The Tiffin (8 page)

chapter ten

ON MONDAY MORNING KUNAL hurried to the station with Vinayak. The stand outside was almost full of cycles in various stages of being devoured by rust. The three-wheeled rickshaws, like giant black and yellow bugs, lined up patiently, awaiting passengers. Many a bare foot or arm stuck out of the vehicles as their drivers caught up on sleep.

Inside the station, chaos was starting to pick up.Announcements blared out at frequent intervals. Kunal got a whiff of fresh ink as they passed the newspaper kiosk, their displays screaming out yet another calamity in bold headlines. Food smells were starting to waft over the commuters; batata wadas, aloo-poori, and bhajiyas. All mouth-wateringly delicious.

Vinayak barely glanced around him as he strode towards their regular spot to await his team members. Here they would all converge and re-sort the tiffins before starting the next leg of their journey.Vinayak had given Kunal a standard-size Gandhi cap that flopped over his ears and covered his eyes. “Just so the dabbawallas don't ask too many questions when they see you hanging around their tiffins,” Vinayak had explained. Kunal didn't care that the cap didn't fit and that he probably looked ridiculous in it. For the first time he would actually see how this was done, maybe get the chance to sort tiffins!

Vinayak paced the small area, his eyes sweeping the length of the station. “Don't you have to collect the tiffins from the dhaba anymore?” said Kunal.

“I've taken on other responsibilities and requested the Association to send someone else for those tiffins,” said Vinayak. “I don't think it would be wise for either of us to show our faces to Sethji.”

“Good idea,” said Kunal. He could not help but think of Mrs. Seth. Hopefully she wasn't in worse shape than he was. He touched his face. It was still tender, though the swelling had subsided.

“Ahhh, here they come,” said Vinayak. “Now, don't get in the way and don't touch anything. Just watch.”

Dabbawallas poured into the station with their carriers, expertly manoeuvring around beggars, vendors, and commuters. Vinayak waited till they shed their heavy loads and immediately started sorting the tiffins, barely seeming to glance at the codes before putting them in the right carrier.

A young boy, slightly older than Kunal, raced up to them, the carrier seesawing dangerously on his head.

“Nikhil!” said Vinayak looking up.“Good man, you're almost on time.Try to get here five minutes earlier tomorrow. Quick now, we must get your tiffins sorted.You get started and I'll send one of the men over to help.”

Nikhil slid the carrier to the ground, almost dropping it on Kunal's foot. “Oops, sorry,” he said, and he flashed an apologetic smile. Kunal felt the boy's eyes linger on his bruised face.

“No problem,” said Kunal. He liked the look of this boy instantly.There was something about him that reminded Kunal of someone he knew. But who?

“I'll try, Vinayakji,” said Nikhil. “I misjudged the time a bit today.Tomorrow will surely be better.”

“It has to be,” said Vinayak. “This means no talking with housewives even if they want you to stay and gossip. And if their tiffin is not ready, you don't wait for more than a minute.That'll teach them to be on time. But for your first attempt at doing the rounds on your own, you've done really well. Shabaash!”

Many dabbawallas joined in, praising Nikhil and patting the young boy on the back. Kunal watched with a twinge of jealousy. He had to get on the team; he had to be one of them — just till he found his mother; after that he wouldn't need them anymore.

Kunal sidled up to Vinayak. “Can't I do just one tiffin?” he asked. “I think it's quite simple and I know so many of the codes already.”

“Not now, Kunal.We're busy and I do not have the time to supervise you. We'll do this later, okay?” He strode between the carriers, his eyes scanning the tiffins.

Kunal moved closer to Nikhil. The young dabbawalla was slow to recognize the codes. When he was staring at a tiffin for a particularly long time, Kunal whispered to him, “I think that's for the Air India building. It goes into that carrier bound for Churchgate.”

Nikhil glanced around quickly. No one seemed to have noticed Kunal was helping him.

“Thanks,” said Nikhil. “Sometimes these can get a little confusing.What happened to your face?”

Kunal eyed him steadily for a moment. “I'll tell you some other time. For now let's just sort the tiffins, all right?”

“Okay!”

Together they finished distributing the tiffins from Nikhil's carrier. Kunal was glad he'd helped; he'd learned so many more codes. He was ready to do this, if only they'd give him a chance.

Nikhil raced over to help someone else. Kunal wandered over to some carriers standing a little further away from the main hub of all the activity.There was no one close by, which meant they had already been sorted and were ready to go. No one was looking his way, either. Kunal picked up a box. The code
12 A 48
was inscribed in the centre of the lid. He wracked his brain.Which building was that?

