It was on a cold winter morning that I sat on my balcony sipping a hot cup of tea and blankly stared at the street that was slowly waking up to welcome the day. Early risers were returning from their morning walks, some covered in thick layers of winter clothing, rubbing their hands or waving them about to keep warm.
Being a journalist just starting off my career, I had been asked to cover a particular political meeting to be held at one of those decrepit venues which I hated most to do. I had the whole morning off, the reason for my sitting on the balcony sipping my tea. It was just an off glance that I saw a man pushing a cart filled with papayas of all sizes and shapes, lined neatly in a row on the pushcart. The cart was being pushed by a man probably in his mid-40s, and tagged along with him were two boys aged maybe around 8 and 6 years. Both had on brown uniforms, so I presumed they were his children and that he was dropping them off at school on his way.
As he wore a white skull cap on his head and was attired in a white overflowing robe, I presumed—and rightly so—that he was a “Mohammedan.” For want of a name, I decided to call him “Ali,” which to my sense was a very common name. What fascinated me was the bonhomie with which he pushed the cart, chatting freely with his children, making gestures, and the children laughing gleefully at every word of his. To tell the truth, I too felt elated seeing them pass by.
Soon, they went past me and beyond, mingling into the melee of the early morning rush. But the thought of what I had witnessed did not leave me, and soon I decided to take a closer look at his stall, as I guessed where he might set it up. After my morning rituals and a leisurely lunch, I took a small nap and woke up around 4.00 in the afternoon. Something in my conscience urged me to go and have a look at Ali’s stall, so I took a stroll towards where I assumed it would be. But I had no luck, as I could not find it. Dejected, I returned home and took up a book to spend some time.
As I had to be at the dinner meeting at 8.00, I once again sat on the balcony doing absolutely nothing but watching the day end. I could see many office-goers returning tired and listless. It was at this juncture that I happened to look up the road and saw Ali returning. He not only had his two children along with him, but also a woman dressed in a brown burqa. She had not covered her head, and I could see that she was quite pretty, with an almost round face and long hair streaking down her back. She seemed blissful, walking silently behind Ali and his two children. As they went past my window, I could see that she was much prettier than I had imagined. There was something about her that I could not fathom, and it left me perplexed.
The same scene repeated the next day too, and soon I had to go back to my original place of work. Ali and his family drifted away from my thoughts. It was almost six months later that I was back in the same flat and had the opportunity to see Ali walk past my balcony again. As I had arrived on a morning train, I could not see him going by to set up his stall, but I was fortunate to see him return. This time he was accompanied not only by his sons and wife, but also a young man who was walking behind, talking excitedly with Ali’s wife. I could see that the lady was taken by his humour and constantly smiled and patted him. Everyone seemed to be happy. Oh! What a wonderful world.
Being a journalist, I sniffed around searching for stories, but here there was nothing, as these were ordinary people and I did not expect anything newsworthy to happen. Yet something fascinated me, and I decided to find out where Ali put up his stall. It took me some time to discover it, and once I did, I found myself with a plate of freshly cut papaya in my hand. As I ate the deep orange papaya pieces, well sprinkled with salt and pepper, I watched Ali holding a fresh papaya and peeling the skin off in swift strokes of his thin knife—a ground hacksaw blade with a wooden handle. The deftness with which he slashed the knife, removing thin slivers of skin, was a fascinating sight.
Ali and his papayas slowly drifted out of my mind, and it was nearly six years later that I happened to return to his stall to partake in another plate of papaya. Strangely, I felt there was a remarkable difference in Ali’s demeanour. He seemed to have added a few too many years and looked beaten. As I did not know the man personally, I had no way of ascertaining why.
As usual, I sat on the balcony to see him go by, and as expected, I saw him pushing his cart—now alone, as his children had probably grown up and moved on. The absence of his wife was a disappointment too.
Had it not been for a chance encounter, I would have been denied the story of Ali’s life. It so happened that I had to take a local bus to a nearby town to attend yet another meeting. It was a Sunday, and as I stood waiting for the bus, I saw Ali standing nearby. I was a little queasy about approaching him, but he seemed to have no such uneasiness. He spoke warmly when I introduced myself. We were on the same bus and sat together during the nearly two-hour journey. Over time, he slowly opened up and narrated his story.
For the past ten years, he had been selling papayas at the same street corner, shouting out deals to passing customers. His hands were rough from years of handling fruit, and his eyes, though tired, still held warmth—especially when he looked at his two children.
Ali’s wife, Noor, had left them five years earlier. She ran away with her own nephew, a man ten years younger than her, who dreamed of making it big in the film industry. Together they fled to Mumbai, where she somehow found her way into low-budget cinema. Someone once told Ali that she had become a C-grade movie star, acting in films nobody talked about in respectable circles.
At first Ali had been furious, then sad; now he simply didn’t care. He had two mouths to feed and no time for regrets. As people began to ask him about Noor, he would reply nonchalantly, “She left us for her dreams. I stayed for reality.” There was no remorse in his words—just fact.
For lack of time, I did not pursue this further. However, during a visit to Mumbai, I suddenly remembered Ali and his movie-star wife. It was not difficult to find her, as she featured in many sleazy magazines and posters. Even today, I will vouch that she was a pretty woman, though her fame rested more on her bosom than her face.
I tried calling her, but there was no response, so I decided to search for her and easily traced her to one of those bygone, dingy studios. Upon reaching there, I introduced myself as a reporter and requested an interview. The response was astoundingly quick, as the producer felt it would help promote his upcoming film. I was ushered into a brightly lit room barely larger than a garment store trial room.
Noor leaned back in her vanity chair, staring at her reflection under harsh yellow bulbs. A makeup artist dabbed powder on her face, trying to hide exhaustion that even thick foundation couldn’t conceal. She smiled faintly and gestured for me to sit.
I wanted to ask, “Why did you do it?” but refrained and began with light banter. The twinkle in her eyes told me she knew why I was there.
She suddenly asked, “How is Ali?”
I was taken aback and fumbled for a response. I gently told her I was not Ali’s emissary and had come of my own accord.
She opened up, speaking of gossip, mockery, and judgment. She said she had no regrets. Marrying Ali was a mistake—not because he was a bad man, but because he was not meant for someone like her. She wanted more. She wanted to be seen. She did not want to be just “Ali’s wife.”
She asked repeatedly about her children, her eyes filling with tears. She begged me to take money for them. I refused and told her to go herself. She gave me an indifferent look as I walked out.
Nearly a decade later, I received a call from Abdul—her nephew. Noor wanted to see me; her health had deteriorated. I knew she wanted an emissary, but I agreed.
I met her in her palatial, garish home. She had bloated terribly. Her belly was larger than her bosom, and she looked ugly. Alcohol hung heavily in the air, and she was clearly drunk.
She asked about her children. Then she asked me to witness her will and deliver it to Ali. Reluctantly, I agreed.
Later she asked me to accompany her to Ali’s home. Ali welcomed her without resentment. Their sons came hesitantly. She stayed there, cared for with dignity.
A week later, Ali informed me that she had passed away in her sleep. I handed him the will. He stared blankly and bid me goodbye.
Years later, I learned from one of his sons that Ali had donated the entire amount to a charitable institution supporting struggling artists.
What fascinated me about Ali was the sheer goodness in him—something no amount of money or fame can buy.
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