The nose was long and sharp at the end like the lead pencils, the numinous white skin had an orange tinge and it seemed he reflected some of the sun. He wore a bright white Kurta and stood in the middle of the street, all lonely on that hot summer afternoon. I would have recognized him as a character from one of my fairy tales but for his beard which was unkempt gray and not silky, streaming, snowy white like friends from the book. So he wasn’t jingling along as he approached, nor did friends in the neighborhood frenzied around looking for their smelly socks as they heard him from a distance.
His two arms supported a heavy sack over his shoulder, a red woolen rag peeped from inside the bag, a piece of broken glass diligently tried to tear its way through the plastic fabric, a rod jutted out to claim its share of attention , and there were stories diffusing from the bag. Somewhat interested I stepped off my doorway and stared at the bag and the lonely man in the street, as I looked at him he smiled conclusively, I assumed we were friends and I chuckled through my tiny teeth.
The gray bearded old man continued to smile and sat leaning on the fence of my home enjoying its shade. He rested by the fence with his bag lying beside him. We are tired he said and continued smiling, though neither he nor his bag looked tired. At the height of the day when mothers had plotted together to shut all friends into the monotony of the living rooms and I had somehow managed to sneak out, the man with bag promised to be the partner in the midday game of hide and seek, I knew little persuasion will bring me a good game.
You are tired, I stated not trying to conceal any anger. The smile broadened and the gray beard danced, shining in the sun. Why do you carry the bag if it tires you? I asked. A doll gazed at me from the open mouth of the sack, a single shoe with exquisite red lace decorated with sparkling plastic desired a foot to put it on. In the bag, he said, is what I earn working all through the day. A hard bound Pinocchio with long wooden nose smiled uncomfortably inside the bag and the not so old man continued, “I go one house to another, a neighborhood a day, I move from a town to another.” He didn’t work on simplifying his answers, he didn’t elaborate on what he said, and he treated me as an equal. I liked the somewhat mysterious cryptic answers, not often did a grown up man talked to someone of my age in the not so synthetic, tailored for the kid, conscious tone, and when my afternoon friend did so, he was puzzling but offered much attraction.
So you sell all this?
No he said, “I go around buying this stuff, from a door to another, I collect all I can.” He had collected much, the books, the copies, the cars that went ahead when pulled back, the bottles of orange juice that I drank everyday because I liked its sharp tinge, and some other dark brown and black bottles which I instantly liked for the artistic curves there neck had. I was already pulling things off his sack and spreading them around him. It’s all there in the market I said, why do you have to come here to buy all this? He didn’t smile now, I felt he thought about it or he was attracted to the floating white speck of cloud that tried to hide the sun. “But I don’t get memories in the market.”
Where are the memories? I asked as I looked into the bag and surveyed it with searching hands, just if I could find some memories lying somewhere there. “They are there” he said and pulled out the red rag that so much wanted to come out. This is the memory, and then the shoe jumped off “and this is the memory.” He smiled again, taking pleasure in my confusion. It is still hot and he pulls out a tiny bottle filled with water, tiny as it was he emptied it in a gulp.
Are you still tired? I asked, preparing grounds for the game. He may have sensed the plan and said that he would sit for a bit longer.
So, who sells you the memories?
“The girl who lives in the first house in the block, she gave me the memories, the old lady living besides the temple even she gave me her memories.” Is it a gainful business? I asked. He seemed disinclined to answer but then he went on to say, “I make enough for living”.
I was still searching for a memory in the bag, I had spread the many detective novels on the floor by then, the news papers from years gone by, their headlines just like today morning’s and the scribbled notebooks. So all this is memory, I thought. And then he pulled out a doll, its hairs gone, a blinking eye closed forever. This is the memory he said, the girl who marries next week played with it through her childhood. This old doll all scrambled and dilapidated, is what she loves. This is her memory of the playful, carefree days. This broken glass he said, as he pulled the glass from the bottom of the sack, is the memory of the fleeting fury of the husband late for his work as he stormed from one doors of the room to another of the other room. He pulled out a charred Album, this is sorrow. When he removes the newspaper cover over the two dancing pairs, their protecting Plexiglas cracked, he said this is the story of long forgotten empathy, even I a kid then could feel a hint of regret in his voice. The newspapers which I had spread around the place were the consciousness of the nation. The mutilated members of the contraption were an engineer’s passion. He pulled out things one after the other, the bag emptied slowly and my little courtyard smelled of memories.
The scents of memories are strange, they exist in unison with all the floating aromas, yet each holds its individuality. Each scent can be sensed in its uniqueness, the air around me that day was such. I could distinctly smell somebody’s wedding feast, I could smell the sweat of the gardener’s hard work whose digging tool was lying besides the bag and I sniffed the expectant air from the letters in the bag. The poor report card smelled of sobs and tears, the newspaper reeked of scandals and conspiracy, the books effused invisible fluid of the fresh flowers that were placed between their leafs. And the detective novels had coffee all over them.
Where do you put all these things that you hoard so ravenously?
“I sell them” identifying a confused expression he added “memories stale themselves if amassed and collected in the closet, so I make sure they are regularly stirred.” I didn’t understand much but I did savour the vivid, fresh odors in the air that day. Through the rolling sentiments collected from the neighborhood he spoke “and hoarded memories won’t make me a living, you understand that, don’t you?” and he smiled again, the same conclusive smile that earlier made sure we are friends.
He had kindled a magic and amidst the magic he started packing his things, the newspapers went in, the bottles went in, so did the glass and the dancing pair. As they went in one after the other, the odors disappeared into the bag too, and when all went into the bag, the only scent that remained was a mystical peaceful odor, the odor strangely resembling the look of the numinous orange tinged face. He left with the bag and another cloud fine and thin floated before the afternoon sun.
And years later, when my music system was left with nothing but the plastics and magnets, I sold it to a hawker on the road, the nose was long not sharp, the skin white and bright, I thought of the long forgotten dealer of memories. But he was not my man. The beard was a flowing, streaming, snowy white. I made the deal, and did I see a twinkling tear on the veteran dealer’s eye? No, I saw a conclusive smile.
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