Chance encounter with a raconteur par excellence

SPICE OF LIFE: Though he lacked the cloyingly sweet voice of a radio jockey, the sheer inventiveness of his earthy idiom was enough to cast a spell

With a cardboard carton in his hands, he tiptoed from behind and stood before us. Before I could even figure out what was he up to, he grinned and shot a question in his Punjabi-accented Hindi: “You are from Punjab na?” This presumptuous familiarity made me a bit uneasy.

The undulating meadows surrounding Khajjiar lake, popularly called the Switzerland of India, near Dalhousie in Chamba district.

Clad in faded, rust-coloured shirt and baggy trousers, he wore a Kullu cap that appeared to complement his sharp features, aquiline nose, and unkempt salt and pepper stubble. He appeared different from the herb and shilajit sellers who had been pestering us since the time we had entered the undulating meadows surrounding Khajjiar lake. The Switzerland of India seemed to have been taken over by all sorts of herbalists, following and cajoling naïve tourists to buy their aphrodisiac herbs. But this middle-aged talebearer was not like the other sellers of manly dreams.

Even before I could react, with a hint of mischief in his eyes, he repeated, “You must be from Punjab.” Without waiting for my reply, he started rattling off the names of actors and politicians from Punjab who allegedly owned private bungalows in Khajjiar. Pointing towards the west, where the rays of the evening sun were struggling to pierce through the tall deodars casting giant shadows on the ground, he said, “There lives that famous comedian, and yonder that well-known politician.” Soon, he was narrating how the celebrities come on weekends with their lady loves. He went on and on, like an unbridled radio jockey. Though he lacked the cloyingly sweet voice of a radio jockey, the sheer inventiveness of his earthy idiom was enough to cast a spell. I was now at ease listening to his tales and wanting more.

After regaling us with some of his anecdotes, he put his carton full of soft drinks, mineral water and potato chips on the ground and thrusting a bottle of Pepsi in my hands, asked rather authoritatively, “Would you care for Coke or Pepsi?” His peremptory manner suggested that he had gained the right to sell it to me.

I looked towards my wife who seemed uninterested. Sensing that I hadn’t got the approval, he quickly picked up his carton and started moving on. But I stopped him and before I could ask for a bottle of mineral water, he quipped, “Sardar ji, aur kahaniyan sunaun kya (Should I share more stories)?” But while handing me the bottle of water, he was looking beyond me. He had perhaps found another customer, another likely audience.

Taken up completely with him by now, I wanted him to continue. However, I did not want to deprive him of another customer. “Let it be some other time,” I said. Before leaving, he revealed that he was from Ambarsar (colloquial for Amritsar), which he had left 20 years ago because people there had no time to listen to his yarns. He had migrated to Dalhousie where he could find curious listeners every day. But he added that though Dalhousie does provide him food and shelter, he despises it because the tourists now want to buy just the stuff he sells and don’t want to listen to him; they remain glued to their cell phones.

A raconteur par excellence, he left me thinking about a different fire, a different hunger that drives each person. May be, some other day, I will have another chance encounter with him, or someone else like him. swarajraj@yahoo.com

The writer is a retired professor of English in Patiala