The letters on it were blue, which meant this one would be picked up by the team delivering the blue-coded boxes. And what was that
E 14
at the side ? He was sure Vinayak had told him what it stood for, back at the dhaba. If only he could remember.

“Oi! Put that down!” someone yelled.

Kunal started. The tiffin slid from his hands and crashed to the ground. A beefy dabbawalla strode up to Kunal, glared at him, bent down, and picked up the tiffin. He examined it cursorily and jammed it back into the carrier.

“How dare you touch these tiffins!” the dabbawalla said. “They're private property. I could get you arrested.”

The station suddenly became unbearably hot as Kunal backed away from the dabbawalla, who stood glowering at him. He was large and well-built with burned skin and beady, black eyes. Everyone had stopped working. They were all staring at him. Questions bombarded Kunal from all directions.

“Who are you?”

“Where did you get that cap from?”

“What are doing near the tiffins?”

Kunal stood silently, staring at his feet.

“He's with me, Dubey,” said Vinayak coming up to them. “Friends, this is Kunal. He's staying with me for a while. He's shown an interest in becoming a dabbawalla and I guess he just couldn't wait to get started.” Though he said this calmly enough, his mouth was rigid and his eyes unsmiling. Kunal flushed.

“All the more reason he should not be touching the tiffins,” said Dubey loudly. “Are you a section leader or a joke?”

“I'm really sorry,” mumbled Kunal. “I was just looking. I didn't mean any harm.”

“That's enough!” said Vinayak, glaring at Dubey. “It was a mistake and it won't happen again.You watch your mouth with your superior or I'll report you to the management!”

Dubey returned Vinayak's glare and walked back to his own team. Kunal took a step towards Vinayak, who frowned and turned away.

“Don't feel too bad,” someone whispered. It was Nikhil. “Dubey's like that with everyone, so we call him
Goo-bay
.”

Kunal's lips twitched at the nickname, which so accurately described Dubey's crabby nature. Nikhil winked and hurried away, balancing the carrier on his head.And then Kunal was all alone in the crowd.

His eyes roved over the carriers littering a corner of the station, at the dabbawallas as they readied themselves for the approaching train, knowing exactly what to do and how to do it.The longing to belong crushed him.

The ten a.m. train slid into the station in a mustardcoloured blur. The dabbawallas ran alongside, carriers balanced expertly on their heads, each picking a compartment to board as soon as the train came to a halt. Commuters ran alongside, too, adding to the chaos. Kunal stared at the impossibly crowded platform. How would the commuters get off? How would the dabbawallas get on? There didn't seem to be enough room for them all. And still more came, crossing in front of the slowing train and leaping onto the platform; men, women, even children.

Just as the train ground to a complete stop, a scuffle broke out; two dabbawallas were trying to board the same compartment.

“Dubey's men are at it again,” muttered Vinayak to no one in particular. “Just as bad as their leader.”

Commuters swirled near the entrances of the train's compartments. Vendors weaved in and out of the dense crowds, pushing their wares under people's noses or holding them up for the inspection of those already seated inside. They looked like caged animals, peering out through the barred windows. Vinayak and Dubey reached their men at the same time and broke up the fight. Vinayak's man ran off to board another compartment and the train rattled off. The tiffins were on their way and, on time as always.

“Let's go,” said Vinayak. He strode past Kunal, not looking at him.

“You're still mad at me, aren't you?” said Kunal.

Vinayak stopped and turned to face him. “What do you think? You disobey me on the very first day I bring you here, give the meanest man in my section a chance to publicly humiliate me, and then you ask silly questions!”

This was the very first time Kunal had ever received a tongue-lashing from Vinayak. It felt a lot worse than Sethji's yelling. Kunal whirled and ran out of the station.

“Kunal, come back here!”

Ignoring Vinayak, Kunal ran through the courtyard, dodging rickshaws, beggars, and a stray cow chewing its cud. He reached the main road. He heard Vinayak running after him, calling out. Without a second thought, Kunal plunged into the slow-moving traffic. A scooter, piled high with an entire family, screeched to a halt inches away from him.

“
Saala Pagal
!” the man yelled. “Can't you watch where you're going? You could have got us all killed!” The scooter swayed precariously as the driver's wife and four kids hung on for dear life. “Idiot!” he spat out for good measure.

“Sorry,” mumbled Kunal, wiping the sweat from his face. His heart was racing and he felt sick.

The traffic continued to flow on either side of them. The man yelled a bit more, gunned the engine, and sped away, his family clinging to various parts of his anatomy.

