Workman with heart of gold labours for love

Spice of Life: I could see sweat dripping from his forehead down to his chin, which he gently rubbed with his shirt. He couldn’t be bothered if he smeared his face again with the greasy deposit of his shirt

The unseasonal rains in February, coupled with gusty winds, made my umbrella on the golf trolley swivel either side so vigorously that the ensemble which held it tight gave way. I went to the Proshop of the golf club and manager suggested I leave the trolley with him so that it could be inspected by their visiting handy-man. A couple of days later, when I went again to enquire if the ensemble had been fixed, the manager put up a disappointed expression.

The mechanic began working on fixing the umbrella. Obviously, he mistook the golf trolley for a pram. (Representational photo)

As the mercury melted a tad mercilessly in the first week of April, I was again reminded of the need to have the umbrella fixed, to save me from the scorching heat, especially after playing six holes in the morning. Since our Panchkula Golf Club is closed on Tuesday, I along with Karan went to the motor market, carrying the trolley in the boot.

There were countless mechanics, wearing apologies of dungarees, in their tattered-clothes-turned-all-black with oil, grease, carbon and soot. One of them examined the clamp and suggested a hardware shop where we would find all kinds of screws. When that too did not yield a positive result, the attendant suggested I approach a mechanic sitting outside their shop. He would, I was told, definitely come up with some ‘jugaad’.

He was a fair complexioned man in his early forties who looked like Raj Kapoor. Initially, he too dismissed us, but later asked if he could see the thing on which the umbrella was to be mounted. I asked Karan to bring the trolley from the car. Having seen it, the mechanic asked if it was a perambulator and I could see the spark in his eyes when he said so: “Sir, I too have a daughter aged two years, for whom I want to buy a pram with an umbrella!” He began working on fixing the umbrella. Obviously, he mistook the trolley for a pram.

He rummaged through his toolkit and took out a screw that was much longer than the one needed. From an iron-die that he had, he manually made some groves on it and ensured it tightened firm. All through the work, he indulgently kept stroking it with his hammer. The smile he had on his sweating face made me feel his love for his daughter, who he definitely had mind, since only after the mention of a pram had he become ready to find a solution to my problem.

The final tightening of the screw went well. I could see sweat dripping from his forehead down to his chin, which he gently rubbed with his shirt. He wouldn’t be bothered if he smeared his face again with the greasy deposit of his shirt. Having finished, he cleaned everything on the trolley with the duster in his hands and smiled.

I asked him his remuneration. He quoted fifty bucks. I would have paid him even ₹500 for getting the umbrella fixed. I handed over a ₹100 note and asked him to keep it. He politely returned ₹50 to me saying, “Now, I think your child will enjoy a pram ride under the cool shade.” Under his shabby clothes, the workman had a heart of gold that seemed to beat for his baby girl. rajbirdeswal@hotmail.com

The Panchkula-based author is a retired IPS officer and an advocate