Before the Saga Tiffin - Somewhat of a Love Story

Before this story begins, I want to give an apology to any Indian readers. This story is Cultural Appropriation. I know this. And worse, it gets so much of Indian culture wrong. Heck, it gets the Tiffin trade a good deal wrong too. But I loved finding these Indian words and these Indian moods. They have so much heart and texture to them. I ask for your forgiveness, and hope you find that I have used pieces of your world with a great deal of love.

---

Tiffin

Chillies and tomatoes. Into the pot. Potatoes and onions and okra. Into the pot, into the pot.

And spices that hit your nose and make your eyes water. Not that filthy evil powder sold in dark corners and turns men's minds to mush, but glorious flavors to make your mouth sing. Mrs Saanvi throws spoonfuls into the big metal pot on the open gas flame. Little Arneeta looks on absorbing her mother’s recipes and techniques so that one day she will make big pots of her own, just as her mother cooks now, and as her grandmother did long ago. The pot bubbles and spits and fills their small apartment with smells that have permanently seeped into the walls. They attack the noses and sting the eyes of anyone walking by their window, and they find themselves suddenly feeling hungry.

It is a big pot. Far more than this little family would eat. Enough to feed Twenty-four. Precisely that number. Twenty-four workers out there in Abghat, the Warehouse District of the Holy City of Jedha, who will be looking forward to their lunches.

Early every morning she makes this big pot of vege flavor, and another of rice, and a stack of roti flatbread. All cooked over gas flames, as she hums a little song from Dastur, a wildly melodramatic soap saga she’d watched the night before.

”...There is no one in my life except you. I am with you and I am human… Saanvi sings.

Her husband Omkar, starts lugging in the tiffin. The metal tins for the lunches. He has given them a spray down and wipe. Nice and clean and ready for the new day. And now the three of them sit down on the ancient stone floor, with the pots in the center and stacks of tiffin all around.

Above them on a shelf decorated with plastic flowers sits a little hologram of Jedi Master Ge, now One With the Force and protecting all good faithful families. Master Ge looks down on them, with his long white beard and benevolent smile.

So, to work. They each take a tiffin, and ladle veg into one divider, a ladle of rice in another, and a folded up piece of roti into the third. Clamp on the lid, put it on the pile of filled tiffin, and then onto the next.

Finally papa ties them up into stacked tins of six, and carries them out into the corridor. He makes sure that they have the correct chalk markings so that they are delivered properly. Job done. Now, a little roti for each of them as breakfast, and Arneeta cleans herself up for school, Omkar kisses his wife on the cheek and heads off to his job delivering gas cylinders, and Saanvi begins cleaning up the pots.

The morning ritual is complete.

---

*rap-rap-rap* on the door.

“Dabbawallah!” someone calls outside.

“Good Morning Baskar!” calls back Saanvi. She puts down her straw broom, and opens the door. “Force be with you, how are you today?” and gives him a smile.

“Bright and ready, aunty.” pops back Baskar the Dabbawallah, and is already carrying a few tiffin stacks to his bicycle. The bike has a complex rack on the back from which already an unrealistically large number of tiffin hang. A sensible person would never ride such an unstable heavy machine, but here Baskar is tying on twenty-four more tiffin tins.

“You deserve a proper speeder, my boy. It would make your life so much easier.” says Saanvi.

“When The Force wills it.” replies Baskar with a smile. “And when I have saved up enough”.

“Oh The Force wills it. I ask Master Ge every single day to protect you. He will provide. I know! I know! He will bring you a speeder. Mark my words.”

“I hope so Aunty!”

“Trust in Ge! He will provide. And find you a good girl too. You’ll see!”

He ties the last tiffin to his handlebars, taking care to balance equally on both sides, then hops on ready for the big push to get rolling.

“With both you and Master Ge on my side, how could it not be so?” calls Baskar. “Blessings on your family, Aunty! See you tonight” and he pushes at the ground with his feet, getting himself rolling.

---

Once rolling on the dusty, rocky, bumpy road, he pushes hard on his pedals. His day was entirely human powered. No repulsors, no sparkdrive, not even an old sputterfuel engine to help him along. All honest leg muscles. The crowd of the day was building up, so he had to carefully choose his path between people.

“Morning sir.”
“All apologies.”
“Pardon me. Force be with you.”
“And with you too good sir.”
“It is indeed a most glorious one sir.”

The endless negotiation and weaving between pedestrians wrapped in their robes, all off on their own morning errands and duties. On the sides of the road, stallholders set up their tables and bring out their wares. A day begins.

