Bangalore of the 1960s - visiting tradespersons
“Perugu, perugu!”
This cry
from the street usually signalled a flurry of activity from my grandmother. She
would quickly wash a vessel and run with it outside to wait for the “perugu” seller.
The year
would have been 1962 or 63. The place was our tiny two-roomed rented house in a
narrow street off Cavalry Road (since re-named K. Kamaraj Road) in the
Cantonment (Civil Station) area.
My
grandmother ruled a small kingdom consisting of our house with my elder sister
and me as the denizens (later on joined by our younger sister) and which also
included a couple of docile Telugu families who were our neighbours. She laid
down the rules and regulations for amicable living in the dominion. These rules
were never broken and life was quite peaceful.
The “perugu” seller would visit our area once
or twice a week. “Perugu” in Telugu
means curds and this, along with butter, was what she sold. The curds and the
butter were kept in steel vessels placed in a basket which was carried on her
head. My grandmother would purchase a small quantity of curds to supplement the
curds she made at home. The purchase would be accompanied by light hearted
banter and a bit of friendly bargaining and conclude with the lady doling out a
little bit extra, or “kosuru”,
whereupon both seller and buyer would be happy.
The milkman
with his cow was another daily visitor, early in the morning and again early in
the evening. There was always a suspicion that he diluted the milk so he had to
be carefully supervised while he extracted the milk into a cylindrical
container (which I now realise might have contained a bit of water to start
with). But he neatly avoided this supervision by tethering his cow a little
away from our doorstep. He would measure out the milk into a “paav” measure and pour it into the steel
vessel held out by my grandmother, adding, like the “perugu” seller, a few millilitres extra as “kosuru” to assuage any feelings of suspicion.
There was
the “kalayi-kaaran” who visited our
street once every few months. His trade was tin-coating copper and brass
cooking vessels (known as “kalayi”).
He carried all the tools and ingredients of his trade in a canvas bag. He would
sit down, spread some charcoal from his bag on the ground, light a fire and
keep blowing with a mini bellows till the coals were glowing. He would then
heat up the vessels one by one by placing them face down over the fire and
deftly turning them round and round. When each vessel became red hot, he would
rub a small bit of pure tin all over its inner surface and then smoothen it out
by polishing it with a cloth till the vessel looked new and shiny. After he
finished his work and handed over the coated vessels, there would invariably be
a huge argument with my grandmother before an agreement was reached on the
charges. But in spite of these arguments, this man would turn up again after a
few months!
We had a
well in our house which always had plenty of water. During and just after the
rains, the water level rose till it was hardly three feet below the ground
level! Sometimes, small vessels would fall into the well either by accident or
by design (kids loved to throw these things into the water and hear them splash
and gurgle as they went down). There were persons who dived into wells and
salvaged these vessels for a small fee. One such person, a ferocious looking
man with a luxuriant moustache twirled up, visited our area regularly,
enquiring at each house if there was anything to bring up from the well. He wore
a “dhoti” (a loincloth) and carried a
rope coiled around his shoulder with a multi pronged hook at one end. Sometime
he would throw the rope into the well and try to dredge up the vessel with the
hook. If that failed, he would tighten his dhoti,
take a deep breath and descend into the water, to come up a couple of minutes
later with the salvaged items. It was not exactly deep sea diving, but still a
big thrill for us to watch him at work!
Used clothes
were not thrown away but stored carefully to be given to the tradesman who
announced his arrival with the cry “Steeeeyl
paa-aathra saamaaaaan”. This tradesman, short and stocky and a regular to
our street, ran a barter programme under which he accepted used clothes in
exchange for steel utensils, which he carried in a huge basket over his head.
He would set down his basket and spread out the utensils to be chosen. He would
then examine the used clothes offered in exchange. Then the bargaining would
start. To us children, it seemed the haggling would never end, but end they
would and a friendly exchange would finally be reached. Old clothes replaced by
shiny new utensils.
These, then,
were some of the tradespersons who visited our area in the Bangalore of the 1960s.
There was one thing common with all of them – the personal touch they brought
to their transactions. The little chitchat before and the murmur of good wishes
after every transaction made it a pleasant experience while, of course, ensuring
the customer’s loyalty! Sadly, there is no personal interaction in any of the
malls and departmental stores which dot our fair city and shopping has become
another form of “paid entertainment”.
©
Shiva Kumar 2014
(Note: The article and/or the sketches may not be reproduced wholly or in part without the express written permission of the author)
Cereus! Brahma Kamalam!
The plant was taken care of along with its other potted neighbours and
watered every day. It remained in anonymity. 
There were four of them and all bloomed at the same time. It took about
3 hours for each bloom to open up fully and the flower was a sight to behold.
Their fragrance filled the air. This spectacle lasted for just an hour or so
before the petals started to close up. By morning, the petals were fully closed
and the flowers were drooping as if they had never opened!
