In this fast-paced, worried world,
he is slow-paced and relaxed,
The elderly pickle seller
who visits the village on Wednesdays,
Gently pulling his bicycle,
His wooden tray
bearing jars of different pickles,--
Mango, lemon, chili, mixed,
Made at home with extreme care.
He doesn’t shout,
He gently trills,
As you hear his kindly hawking notes,
you suddenly know it’s Wednesday,
He must be visiting seven villages
on seven different days,
A small target audience
for his little business,
Following his weekly rules
as obediently as his mixtures of spices,
It might be a world of
ultramodern foods, tastes and culinary techniques,
of home deliveries and swanky food courts,
But a bit of his pickle
still brings water and taste
to the poor disadvantaged tongues,
And even the well-off
may sometimes go for a taste change.
His Wednesday visit,
going from years after years,
from his youth to old age,
fills the vacant culinary space
left there by the economic disparities,
He has his little world
in this big, clamoring, clattering bazaar.
He doesn’t run,
he gently walks,
He doesn’t shout,
He merely whispers his hawking notes,
He isn’t bothered about factories and corporations,
He is happy with his portion of his room
where he prepares his pickles,
Beyond jet-flying complexities,
he is joyful on his bicycle,
Beyond celebrity chefs and their philosophical cooking,
He is happy with his ever-same pickles,
Beyond the stampede of more and more,
he still weighs his world
in grams of pickles
and calculates the finances in one, two rupees and paisas,
He carries lots of change in his pocket,
Small notes and coins to deal with poor customers,
But he brings big culinary delight
to many a poor heart.
He owns his Wednesday in the village
more than anyone else,
It’s his day,
Arrives he with the sun’s fresh ray,
A gentle hawking walk,
And then goes away for the next six days.
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