Once, a procession of Faithful in their all encompassing red robes walks directly in front of him. The followers of the Brotherhood of the Beatific Countenance stop for no-one. They march by on their holy and unknowable journey, and Baskar has no choice but to break and slow his cycle’s heavy momentum with feet sliding on the ground.

He bows his head respectfully, as one should, as they silently glide by. Then, push, push, and off he is rolling again towards The Temple.

---

...more soon...

 

The open courtyard of the Temple beneath that high, high, spire. Those ancient and worn stones carved with rough chiseled runes that no living being can now read are a popular meeting place for the peoples of the Holy City. As always, a few Guardians pace the grounds, looking all arrogant and tough. Some are armed with staffs and swords. An occasional blaster is visible in its holster. They claim to be Protectors of the Temple, as if they have a holy purpose, but that purpose seems to be mainly asking for donations for its holy upkeep with unsaid but very much implied threats if one was to refuse them.

And here Baskar brings his bike to his first stop. Perhaps a dozen other Dabbawallahs are here, all in their neat little white uniforms and their various modes of transport. Other bikes, a pushcart. A couple had managed to save up for motorised tri-shaws. Some rely on the pure honest muscles in their backs.

The cart of the Chaiwallah sits amongst them. On a table built upon it, Miss Ashlita grinds some cardamom pods with her pestle and mortar and pours the powder into her big pot of boiling milk. A colorful scarf around her face. Ahh, her face. Baskar has to resist staring for too long. Her eyes. Her big brown eyes. They have him smitten.

“Don’t drop your tins Baskar! That looks like a lot of deliveries today. Good money.” Ashlita calls out as Baskar carefully sets the stand on his overloaded bike. “Good morning! Fancy a chai, Baskar?”

Baskar says “Of course. Always Ash.” She is just too beautiful. How can he say no? He walks over to her bench, as he fishes a quarter credit chip out of his pocket. She watches his exaggerated swagger, taking a little amusement from his attempted machismo. As he walks, she scoops up milky chai from her pot with one cup, then holds it high to pour a little waterfall into another cup held low. Back and forth between the high and low cup, partially to cool the tea, but honestly it is just as much for tradition and drama.

“There you go.” She reaches delicate fingers out with the cup and gives Baskar a perfect smile. Baskar stares at her a moment too long.

“Thank you Ash. I…”

“Hey Ashlita!” someone calls out behind them.

“Abisheck! Good morning!” Ash calls right past Baskar, her focus now on her next customer. “Is that a new cap? It looks very smart. Fancy a chai, Abisheck?”

Baskar moves aside and sips his chai as the Chaiwallah charms her next Dabbawallah with her sweet, warm chai.

Now his good friend Ravika walks into view. An elderly but very muscular man. He performs his daily deliveries using merely a wood pole over his broad shoulders from which a double-double-dozen tiffin hang.

“Ah Ravika! Blessings man!” Baskar calls out and takes another sip. He takes a quick peek at Ash shining her lovely eyes upon other customers. “How is your back doing, Ravi?”

“The Force gives me strength, my boy, and the Whills help me endure. But if you could find me more of that ointment, the Whills may need to help a little less.” Despite Ravika’s obvious strength, no man can carry his burdens for years on end. A mortal body has limits.

“I will ask Mrs Jaykumar tonight for another tin.” says Baskar with a head wobble. One of the Aunties also makes a rather effective muscle ointment. “Be with you Ravika!”

It is Ravika’s turn to receive Ashlita’s smiles and chai, so back to work. Baskar heads back to his bicycle and unhitches a few stacks of tiffin, and carries them to a scattered collection in the center of the courtyard. They will be picked up by wallahs who travel to other parts of the city. The chalk scribbled instructions on the tins will make sure they find their destination.

He places a single tiffin in a special pile as a donation to the Guardians, as is the accepted way of things, and peace prevails. A respectful nod to a tough fellow sitting nearby. He receives a stern nod in return.

Baskar then picks up a few stacks to add to his own deliveries, carefully tying them to his bike rack. He watches his friend Ravika trudging down towards the Sivasakthi Machine Shop District, his livelihood weighing heavily on his shoulders.

Push, push, and away he rolls again, finally riding off to make his deliveries. A final envious look at whoever Ashlita is focusing her charms upon. Farewell my lover he thinks, as he does every morning.

 

Time to make deliveries.

Past ever pungent Mettupalayam Market where grocers and grainers and meatcleavers call out their wares. Baskar is sure some of the Aunties will be right now haggling over spices and veges to throw in tomorrow’s pots. Past Cotton Alley where the finest cloth is spun and long hours of toil stitch together robes worthy of the finest Jedi Knight or the most beautiful Chaiwallah. The delicate sarikams flutter in the shop windows with their reds and purples and greens with gold lining. Then the road turns around the outside of high wire fences of the Allama Iqba Landing Field. A huge rectangular freighter sits as heavy loaders roll in with containers. And finally past the front gates of the Landing Field, with security with blasters slung under their arms standing out front, and up the busy main road of the Abghat Warehouse District.