Vinayak had caught up to him by now, berating him and crying all at once. He shook Kunal by the shoulders, then hugged him. Kunal stared at him; had he traded in Sethji's brutality for Vinayak's madness?

“I'm sorry,” was all Kunal could say.

Vinayak wiped his face on the sleeve of his kurta and dragged Kunal to the sidewalk amid a flurry of honks and curses.

“I'm sorry too,” said Vinayak.“Let's sit down for a moment. I need to talk to you.”

Kunal nodded. He had to understand what was going on and the reason for this old man's bizarre behaviour moments ago. He followed Vinayak towards some food stalls set up under the shade of a dusty banyan tree. One of the vendors was selling watermelon juice. The large aluminum tub filled with juicy red chunks of fruit and ice cubes looked very inviting.

“Just what we both need to cool down,” said Vinayak. He ordered two glasses and they sat under the shade of the tree to enjoy them.

Kunal watched the scooters and rickshaws zoom past, weaving in and out of the trucks and buses with reckless abandon.Vinayak was quiet.

“Why were you so upset,Vinayakji?”

“This traffic is so dangerous,” said Vinayak. “It reminds me of something I'd rather not talk about right now.” His voice broke.

“You've lost someone, haven't you?” asked Kunal. “When you think no one is watching, you always look sad.Why won't you tell me? Let me help you for a change?”

Vinayak looked steadily into Kunal's eyes for a long moment, but did not answer. His fingers played with his wedding ring, twisting it around and around.

Maybe it was his wife he'd lost. That would explain why he was constantly playing with his wedding ring and the fact that the kitchen in his room was no longer in use.
Kunal decided not to probe.

Vinayak took a sip of the sherbet. “Why did you touch the tiffins when I told you not to?”

“I wanted to see if I could remember all the codes, that's all. If I could prove that I know how to read them, the Association might hire me as a dabbawalla sooner.”

“Kunal, reading the codes is only part of the job. But why now, what's the hurry?”

“To find my mother,” said Kunal.

“Your mother? But I thought you were ...”

“An orphan,” said Kunal. It was a small word, but a word that was as painful as a sliver in a finger. “Yes, I thought so too until Mrs. Seth told me the truth just before I left the dhaba.”

“So, that's why you went back? To get the names of your parents?”

Kunal stared into the depths of the remaining juice in his glass. “Only my mother.” He plunked the glass on the ground suddenly and grabbed Vinayak's arm. “Mrs. Seth gave me the letter my mother wrote when she left me at the dhaba. I don't know where she is. I know her name. I have to find her! Something must have happened to stop her from coming back for me. I just know it.You'll help me find her, won't you?”

Vinayak sighed deeply. “We're late. It's time we made our way to the head office. I'll ask the management about you today.”

“Do I stand a chance of being accepted?” Kunal asked.

“I really do not have the answer to that,” said Vinayak, “but we'll find out soon enough.”

It was much later that Kunal realized Vinayak had not answered his other question: the one about helping him find his mother.

THE HEAD OFFICE OF the Dabbawalla Association was a twenty-minute walk from the station on the first floor of a dilapidated structure that seemed to be standing only because it was propped up by buildings on either side.They climbed a gloomy wooden staircase lit by low-watt bulbs at irregular intervals. The dirty white wall running alongside was adorned with paan spatters. It seemed as if someone had celebrated Holi on the staircase with only one colour: red.

The room was filled with dabbawallas and everyone was talking at the same time. Kunal heard snatches of conversation: discussions about wages, train schedules, and starting a petition to have their own compartment in trains at peak delivery times. The stench of sweat, beedis, and paan thickened the stagnant air in the room.

Kunal positioned himself near a window trying to gulp in a lungful of clean air.Vinayak greeted many men and listened to the discussions quietly.When he did offer an opinion, everyone paid attention and no one interrupted.A few moments later, a tiny man with thick glasses shuffled into the room. He looked so ancient, Kunal wondered how he had the energy to walk.

“That's the head of the Association — Hari,” said Vinayak. “He's the one we need permission from.”

Hari clapped his hands once and the murmur died down immediately. He settled himself at a round table flanked by two men; one who looked like a shrivelled prune and a younger man with salt-and-pepper hair.

“Who are the other two?” said Kunal.

“The older man is Suhas and the one with the greying hair is Param,” whispered Vinayak.“Those three make up the senior management of the Association.”

Kunal nodded, staring at them. They were the key to finding his mother. The trio looked around the room, missing nothing. He felt their eyes rest on him for a few seconds before moving on.

