Ice-creamwala

The ice-creamwala parks his cart at the entrance to the building, positioning strategically between cars. He wipes his brow, unloads belongings and perches on the step, like a scrawny little doorman. Day after day, morning to night, he is thus open for business.

The bright red cart is a fixture at the busy crossing. He doesn’t need to hawk his wares; customers naturally gravitate towards the colourful display. Brokers and salespersons pump him for information about the flats and the people living there. Postal peons and couriers sometimes leave with him correspondence for the building’s residents, saving further trips. He can be relied on to conscientiously deliver to the addressees when they return. He helps the local drivers occupy regular parking spots, and holds open car-doors to enable the elderly alight. He calls these his “neighbourly” duties.

He gets his ice-cream supplies from the company factory at least 5 Km away and turns in his cart there at night.  His abode is as far in the opposite direction. He walks a half marathon each day, summer or winter, just to be there. I tell him he should upgrade to a bicycle-cart. He is a little man, his vehicle has no lights, and late at night, it could be dangerous. He shrugs and points to the sky. His will, he says philosophically, whatever happens.

The street vendors have built their own social network at the crossing. The police appear sometimes, to chase them all away. They pack up and leave – and are back in business soon enough at the very same place! They look out for one another, sharing food and work responsibilities. If another vendor has his hands full, the ice-creamwala may well stand over the small coal furnace to dry roast corn on the cob for a customer.

I often see him with a book, a newspaper or fiddling with a smartphone. I once ask him to read the name printed on a letter. English, he first identifies. Try the alphabets, I encourage. He stares at it for a moment, and then to my surprise, reads it out correctly. I ask how far he went in school. He shakes his head. Never even went through the gates, he says, turning up his hands to demonstrate lack of funds. His is social learning; achieved with the help of the people he meets.

Nobody knows or asks for his real name; he responds just as well to “Oye!”, "Ice-creamwala!" or beckoning fingers. His cheery Jai Shri Ram greeting to the world announces him each day - the enterprising outsider, arriving to claim his niche. On the days he fails to be there to keep an eye on things, he is actually missed.