He rolls up to the reception door of Kothi Clothing Storehouse. Carefully sets the kickstand of his bicycle, and unhitches a couple of stacks of tiffin.

*knocknock* “Dabbawallah!” he calls.

The ancient wood door creaks open, and a tiny Talpini gentleman in overalls appears. Four feet tall and all smiles on quite a large mouth for a small fellow.

“Hello my lad! Oh lovely lovely.” he says as Baskar bends down and hands him his tiffins. He gives them a deep sniff. “Ahhh” and his huge smile grows larger. He turns and calls back “Boys! Lunch is here!”

A “Woo!” comes from within.

And then on to the next stops. Stroms Ornaments. Old Pahkus Furniture. A warehouse with no name other than a complex circular symbol. At each door he is greeted with the smiles of people grateful for their lunches.

---

His last stop. His last ten tiffin. And now his bicycle is light and easy to ride as he rolls up to the door of Holy Jedha Galactic Marble Wholesale Supplies Limited. Of course Jedha Marble is highly prized, being touched by the Power of the Force that Jedha is so renowned for. A Jedha Marble desktop will surely bring good fortune and success to any businessman.

All deliveries are now done, but Baskar leaves his bicycle parked. He walks around the corner of the building into an alleyway down the side. It is much quieter here, out of the endless hussle on the main road. If you take a look a short distance up the alley you see a handful of people milled around a doorway, hands clasped and muttering Force Mantras.

“The Force is with me and I am One with The Force.”
“Be with me Whills and guide me towards the Light.”
“Free me of the Darkness that directs me towards wickedness and make my heart pure.”
They mutter their praise and wishes and hopes and fears in a steady quiet hum.

Baskar walks up, hands together, and bows his head to the man seated, cross legged, in the doorway.

This is the Sahdu Paramahamsa Upanishad.

An old man with a bushy grey beard. His face and body are painted coarsely white, with decorative red lines painted around his eyes and down his cheeks. His hair is long and matted as of a person who indeed has not washed or combed it in 20 years. For clothes he wears but a simple loincloth.

His eyes are closed. Sahdus commonly live most of their lives in their dreams.

“I beg for strength and health so that I may perform my duties well, Holy Paramahamsa. Beg of the Whills to smile upon my humble life of service to others. And as I always beg, please tell Ashlita’s heart to look at me for more than a moment.”

Baskar kneels on the rock strewn road and kisses the stones of the doorway before the holy man, as he does every day.

And as always as he does this, he looks under the Sahdu and sees that he is floating. Just a finger’s width. Just a little. But it is no trick. No hidden support. He floats. The Force is not merely a belief, doubting readers. Not merely the invention of simple superstitious people. It is physical and real.

With these respects paid, Baskar is on his feet and walking back to his bicycle to finish the day.

---

more ...

 

Love very much the details of the food and pedestrians and sellers of cuisine and chai. I love chai tea myself. Baskar's greetings are warm and familiar and his preoccupation with Ashlita very understandable.

Eager for more.

 

The afternoon is performed in the reverse of the morning. A visit to each warehouse, where the now empty tiffin are handed back to him, along with a clatter of four credits for each tin. Three for the Auntie’s cooking, one for the Dabbawallah’s delivery. Now, a return to the Temple, where the empty tiffin are exchanged between the men in white uniforms again. And then the final rides to each Aunty to drop off the tiffin boxes and their share of the proceeds. Mrs Jayakumar gives him a little jar of her special ointment. A busy day that would be nearly done for most.

Back to Mrs Saanvi. Back to the beginning of our story.

“Good afternoon Baskar! You must be tired, you poor boy. Come sit! Sit!”

Mrs Saanvi puts a plate of vege and rice and roti on a little metal outside table, and Baskar sits down wearing the smile he had seen on so many other faces today. It's finally his turn to enjoy Mrs Saanvi’s cooking.

“Any chance you found yourself a good woman on your travels?”

“None as good as you, Aunty.” and Baskar picks up a handful of rice smushed with vege into a tasty paste and takes a mouthful.

“Well obviously you have to lower your standards.” Mrs Saavi laughs.

A stack of sixteen tiffin, freshly filled, and a special single tin painted with mystical red symbols sits by the doorway. Ready for a special evening delivery. Once he is done eating, “Thank you Aunty. Delicious as always”, Baskar ties them to the rack in the back of his bicycle.

