The roadside cart sells sliced fruit. In preparation for the monsoons, he puts up blue tarpaulin sheets hitched up with two long bamboo sticks. A naked bulb hangs from a red wire, giving the fruits an eerie glow. Plastic slates with words in chalk; the watermelons are definitely more sophisticated than bananaplate. In a bucket full of morgue ice, sit a crate of mangoes; not as yellow as you’d like them, but majestic all the same. Thick incense sticks ward off flies but give the fruit a metallic taste. It’s either funny tasting fruit or cholera on a plate. Sometimes, it’s both.
Before the sun comes up, the man unloads fruits from an auto rickshaw, his arms glistening with sweat. He puts them into tubs of brackish water. His son wipes the counter of the cart, holding his shorts up with one hand. By the time the sun is up and the city is bustling, the man and his son stand behind the cart, in the midst of stacks of fruit and battered cutlery. They arrange the apples and the mangoes on the counter front; they smile at the shining fruit waiting for their customers.
Most people compete with themselves when it comes to spitting watermelon seeds. The first seed hits a tree, the second falls a little beyond. They mentally snigger. Some pack fruits for their kids, pineapple pieces clinging to polythene bags, holding themselves better than their papaya counterparts. Papaya seeds, if ingested in incredibly large amounts, could induce an abortion. Other times, you can grow papayas.
A blue plastic bucket holds used plates; the son washes them with a vengeance. His hands almost always smell of fruit. At night when he goes to sleep, he sticks them under himself. The smell of fruit nauseates him. His shorts are stained with mango juice. Even after several washes, there is a dull spot on the front.
By the time it’s evening, the customers dwindle and once the street lights come on, it’s just the man and his son. They put away the washed plates in the stomach of the cart and cover it with tarpaulin. They tie the edges with rope and push it homewards.
Under his arms he carries a bag full of left over fruit and a bottle of vegetable oil. Only he knows how hard it is to find oil that doesn’t smell. The others use spit to get their strawberries to gleam.
Again, it’s either oily fruits or beetle nut remnants hidden between your grapes.
The next morning, he cuts out the rotting parts of the leftover fruits and puts the good fruits back on the cart. For 10 rs a pop, he thinks he’s being short changed either way.
Before the sun comes up, the man unloads fruits from an auto rickshaw, his arms glistening with sweat. He puts them into tubs of brackish water. His son wipes the counter of the cart, holding his shorts up with one hand. By the time the sun is up and the city is bustling, the man and his son stand behind the cart, in the midst of stacks of fruit and battered cutlery. They arrange the apples and the mangoes on the counter front; they smile at the shining fruit waiting for their customers.
Most people compete with themselves when it comes to spitting watermelon seeds. The first seed hits a tree, the second falls a little beyond. They mentally snigger. Some pack fruits for their kids, pineapple pieces clinging to polythene bags, holding themselves better than their papaya counterparts. Papaya seeds, if ingested in incredibly large amounts, could induce an abortion. Other times, you can grow papayas.
A blue plastic bucket holds used plates; the son washes them with a vengeance. His hands almost always smell of fruit. At night when he goes to sleep, he sticks them under himself. The smell of fruit nauseates him. His shorts are stained with mango juice. Even after several washes, there is a dull spot on the front.
By the time it’s evening, the customers dwindle and once the street lights come on, it’s just the man and his son. They put away the washed plates in the stomach of the cart and cover it with tarpaulin. They tie the edges with rope and push it homewards.
Under his arms he carries a bag full of left over fruit and a bottle of vegetable oil. Only he knows how hard it is to find oil that doesn’t smell. The others use spit to get their strawberries to gleam.
Again, it’s either oily fruits or beetle nut remnants hidden between your grapes.
The next morning, he cuts out the rotting parts of the leftover fruits and puts the good fruits back on the cart. For 10 rs a pop, he thinks he’s being short changed either way.
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