The peddler came early morning, peddling his zip-fixing abilities to everyone in the street in his nasal voice. I wondered why all these gypsy street peddlers always had the same voice - had it been proved in extensive studies by their forefathers that that particular timbre of voice could attract more customers or make their voices be heard better? He claimed to be able to repair jacket, satchel, trouser zips and even cycle and motorcycle chains. He wore a green and brown argyle sweater and dangled a bunch of colorful zips in one hand with the other holding a sack containing the tools of his trade. I was watching him from the terrace brushing my teeth, foam collecting at the corners of my mouth. No one had responded to his calls. He turned the corner and disappeared from sight, repeating the same nasal jingle. I wondered how many zips he fixed in a day and if it was even a viable business? Was it enough to feed his family and educate his children? I was once again left amazed at the ingenuity of the poor who had to eke out a living in this country : from repairing zippers to collecting scrap metal and old newspapers, from the florist who pushed his cart through the street every Wednesday, to the man whom I’d encountered from the window of my Ola car pulling a heavily laden cart fastened to a leather band around his waist, from the old woman who went from house to house giving oil massages, to the seven year old street entrepreneur who’d invested his small capital on chillies and lemons which he then strung together and sold to shopkeepers as Nazar Battus, helping them ward off the goddess of poverty, Alakshmi, who'd comfortably made her abode in his own life. It left me grateful for all the good things that life had given me without my asking, and filled me with a deep respect and empathy for those who dared to ask and struggle for it, despite being denied.
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