“Ask him for the Whills blessing on us, Baskar.”

“I always do, Aunty. See you tonight.” and away he rides again.

This time he has a singular destination. Past the Temple, the Landing Ground, the Warehouses.

To the Alleyway of the Sahdu.

---

The sun is low in the sky, and the crowds build. Faithful servants of the Whills, praying their Mantras. One man has a pot of red paint and is touching up the designs on the Sahdu’s body.

The holy man sits, floating, legs crossed and eyes closed as people take up positions in the lane around him. Baskar, walks amongst them calling out “Tiffin!”, and people stop him for the little exchange of a tin for 4 credits. He never thinks of charging more. He never takes advantage. That would just not be Faithful.

Here are Mister and Missus, Harsha and Geetha, Ravkini. A lovely old couple, wrapped in woven cloaks to fend off the rapidly cooling evening, and huddled close upon a red and orange woven rug. They have come here pretty much every night since Baskar started selling here. Together they recite their favourite mantra. “Intercede for us revered Paramahamsa. Beg the Whills to show us the Light when the temptations of the Dark might make us fall.” In love for a lifetime, the couple are bonded by their Faith in the Force.

Mrs Ravkini waves her handful of credit chips high at Baskar, as she always does, and they make their exchange. “Force bless my child.”

“And to you too, Aunty”. And then onwards to through the assembled Faithful.

---

“Ooh Hoo! Tiffin Man!”

At the back of the assembled Faithful stand a couple in pristine orange jumpsuits. Offworlders, obviously. One holds a holorecorder, videoing the proceedings. They are calling him over.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to catch a bug.” Missus Offworlder says quietly to Mister Offworlder.
“We took our Omonium pills. It should be okay.” replies Mister Offworlder.
“Hmm.” Missus is unconvinced.

Baskar smiles at them and walks over. “My last two.” handing them to the couple. “I can assure you that Mrs Saavi is as fine a cook as you would find in any expensive restaurant. Even finer, I would say, but I am biased. She has never had a customer complain.”

“Oh no sorry. I didn’t mean to imply… how much do I owe you?”

“Just eight credits for the two good sir.”

“Is that all?” Mister Offworlder fishes in his pockets and brings out a chip. “Here. Have twenty.”

“No no sir. Eight credits is the price. The Sahdu Paramahamsa would not approve. To become One with the Force, you must never deceive. You must never cheat.”

“He tells you this? He seems to be always asleep.”

“Has someone told you to come here at sunset? Your travel guide? You shall see sir. The sun is getting low.”

Indeed the shadows are growing longer, and the sky is gaining wisps of orange and red. The Offworlders open their tins, and smell the delights within. They smile at each other, and each rip off a piece of roti, dip it into vege and take a bite.

“Oh that’s very good.” says Missus Offworlder, and digs back in for more.

“So. This man. How long has he been there? The Sah..” asks Mister, stumbling over the word.

“Sahdu. Sahhh - Du. For more than 20 years, I have been told. As long as I remember. See there beside the doorway?” Baskar points. “See the old rusted tiffin? The story is that he was once a Dabbawallah, like me. He delivered to these very warehouses for many years. And one day he sat in this doorway, tired after his deliveries, and broken-hearted for a beautiful Chaiwallah who ignored his pleas. He sat and pondered his tragic predicament, and fell into a deep sleep. The Whills, bless them, took pity on his sad sleeping soul, and claimed him for their own. And has been here ever since.”

“Huh. A nice story for the tourists, eh?”

Baskar points. “The tiffin boxes are there. You see them with your own eyes. So maybe it’s true. I like to think so.” He looks over to the warehouse doorway. “Now please forgive me. I have one final delivery.” and left the couple to step through the crowd. The two Offworlders dig into their dinners, feeling very glad they have come here today.

He steps through the Faithful. The regulars know why he is here.
”Excuse me.”
“Pardon my rudeness.”
“Force be with you.”

He makes his way through the crowd to stand directly in front of the Sahdu Paramahamsa Upanishad. A bow. “Please accept this humble gift from Mrs Saanvi and beg the Whills to look kindly upon her and myself.”

Another bow, and he places a tiffin on the doorway step. The sun finally lowers to touch the edge of the distant horizon. Sunset.

And the Sahdu’s eyes open.

---

More, more more to come....

 

Nice reading of the day's end and the encounters

 

A few blinks. A crick of his neck and a stretch of his back. The moments of awakening that we all feel each morning.

And then the Sahdu gives a smile to the man standing before him. “Ah. Good evening Baskar. You have dinner for me?” He looks to the doorstep beside him. “Thank Mrs Saanvi for me.” Baskir nods, a little in awe. A pair of ladies trot up with water. It is their turn to pamper the Holy Man. Baskir retreats back into the crowd and takes a seat in the dirty lane.

The Sahdu takes a drink, opens the tiffin and takes a handful of rice. The crowd watches his little meal intently. The Offworlders watch the intensity rise in the crowd, as they chew on a piece of roti. The Sahdu places the tiffin to the side and rests his hands on his lap.

A few deep calming breaths, and he speaks, head down.
“The Whills who bind us to the Force.
The Whills who give us the Spark of Life.
Revered Whills bless us with your Mercy.”

He lifts his face to look at the Faithful.
“Good Evening everyone.”

“Good Evening Blessed Sahdu.” they all respond together.

“I have been Dreaming again. A beautiful dream. A beautiful dream.” His eyes close, as if he is falling asleep again. A moment of silence as the Faithful lean forward, awaiting his next words. He opens his eyes. “I was floating. Floating on the blue waters of the Sacred Sarasvati River. Floating. I sat cross legged as I do now in the Padmasana Pose, in my small round boat. And as my boat followed along with the gentle flow of the river, my hand dipped into the waters. So cool and clean.”

The Sahdu’s left hand drifts gently down by his side, fingers slowly moving as if through the river currents. Amongst the listening Faithful some also let their hands follow, imagining this cool river that they would never see. The Sahdu lifts his hand to his face as if to wipe his brow with his wet hand. Faithful hands follow.

Baskar wipes his hand across his face, imagining the cool water washing away the dust.

While the Sahdu talks the sun keeps sinking lower and is now cut halfway by the horizon. The town is in shadows.

“And as I float, I am at peace. I see the eight golden Matsua, swimming beneath the waters alongside my boat. Their long tails gently sway back and forth. I look up and above me, gliding on outstretched white wings, the Hamsa also follow. The Manifestations of Whills are with me. Guiding me.”

Baskar looks up for the Hamsa and sees a couple of black winged bergens sitting on the power wires. They let out a Caw-caw. Their black eyes scan the streets for something tasty. Are the Whills guiding them too? Is the Force with them?

“And there, before me, my love floats into view.”

The Faithful chant, “Most Beautiful Radhani. Most Beautiful”. They have heard this story before.

“She sits on her island of water blossoms, lighty wrapped in her silk sarikam of reds and blues and gold. And she sings to me as I float closer. I have never heard a sweeter voice in my life. She is the Force of Light in human form.”

The Sahdu raises a hand, making a delicate gesture with his fingers, and silently mouths a moment of a tune that he remembers. “Ahhh.” A few of the Faithful actually sing the note they imagine he is feeling.

“Around me, the Hamsa land with a splash, their feet sliding across the water surface. But all I see, all I hear, all I feel, is my most beautiful Radhani. I stand in my little round boat and step onto her island of water blossoms. I look into her eyes. I reach out and touch her hand. Her perfect delicate fingers.”

He reaches out to the Faithful as the last bite of orange sun slips below the horizon.

The Sahdu stops. Full of heart and memory. “I must go back to her.” And simply, quietly, he places his hands on his lap and closes his eyes.

And that is all.

---

Everyone sits in silence for a little while. Baskar slowly gets his senses together and looks around as people get up to leave. Mr and Mrs Ravkini are still sitting on their mat, arms around each other, heads touching. He looks to the back to also see Mrs and Mrs Offworlder standing close to each other, arms around waists. Mr Offworlder places a gentle kiss on Mrs Offworlder’s cheek.

His various customers walk up to him and place their tiffin tins beside him. It is always polite to return your tin.
“Thank you.”
“Blessing of the Whills on you.”
“Tell Aunty it was lovely.”

The Faithful are generally rather quiet and low key now as they leave. Many of them walk up to the doorway and give the Sahdu a bow and a few words.

Baskar receives just a simple nod and a smile from the Offworlders as they hand back their tiffin tins. Perhaps a tear could be seen in their eyes?

Soon the alleyway is empty. Just Baskar sitting alone with his pile of tiffin, and Sahdu Paramahamsa Upanishad, asleep again and floating. The Sahdu’s old tiffin tins lie scattered on the ground beside his doorway. Both silent in the darkness.

The pair of black bergens flap down to peck at a piece of a discarded roti. Caw-caw. They bicker with each other over the scrap.

Normally now would be the time for Baskar to get to his feet. A little self motivating “Up! Up!”. Pick up whatever trash might have been left behind, bow and say a little mantra before the Sahdu, load up his bike, and back to Mrs Saanvi to finally end this long day.

But today… today he stays seated. He looks at the Sahdu, a man floating in his dreams with his lover, and he feels a pang of envy sharper today than he has ever before. He wishes he was the dreamer and his dream was of Ashlita.

