with his kids. Someone who's music I admired and paused sometimes to listen. That someone I had connected to and being worldly unwise decided to contemplate that extra bit before offering some of the work I needed done. I found myself smaller realising it pays to do things from the heart.
That instant I decided that he was doing the work at my home, promising to myself that I would call up Mohammed the next morning. He would have been happier that he got his work from the person he had tried to impress; not from a bystander who witnessed him at work and someone who he probably hadn't ever seen.
I called him up the next morning but couldn't reach him. While coming back from work that day I meandered over to his place only to be met with darkness; the house all locked up. Gone were the hens and the chirpy kids. There was an eerie silence. I went back both days of the weekend with a prayer on my lips hoping to find the family back but returned back disappointed. Life kind of bestowed some emptiness to my being; a sense of vacuum. I just wished though that the family had perhaps gone to visit their friends or their hometown.
And, I was right. Monday was back with the tune of Rafi's 'Aaj mausam bada bayiman hai...'. The living area was a collection of hordes of sofa material and work for a few days seemed to be at hand. I decided that my work could wait for a rainy day when the stack was empty and music hummed at its slighest.
