When I was making a Facebook account recently, it asked me what my Hometown was. I thought about it for a while, but didn’t have an answer. Looks like I have had such a nomadic life, I don’t have a Hometown.
This list just covers the cities I have lived in. Even within these cities, I have sometimes lived in up to 3 different places. What is my Hometown, then?
Bhubaneshwar, because I was born there, but lived only a few months?
Kolkata, because that’s where my parents are from, but lived only a year?
Gurgaon, where I lived the longest and have my own place but don’t ever plan to return to?
Thankfully, I am off Facebook, so don’t have to answer this question anymore.
This is not aimed at 1 particular Haryanvi, but all of them. Also, I have nothing against them, many of my friends are Haryanvis.
I witnessed a curious scene today morning. I visited the local Puncture repair shop to get my bike tire fixed. While the guy was working on my bike, a Maruti SX4 stopped near the shop with 1 flat tyre. 2 Haryanvis (wearing traditional garb) stepped out and instructed the puncture-wallah in Haryanvi to fix the tire. Let me describe the car in more detail.
It had silver license plates with the numbers written in golden. Completely incomprehensible unless you look at it from just the right angle. Also, there were no alphabets, only numbers. All the windows (including the windscreen) were covered with pitch black (illegal) film. While the door was opened for a few seconds, I could see that the upholstery was bright red in colour.
With the car out of the way, let me describe the folk in detail. They talked in loud voices in Haryanvi, were wearing a lot of jewellery and looked completely un-educated. It was obvious that they were one of the people who had sold their farms at exorbitant prices to the government, had a lot of money and didn’t know what to do with it.
After instructing the Puncture-wallah, they opened the car boot. One of them asked the nearby shop-keepers to bring out a couple of plastic chairs and had them set up on the pavement. The other got out a huge hookah from the car boot. The Hookah was one of the biggest I had ever seen. It was set up in between the chairs. The base was heavy and stationary, the part above it was rotating, to facilitate passing the pipe between multiple people.
Within 5 minutes, the Hookah was lit and the Haryanvis bubbled away peacefully while the puncture-wallah toiled. I have nothing against smoking the Hookah (having tried the non-tobacco version at a Cafe Coffee Day outlet once myself), but what I failed to understand was the desire to have it right there, on the pavement next to a busy road, while the puncture was being repaired.
In sometime, the work done, the puncture-wallah asked them for 400 rupees (he had installed a new tube). The Haryanvis started abusing him vehemently, threatened him of dire consequences, gave him 300 bucks and sped away. While reversing, the car emitted the tune of a popular Hindi song and everyone around them laughed. After they were far away, the puncture-wallah abused them and their mother and sisters vehemently in return.
As for me, I had a good laugh early morning.
