Their faces shine in the blinding flame of the oven. They toss around their stuff with the ease of a professional and the grace of a flamingo.
The guys selling ‘Momos’ at a nearby pseudo market push in their carts every evening as dusk sets in. That is when their day begins, where the rest of the world is ready to relax. They bring in crates upon crates of steamed momos and settle down as they look forward to a chilly winter evening of business. They work like drones set to motion on key. Their sight, their hands, all their senses work in perfect coordination. They toss, they turn, they pass, they pack. They talk to customers, yet they don’t look at them. Everybody is just another minute – nothing but their presence counts. Their senses work with perfection. They know they are stuck here. They this is where they will be today, tomorrow, the day after that and maybe in the years to follow. Absolute Stagnation.
The child passes on the chopped cabbage to his father, or maybe his uncle, or maybe some random fellow who has promised him pay for his work. He idolizes him; he jumps off his feet in excitement when he gets to touch the ladle.
The wind blows in the from the North, the vast expanse of empty land in front adds to the growing darkness of the evening. A stream of dust follows majestically. Everyone reacts. Some are annoyed, some like me are mesmerized. They? They remain undeterred.
My eyes moved down to the menu display board propped against the wheel of the cart. Someone someday was assigned the job of putting red paint to white wood and write down the much speculated items offered. He must have been proud. He gets to write. People from all around the place will see it, even if they end up buying nothing. They will still see it.
The plate of momos is ready. The fire glitters in the eyes of a little girl holding on to the arm of her grandmother. Apparently the grandmother disapproves. But she lets the child have it anyway.
She gets her plate and the other people move in to get their orders. She holds onto it, very carefully with both her hands. Grandma won’t like it if she drops any. The chill gets to her as she moves out of her grandma’s warm grasp. The shivering child soon loses focus, and momentarily loses interest in the momos. She squints hard at the menu board, apparently going through a tumultuous conflict of information inside her head.
She asks grandma,
“Why does it say CHAUMEEN, what is that?”
“It is the same as CHOWMEIN, C-H-O-W-M-E-I-N”, explains grandma with a smile.
“But it is easier to spell C-H-A-U-M-E-E-N, why don’t we just do it that way?” she is serious and very hopeful.
“Of course it is easier to spell it that way, but it isn’t the right thing to do”, says grandma
“Why?” comes the inevitable reply from the 8 year old.
“Because it isn’t the correct spelling”, replied grandma patiently.
“Oh, should I tell them that?” she asks
“No, no they wouldn’t want to know, they wouldn’t care.” Grandma replies.
“Ok, but I would care if I were them”, she replies with a shrug.
Indeed she would.
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