Good services won't bring my childhood back

With goods and services a phone call away, the institution of the itinerant craftsman/seller who enriched the colony life is dying.

One of the abiding childhood images seared into my memory is the loud and jaunty cry "bhande kalai kara lo" of the kalaiwala (re-tinner) as he entered our colony block. We would excitedly rush out and go to him. Within no time, ladies would emerge from houses with brass and copper utensils and hand them over to him. We would watch him ply his craft with fascination while the ladies would gather around and indulge in idle gossip. He would dig a pit in the ground and install bellows (dhaunkani). Then he would take out coal from his bag and light a fire in the pit. The coal was kept burning by pumping air through the bellows. He would hold the utensil with forceps over coal fire, blasting it off and on. The utensil would become pinkish hot after the blast. He would then sprinkle a little ammonium chloride (nausadar) which would give out deep white smoke with a peculiar ammoniac smell. How much we loved the aroma! The powder was then rubbed all over the utensil’s interior to rid the utensil of any grit and make it more abrasive.

Then a piece of tin was touched to the blasting hot interior of the utensil; the tin would melt and be quickly rubbed with a cloth inside the utensil which would then be dipped into a bucket full of water. The sudden contact of the hot utensil with the water would create a shrill and sharp sound. The coated portion of the utensil would emerge shining bright. It was pure magic!

Those days, copper and brass utensils were the most preferred cooking wares due to their high conductivity and even distribution of heat. However, since copper and brass reacted to acidic foods and salt, it had to be lined; without the lining, the copper and brass would have discoloured the food or imparted a bitter taste or lead to food poisoning; so the utensils needed a kalai or re-tinning job every six months or so.

However, the silvery shine of copper utensils and polish of brass utensils is fast vanishing from urban Indian kitchens with the rapid intrusion of the pressure cooker and stainless steel utensils. Disappearing along with utensils are kalaiwalas who kept the brassware and copperware ever shining and usable. Our nostrils still miss the smell of ammoniac fumes, and ears the hissing sound of the cooling of utensils. But the kalaiwala is not the only itinerant traditional craftsman who is facing extinction. There is the dhuniya or dhunna. (the quilt or razai carder).

Come autumn, our colony used to hear the distinctive twang of the dhunki (the bowed carding instrument) when its string was plucked. The dhunki was a giant single-stringed instrument that looked like a misshapen bow. The massive ektara made a deep thrumming sound that could be heard all over the colony.

The dhuniya would set up his equipment in the common stairwell of the housing block and receive razais from various houses for carding. The razais, like everything else, required regular maintenance. The cottonwool in a razai used to clump over time, thinning the razai and driving the air out, which caused the razai to become less effective as a protection against the cold. For this reason, prior to the onset of winter weather, it was common for families to get their razais carded - straightening out and disentanglement of the cotton fibres that were locked or clumped together. The cottonwool in the razai was removed and carded to eliminate the clumping. This was done by the carder (dhunki) - a machine cased with very thin and fine teeth that helped in extracting any kind of waste material found in the fibres, after which the cotton filling became fluffier and feather-like. It was then re-inserted into the razai cover.

Then who can forget the charpoy kasnewala? Over time, hemp rope (sutli) or broad bands of tape (niwar) would become loose and the charpoy would sag. Even after wooden beds made their appearance in houses, charpoys were used for sleeping outside or on the terrace during summer months by people who didn’t have air-conditioners or water coolers. The rope or tape, woven into a pattern of warp and woof, could never make for a tight strong bed. One could not sleep on a charpoy that sank in because it was bad for the back. These craftsmen used to tighten the charpoys. We used to marvel at their strength in the pulling and tightening.

Then there was the chhuri tez karnewala. He sharpened knives and scissors on a sharpening wheel attached to the rear bicycle wheel. When the rear wheel was rotated by pedals, the sharpening wheel also rotated. The knives used to get sharpened by the process of grinding against the hard and rough surface of the stone wheel. The grating sound with flying sparks used to hold us in thrall. The other dying institutions are the itinerant cobbler, the potter, the juggler, the snake charmer, the bandarwala, the reechhwala, the bioscope wala, the chabhi bananewala. The chuskiwala would visit regularly. He would shape for us conical lumps of shaved ice and colour them with liquids (also called golas). They were unnatural colors and fascinating to behold. Then there were the flute sellers, and men pushing tiny mobile merry-go-rounds and ferris wheels. Carpets were brought to your doorstop by carpet sellers in a tonga or a rickshaw. Who can forget the buddhi ke baal wala (cotton candy seller)? He used to peddle bright pink spun sugar candy, ringing a bell to attract the colony children. It was sweet and sticky, wrapped around a little stick – a veritable treat. A fish seller used to do his rounds regularly in our colony. He kept the fish in an ice-laden covered metal box placed on the rear rack of his bicycle. He would go the Bengali houses and place the fish on a board on the ground. He would then squat on the floor and use the boti, a cutting instrument, by pressing its wooden plank to the floor with his feet and cutting the fish on the sharp, curved menacing looking iron blade, using both his hands. The colony cats would gather around hoping for scraps.

In our colony, an old man had set up a tandoor next to the colony park. People poured in with or without the dough to get rotis made for dinner. People leisurely waited for their turn. Warmed by the heat of the tandoor they exchanged news or just relaxed. New associations were made. One would get lip smacking dal too. The split gram dal was cooked to perfection on slow fire. The simmering dal was kept at the side of the tandoor in a huge aluminum pot. The memory of those meals is unforgettable.

Yes, life was simple in those days. One found happiness, joy and wonderment in the smallest of things. In this day and age of materialism, instant gratification and treadmill of an existence, the simplicity of my childhood has died. With goods and services a phone call away, so has died the institution of the itinerant craftsman/seller who enriched the colony life. A part of our heritage has been shown the door. A poor life this if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare!