Page 55 - Reading and Writing 6

Listen and Read

The Kabuliwallah

My five-year-old daughter Mini is a chatty girl and likes to talk all day long. It took her
about a year after being born to acquire a great talent for language, and since then,
she has not wasted a single waking moment of her life remaining silent. Often her
mother gives her something to do, to keep her focused and quiet, but I can never do
that. Seeing the girl silent, even for an instant, seems so odd and unusual to me that I
find it unbearable. That’s why my conversation with Mini is often feisty.
One morning as I had just started writing the seventeenth chapter of my novel, Mini
walked into the room and began, “Dad, our doorman Ramdayal doesn’t even know
how to pronounce the word ‘crow.’ Maybe we can help him learn!”
“You go and play with Bhola. I have to do some work now,” I replied. At this, she
flopped beside the writing-table, close to my feet, and began to play a game of
knick-knack with her hands and knees, rapidly chanting a nursery rhyme.

Stopping her game abruptly, Mini ran to the window that overlooked the main road
and began calling out at the top of her voice, “Kabuliwallah, O Kabuliwallah!” A
tall, poorly-clothed Afghan street vendor, with a turban on his head, a bag over his
shoulder, and a few boxes of raisins in his hands, was passing through the street slowly.
I have no idea what flashed through my daughter’s mind at the sight of this man,
but the moment she saw him, she began yelling. I thought, this nuisance with a sack
over his shoulder will show up in a moment, and I won’t be able to finish writing the
seventeenth chapter of my novel.

But the moment the Kabuliwallah, on hearing Mini’s call, turned around with a smile
and approached the house, Mini dashed inside and couldn’t be found anywhere. She
had this childish fear that if someone looked through the bag of this Afghan man,
several living children like herself would be found in there.

Meanwhile, the Kabuliwallah stepped into the compound and stood at the door with
a smile and a salute. I decided that we could hardly call this man all the way to the
house and then not buy anything.

I bought a few items, and soon I was involved in a conversation with him on various
topics. To break Mini’s unfounded fear, I called her from inside the house. She came and
stood nervously, pressing against my body, and looking suspiciously at the Kabuliwallah
and his bag. The Kabuliwallah took out some raisins, nuts, and apricots from inside the
bag and offered them to Mini, but she refused to take them and remained pressed
against my knees with a redoubled suspicion.

Mini got over her fear of the man, and soon the aged Kabuliwallah and the five-year-
old became the best of friends. He would visit our Mini every once in a while and bring
her various nuts and dried fruits. The two friends would share stories, and he would tell
her about the new products he had in his bag. I, too, liked the Kabuliwallah, whose
stories about his hometown transferred me to a land of arid mountain ranges, camels,
and turbaned merchants. Mini’s mother, however, did not like the Kabuliwallah. To her,
all street vendors were interesting but sometimes dangerous people who shouldn’t be
around children, and she often scolded Mini and said, “Beware of that man!”

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