“Sacred Whills. Do you hear me? I am a good man, am I not? Do I not bring a little happiness to at least a few people in this Holy City? Do I not tend to your Blessed Sadhu every evening? I do not ask for many things. I have wishes, but I do not press for them seriously. I do not need a Speeder. Mrs Saanvi may wish that upon me, but I do not need one. That seems like far too complex a piece of machinery for me to worry about. And it would make me a lazy, prideful person.

But can I ask for just one thing? One thing and then I will not bother you again. I promise. Just turn Ashlita’s eyes a little towards me. I would make her happy. I promise. I promise. I am a good man. I try to be. She is so beautiful. So…” his quiet words fade into thoughts. Her eyes. Her laughter. He smiles at these impressions inside his head, and so he forgets to get up and complete his tasks. And so he sits. And thinks. And feels the pang in his heart. He watches the bergens hop around the quiet laneway, pecking at scraps. His thoughts grow vague, and quietly he slips into sleep.

---

...still more...

 

Very poetic details of the encounter with the Sadhu and his lyrical words. Baskar is so earnest and sincere about his longing for Ashlita.

 

This is magnificent. Baskar is a very likeable OC just delivering his tiffins and feeling the appreciations of his customers. And the lovelt scenery coming alive.

 

Caw Caw.

Baskar feels sunlight shining through his closed eyelids. A rather more gentle light than the hard Jedha radiation that he is so used to. He hears the lapping of water. The floor beneath him sways a little. He hears singing. He opens his eyes.

Caw Caw.

Two white birds with elegant long necks float in the water before him. They ruffle their feathers, and look at Baskar with intelligent eyes. They know who he is. Then they curve their necks to look up at the two Lovers.

The Sahdu Paramahamsa and the Most Beautiful Radahani sit in the Padmasana Pose upon their island of water blossoms. Paramahamsa is young again. A handsome man in the finest of robes. Radhani is in her delicate sarikam that seems to flow into different colors. Sometimes red, or perhaps orange, perhaps, or purple or even blue. Baskar is unable to focus exactly on the hue. But one thing he is sure of is that she glows. The Lovers seem to radiate a beautiful golden energy. Rays of the Force of Life pour forth from them.

“Hello Baskar. What a pleasant surprise to see you here.” says the Sahdu. Is he The Sahdu here? He has been transformed into someone more regal.

“Thank you Holy Paramahamsa. I don't understand how I am here.” Says Baskar.

“Is this the delivery boy, Rama my dear? The Dabahwalla that you like to talk about?” asks The Most Beautiful Radhani.

“The very one.” replies the Sahdu to his companion. Then to Baskar, “My dear boy, let's not be too formal. No one is worshiping anyone here. I am Rama, and this is the most definitely gorgeous Radhi”

“And we are both very happy to have a visitor.” continued Rahdika.

They both give Baskar a little bow. The Hamsa floating beside the blossom island also give out a bird screech of welcome.

Baskar puts a hand up to shield his eyes from their light. “So… so this a dream? Is it? What happens now? Why am I here?”

“Oh I expect you amuse the Whills in some way. They get bored and play games with us mortals.” says Sahdu Rama.

“Yes, yes. Remember that fruit seller? Lord Vishicardamon?” puts in Rahdi.
“He was fun.” Says Rama.

“So fun. We had to fight the Dark Lord Vishicardamon. He came armed with a flaming sword, which quite surprised both of us. It was very dramatic. Poor fellow. He wasn't a well man. The Darkside takes its toll on a person's mind.”

“But that battle was quite spectacular in the top of Mount Bromo with all the lava and winged demons. I think after he was defeated he returned to running a fruit stall in Mettupalayam Market. Could you go say hello to him, Baskar? Check on his health for us. We worry about him.”

Baskar only vaguely understands what these two are carrying on about. “So I am here to fight Demons? As fun as that sounds, the Whills seem to have forgotten to give me a sword.” says Baskar.

“Hmmm.” The two lovers look at each other.
“Love” says Rahdi.
“Oh yes. That's obviously it.” returns Rama.
“The Dabbawallah and the Chaiwallah.” says Rahdi, and they both burst out laughing.

Baskar looks on, somewhat hurt. He tries to stand in his little round boat, but it sways and bounces, threatening to throw him into the river. And are those huge gold fish circling the boat dangerous? He sits again. “Does my pain amuse you?”

“I’m sorry. No no. You wish she loved you in return, as all men do when they see a beautiful smile.” Rama looks over at Rahdi who beams back an over exaggerated look of love.