“What's on the agenda today?” asked Hari. His voice sounded like the crackling of old newspaper.

“Can we raise the monthly delivery fee?” someone asked. “These days, a hundred rupees per month is just not enough to survive on. Prices of everything have gone through the roof.”

“No, we can't,” replied Param. “We'll lose a lot of customers. There's a private company that has started a similar service.They are waiting for the first opportunity to steal our customers and the low price we charge is to our advantage.”

“Many customers are using the tiffin as a message service,” the first dabbawalla said. “There are at least three women on my route who put notes in their tiffins; sometimes a grocery list or other instructions for their husbands. They save a few rupees on the phone call they'd have to make otherwise. Surely they wouldn't mind paying a little extra for that convenience?”

Kunal's ears perked up.
A message in a tiffin?
“It's their box,” said Suhas. “They can put whatever they like in it, be it food or a note.As long as the weight is not beyond normal, we will deliver it — on time! Remember our motto:
Work is Worship
.”

Nikhil raised his hand slowly. All eyes swivelled to him and he turned crimson.

“Yes?” said Hari in a kind voice. “Our youngest member has something to say?”

“There's a young woman on my route,” said Nikhil in a breathless voice, “who sends love notes to her boyfriend without her mother's knowledge. She often waits for me at the street corner and I have to unload the tiffin so she can slip it in. She's so polite, I really don't mind, but should I allow it?”

Kunal was reminded of his mother, who had done the same thing. Except that her love story had not ended happily. “Not in love with her too, are you?” someone teased, and Nikhil protested vehemently amid hoots and whistles.

Param rapped on the table and the noise died down again. “As long as it does not delay you, it's all right. But if it does, you have to say no.”

Kunal was lost in thought. How wonderful it would be to open his tiffin, unfold a chapati, and see a note lying there. A note from someone who loved him. He wondered how his father must have felt receiving the love notes from his mother, writing a reply, and sending it back.

That was it!

He thought his heart would burst with joy. He wanted to yell it out loud:
he knew exactly how to search for his mother
. He clapped his hand on his mouth and glanced at Vinayak, but the old man did not look his way.

He would write as many notes as possible and stuff them into the thousands of tiffins that were delivered daily in the financial district. One of them was bound to reach the right Anahita Patel. But first he had to become a dabbawalla; only then would they listen to him. Speak up,Vinayak, he prayed silently.
Ask them about me. Now.

Vinayak spoke up, almost as if he had heard Kunal's fervent prayer. “I have a request,” he said, looking at the seniors.

“Go ahead,Vinayak.”

“I'd like to ask that this boy, Kunal,” said Vinayak, touching him lightly on the shoulder, “be allowed to become a dabbawalla. He is young but an honest and hard worker. I can personally vouch for that. His training will be my responsibility.Will the Association give me permission to do so?”

Not even a murmur disturbed the still air in the room.

“Vinayak,” said Hari, “you know that we only induct members from our own community. Who is this boy's family? Is he a Maharashtrian?”

“How does that matter?” a shrill voice said.

All eyes focused on Kunal and he realized the voice had been his. He thought he would burst into flames.

Hari was looking at him with a stern expression. Suhas's mouth puckered up some more, and Param ran his fingers through his hair impatiently. No one said a word.

“I'm sorry,” said Kunal, “but why is family important? I'm a hard worker. I've been delivering food for years at a dhaba and I can learn quickly. Are all the members from your community excellent workers? Has no one let you down? Ever?”

The silence took on a strained quality.

“That is not your place to question and it's none of your business,” said Hari. He looked as if he'd just bitten into a lemon. “You cannot join us till we know your family background, and even then it is a matter subject to discussion. We can't let just anybody become a dabbawalla; we have a reputation to protect.”

“And that's why I'm asking for this job: so I can find my family — my mother,” said Kunal. “Please help me. Say yes!”

“That's enough,” said Hari. “This is no place for children who like throwing tantrums. Vinayak, from now on you will come alone to the meetings. If I want drama, I can watch a Hindi movie.The meeting is over.”

Kunal stared at the seniors as they filed out of the room. It emptied rapidly once they were gone. Some stayed behind to talk to Vinayak. Nikhil stopped for a moment and squeezed his shoulder.Then he too was gone.

Kunal's euphoria from a few moments ago evaporated. He'd never be able to send those notes and find his mother. He was doomed to be an orphan for the rest of his life.The unfairness of it all was like a boulder on his chest. He marched out of the room, not bothering to wait for Vinayak.