Memoirs from the Agra trip

 

The petha sellers of Agra think they carry a reputatious virtue, which makes them so bold and aggressive in soliciting your attention to their sweet shop that it literally makes them look like marauders ready to kidnap you and forcibly make you buy their mithai. Your courteous denials finally bid you bye and you start saying ‘NO’ in sour notes.

For a few hundred meters facing Taj Mahal’s eastern gate there is a lovely tiled walkway, flanked by trees, shops and restaurants. The lights are screened behind tall square columns of slab-stones. A subtle, subdued light emerges from the patterned holes in the screens. It builds a healthy prelude to your next day’s early morning visit to the monument of love. You might be lost in myriad tunes of history emanating from veena’s soulful notes of the past. But the shopkeepers will keep crying an encore, keep throwing their verbal bouquets, which finally begin assaulting you like bricks. It keeps pulling you down from the paramount constellation of emotions about the embodiment of living soul in white marble.

The present’s popular caricature boosted by consumerism is too noisy for poetic sentiments about Taj Mahal in the markets surrounding it like a tight noose. A sort of irreverent drabness sizzling through the grand monument’s mythical dimensions. I have been trying to keep focused on the crystallized voracity of romance etched in stones while being bombarded with almost kidnapping calls of autowallahas and sweet-makers. They look ready to force you into accepting their services.

Me and my brother have been walking on the Taj Nature Walk boulevard. At every step we have to say ‘no’ to an autowallah, petha seller or some hawker. Saying ‘no’ hundreds of times makes us hungry and finally we give into the insistence of a short but smart looking young man. They are all on the younger side in this dining establishment. We hardly expect the dinner to be anything but ordinary. I’m still baffled with my decision to agree to enter this restaurant. We sit and wait for our order to be served.

The establishment is garishly decorated. Not much footfall, we being the only customers at the moment. We can’t expect the food to be delicious. We just pray that please god let it be fresh at least, however bland it might turn out to be. Then the young man arrives with our order. The salad pieces are nicely arranged in circles. The mix-veg is no random assemblage of parts taken from other recipes. It’s prepared individually. The makka roti is lovingly laced with butter. The hubbub and helter-skelter of doubt vanishes.

We thoroughly enjoy the dinner. ‘It’s delicious food!’ we compliment and share our feedback. He isn’t used to hearing words of appreciation. The customers basically cringe and complain when they don’t like something. Criticism sits on their tongue-tips. But they turn misers and dumb while praising someone’s goods or services. As our feedback pours out abundantly and positively, he stands absorbing this unique experience. It stirs emotions in him. Tears are on the verge of toppling down from his eyelashes. Looking at his eyes, our eyes also get their share of moisture.

It’s a beautiful feeling. This human touch. I can feel these words of appreciation mean so much to him. There is usually an inundation of critical stuff from family, friends, peers, customers. The words of appreciation can bring new light and life in someone’s eyes.

Who knows what problems in career and family this young man has been facing. But our words of appreciation give him some hope and pride in his profession. Shivam Pandit is his name. We leave him more in love with his work.

Earlier in the day, I had given compliment to a woman in similar circumstances. Her husband managed the front end of the shop, selling tea, coffee and snacks. She ran the small kitchen at the back with a few tables and chairs in between. A Muslim woman used to work in the shadows, she prepared the omelet with ease and care. The taste was good. But the way it was served was unique—cut in little pieces, just big enough so that you can take it with a fork in one bite. Served with care. ‘Your omelet is really good!’ I said as we got up to leave. She was sitting in a corner chair looking at us eating, her eyes trying to gauze the standard of her cooking from our manner of eating and talking.

The people won’t praise when it’s good. But they will say a lot when they don’t like it. She was visibly surprised at the compliment. Maybe it was the first time a customer expressed his good words. It was a new experience to her and she didn’t know how to handle it. She just nodded with a little hesitant, shy smile. But I’m sure she will have enough time to digest this new encouraging pill. Won’t she find her work meaningful and feel proud of it? She will. Kind words of appreciation give people hope. Who knows what testing situations they are facing. And a few positive words can brighten someone’s gloomy day. She will find her cooking more meaningful. Just like Shivam would be happier the next day while manning his establishment.

You need not shower people with wealth, benefits or favors to make them happier. That’s asking too much from yourself. Making others happy comes without any cost at your end. Just give them the credit that they deserve on account of their product or service. Just this much. When someone’s karma is appreciated with contentment and joy, it dispels darkness and doubts from that person. It opens a little ray of hope. And even if you are a pessimist and don’t think it’s too substantial change maker in someone’s life, even then you have to accept that at least that moment is freshly lit when you deliver that feedback. Even that’s sufficient. Because NOW is all that matters.