“See? Works every time.” Rahdi laughs. “How about a Love Potion?” she suggests.
“Oh yes.” Rama agrees. “An Aunty could brew one up. Mrs Saanvi would happily do that for you. Maybe we can give you a recipe.”

“Very well. Perhaps little sorgum root. To soften her mood.” suggests Rahdi.
“And some okra. Because I love okra. I’d love anyone who cooked me okra.” adds Rama.
“Well then potatoes, of course.”
“A single Rock Lizard heart.”
Rahdi screws up her beautiful face. “Ew, why? That’s horrible.”
“All love potions have to have something disgusting in them.” says Rama.
Rahdi looks directly at Baskar. “You skip the lizard hearts. Do you hear? Don’t go hurting any lizards.”
“Ahh. Very well. So onion and tomatoes...” continues Rama.
“And some spices, chillies…”
“Mmmm. And plenty of Garam Masala.”
“That goes without saying.”
“And a pinch of Saffron, of course.”
“Of course. There you have it, Baskar. The recipe for a simple Potato Curry.” The gorgeous Rahdi finishes the recipe.

“Potato Curry?” Baskar looks confused.

“Do we look like we know about love potions? Mrs Saanvi will have a much better recipe.” says Rama.
“But skip the lizard hearts.” Rahdi adds.

Baskar stands up, wobbly. “But the Whills! They brought me here! And all you do is mock me? That seems most unfair.”

“Baskar, we aren’t mocking you.” says Rahdi.
“Well, we are. A little bit.”
“Yes. Just a bit. But with love.”
“Love. With love, Baskar.”

The two Hamsa raise their beaks and let out amused honks.

“Even you?” He gave the birds a hurt look.

“Argh.” Baskar looked back at the Lovers. “You two are supposed to be Holy and you make jokes.” He groaned in frustration. “Why can’t the Whills make her love me? Such a small thing. Who would it harm?”

"Baskar! Listen! Seriously. No. The Whills would never do such a thing. That would be cheating.” says Rama.
“To become One with the Force, you must never deceive. You must never cheat.” Rahdi recites.
“It would be wrong to play with someone’s heart for the sake of a boy’s infatuation.”
“What if she already loves another?” She says. “What if she simply does not love you? Love always must come from a true heart.”

Together they say “You cannot cheat love.”

The Hamsa floating in the river twist their necks and honk in agreement.

“So, nothing then. No help.” Baskar sat in his little round boat, defeated.

“Baskar. The Whills will not give her to you. Only you can move her heart.”

Rahdi leans forwards on her knees. Her perfect face beams with the Light of the Force as she bends down to kiss Baskar on the forehead.

“Talk to her.”

---

one chapter to go...

 

Baskar got some good advice about Ashlita.

 

Yes good advice. I love the scenery with the island. And that one about the battle on Mount Bromo. That volcano is famous.

 

Time to end this story

---

The morning sun gradually creeps down the alleyway until it touches the sleeping Baskar lying on the ground. His eyes open, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is. He pushes himself upright and picks bits of gravel out of the side of his face.

He looks at the Sahdu, still sitting, floating, cross legged in his doorway. His fine robes gone, his youth gone, his hair back to being a dirty matted mess. He is again an old man in a loin cloth and coarsely coated in red and white paint.

“Talk to her.” he mutters. “What do you think I have been trying to do? Is that your great wisdom?”

He gets to his feet, limbs sore from the hard sleep, and picks up his pile of tiffin, then ties them up and hooks them onto his bicycle. Mrs Saanvi will be wondering what happened to him.

“Talk to her.” he says again as he mounts his bike. And off he goes on the ride he has pedalled hundreds of times before.

Mrs Saanvi greets him with a worried look on her face. “What happened to you my boy? Your white uniform is a mess. Did those Guardians attack you? The authorities should do something about those hoodlums.”

“No no Aunty. Don’t go yelling at them please. They have done nothing wrong.”

She sits him down for a bit of breakfast roti while she goes inside to finish off her cooking and assembling the day's tiffin. She worries about his downcast state. Eventually the tiffin are stacked and ready, and the Dabbawallah is sent off, but without the usual happy chatter that is their habit.

---

At the Temple, the usual rituals are performed. The swapping of tiffin. A tribute tiffin for the Guardians. Life goes on. He gives old Ravika the jar of Mrs Jayakumar’s ointment for his shoulders, and receives a crushing bearhug from the huge man as a reward.

“Baskar! Hello! You’re a little late today! Have a chai!” Ashlita calls him over.

Baskar smiles, but without so much of his regular enthusiasm. “Certainly Ash. Pour me one please.”

As he walks over, the Chaiwallah puts on her usual performance of pouring chai waterfalls between two cups. “Sweet as always, Ash. Thank you.”

