The real deal

It has been over a couple hours since the sun set after beating down on the city’s hapless inhabitants, giving way to a cool breeze. A mélange of shops line the left side of the road, with neon lights and the hustle and bustle of an evening market. There is a brisk flow of hungry people walking into a brightly lit restaurant with an equal amount of people strolling out, their tummies full and hearts content. Just beyond the restaurant's parking space is a makeshift table covered with a blue tarpaulin sheet, on top of which sit a heap of jasmine buds and a sole short strand of flowers that have been deftly tied together with a wafer-thin string. Sitting behind the bench is a tired old lady with a crease on her brow, patiently looking at all the bikes whooshing by and the pedestrians zigzagging through the thoroughfare.

Look to the other side of the street and there is a bank that is winding down for the day; the staff pulling down the grey shutters, mentally getting ready to go back to their homes and families.

Among the people strolling out of the restaurant is a mother and son duo who have just had an early dinner. Swerving to avoid an autorickshaw pulling behind to park, the mother sees the old lady, walks up to her and greets her, recalling times past. The old lady's face lights up immediately. It is not very often in the madness of a city that such pleasantries are exchanged. Indeed, who doesn’t like the sight of a familiar face after a lifetime of strangers shuffle past you without as much as a second glance, every day?

 

The mother remarks, "I'll take the string of flowers. What do I owe for them?".

Pointing to the heap of buds, the old lady replies in a distant tone, "I am not my usual self today, that's why these are still in a heap, untied. Take the flowers, you do not owe me anything".

 

Not wanting to walk away without paying for what is surely a hard day's labour under the harsh sun, the mother insists on paying and thrusts a 20 rupee note in the old lady's hands, which the old day reluctantly accepts after a moment's pause.

 

What we just witnessed is not a transaction, it is not buying, it is not selling. The 20 rupees is not a game changer in any sense for the old lady. But if one had taken the time to look at the face of the mother as she ambled along with her son and the face of the old lady as she got up, supporting her knees, to shut shop for the day, they would have noticed smiles plastered on both their faces. That is the real deal.