“You are very welcome, Baskar.” She calls over his shoulder. “Mister Maidu! Come on over!” and as always she quickly moves on to her next customer.

He sits on the stones and sips his chai. He watches Ash do her magic. “Ah well.” His usual urge to get on the road is lost in his deflated mood. He knows his customers may be annoyed at their late lunches. “I should get moving,” he mutters. But he sits.

The last of the Dabbawallahs have passed by the Temple, and Ashlita starts packing up her cart of cups and pots and spices. “Baskar! You’re still here! Wake up man! Go deliver your deliveries!”

He looks up, shaking off his daydreaming. “Oh Ash. Sorry. Yes. I should… can I help you pack up?”

“Oh sure. If you have time. Thank you. Can you pick up those stray cups?”

He walks around the courtyard, picking up the cups the other wallahs have left behind, and brings them back to her cart.

“Where do you go from here?”

“I usually set up at Mettupalayam Market for the afternoon. It's steady business.”

“The Market? I should come see you. I ride by there every day.” he says.

“Yes? I’d be very happy if you did.”

“I have to go see a fruit seller. For a friend who is worried about him. A Mister Vishi…”

“Mister Vishicardamon! Dinesh. Oh I know him! A lovely man. He sells very nice mangosteens. I’ll introduce him to you.”

…and on they talked.


The End

@earlybird-obi-wan @WarmNyota_SweetAyesha @Findswoman
Always Most Beautiful Goddesses.
The Light of the Force radiates from your faces.
Thank you

 

Yes, Baskar is meeting her, sitting, watching and helping and at the end beginning to talk with her.
You have brought us a wonderful story. Thank you for sharing it with us.

 

I think Baskar expected the advice to be some instantaneous no-effort thing on his part. That's why he's dejected.


Then he speaks up, not telling his feelings yet, but taking small steps of getting comfortable and deepening a friendship and then hopefully working up the courage (and seeing whether his feelings are returned.) At the very least Baskar realizes Ashlita welcomes his overtures of friendship and is not dismissive.

I hope we return to this world and these characters again.

 

I finished reading this story and felt a sudden urge to eat okra curry, but there are no okra in my freezer today So I settled for soaking a pack of chickpeas, and that's what we'll be having for dinner tomorrow!

This is to say that I absolutely loved the worldbuilding in this story. It was so wonderfully immersive that I could smell the spices and the cooking, I could hear the sounds of the market, I could feel the grit of dust on my face. There are so many evocative little details peppered throughout the text; in particular the series of greetings and apologies as Baskar makes his way through the city reminded me of the neigbourhood market near my aunt's home in Alexandria, where everyone knows each other and people just talk to each other absent-mindedly until they reach their favourite spot where they have friends and engage in proper conversation, like Baskar does with Ashlita and Ravika.

More generally, I loved how you took us on a tour of the Holy City through Baskar's daily grind and showed us the "landmarks", so to speak – the Temple itself, of course, but also Mettupalayam Market, Cotton Alley, the Abghat Warehouse District and so on. I really got the sense that the Faith permeates every aspect of life on Jedha, with the Brotherhood of the Beatific Countenance walking by, Baskar's asides about what is and isn't proper faithful behaviour, and the idea that Jedha marble is a "blessed" stone that will bring its owner good fortune.

And then, Baskar's story itself! Again, this was so nicely done, describing him starting his day in his chipper mood with a little bit of banter with Mrs. Saanvi, labouring to cross the city without complaint, and then revealing that he has a rather considerable crush on Ashlita but doesn't know how to talk to her and that it's part of his daily prayer to the Sahdu. The evening ceremony with the Sahdu was lovely, and having those tourists there allowed you to explain why he's so special to Baskar – but, having seen him in constant meditation for 20 years, Baskar couldn't have imagined for a second that he was this playful, mischievous character who would tease him before telling him this most simple of truths: if he wants Ashlita to love him, he must take the first step by talking to her. The scene of his vision was a fantastic piece of writing, with the contrast between the idyllic landscape and the supernatural appearance of Rama and Rahdi on the one hand, and the apparent nonsense they're telling him about love potions and lizard hearts and potato curries on the other – until they ground him with their final words.

I thought it was a great idea to have Ashlita make a (very small) first move in the final chapter, when she notices that Baskar isn't his usual chipper self and isn't off making his deliveries. On all other days, he's so consumed by being a good dabbawallah that he doesn't realise he wasn't making space for Ashlita in his life, but now that he started talking to her... he's on the right track!

tl;dr: A wonderful story, unusual, creative, immersive and imaginative in true Greg style, and one I'll be coming back to regularly because I enjoyed it so much.