The Egg Seller of North Car Street

I grew up in a little two storey building with purple walls and white grills, overlooking the sprawling temple complex. Our small, square windows opened out to a sparkling pond with painted steps on one side and the precisely sculpted grey stone murals on the other.  Myths and legends to me came straight off the temple tower.  An authentic luxury.  Early mornings were marked with a large cup of steaming milk and slokas slipping from within altars, streaming into the air. Our balcony was tiny and could accomodate not more than two. Further inconvenience was caused by the dozen young tulsi plants in their plastic tubs. I watered them graciously every morning and evening. A little too graciously. But it wasn't a problem. Father's shoulders were always free for his princess of five years. We would stand there, grazing the peeling pink walls and look down at the road. 

The old vegetable vendor would come first pushing  his rusty green cart heaped with fresh tomatoes, spinach, parsley, mint,  turnips and brinjals. He sprinkled them now and them with water and they glistened in the morning haze. Hoards of ladies clammered around him, armed with wide plastic baskets,  their sarees tucked at waist and shawls drawn consciously over patterned nighties. Tomatoes skillfully tapped, mint stalks sniffed, onions scratched at- the ladies were unforgiving and wanted only the best for their kitchens. Fit to accompany the rice boiling back in their pots, white as pearls and soft as snow. 

A quiet hush would fall over the street once the ladies departed. The old man would heave a sigh of relief, stroke the bag of coins tied at his waist and whisper a prayer towards the temple.

Now we had an egg seller living below us.  His round face would peek out the grill gates, his bald head with tufts of hair alongside his ears catching the sun. He checked the road, should any of the ladies remain. He was a shy man, you see. He wouldn't address a lady directly.  Should such a situation arise, he would smile meekly, quietly ask them about their health and children, all the while making sure not to look into their eyes. No, he was a decent fellow and he took pride in that. His father had taught him well.

However,  once he confirmed his coast to be clear except for the strat dogs loitering around for morsels, he stepped out carefully. His wife drew kolams every morning, upon the concrete entrance which was a faint green from being moulded with cow dung. Intricate patterns of flourishing flowers, divine diyas and singing swans would form a wild, white and beautiful forest outside. However, on a margazhi morning, the gardens would be coloured. Emerald greens, ruby reds and vivid violets. The egg seller was careful not to step upon them. A delicious sandalwood wafts upstairs as he walks. His arms and forehead sport two broad streaks of sandalwood, a red tilak between his brows.  He carried a dozen pitted plastic carriers in both hands. Eggs, row upon row of them glowing like pearls in caskets. Taking quick ducksteps he carried then to his motorcycle. It was a bottle green TVS 50 parked askew. His sandalwood strips diminished by the time he finished tying the eggs securely to the vehicle. Straightening his white dhoti   smoothening his pale orange shirt, he would check himself in the tiny rear view mirrors of the vehicle. Then he would look up and grin at us. Waving at me, he would shout out a cheery 'good morning!’, promising to bring back an orange mittai when he returned. He knew I lived on those tiny toffees which had a sweet and sour fizz. Then he rode off, in his trembling TVS to his egg shop raising a hand once again when he reached the corner. He knew I still stood watching, dreaming of mittais. My father said he had a shop in the market street that had more cows and rickshaws than people. A narrow store with asbestos awning by the mosque. Business should have been good because there was always enough idlis at home for when he returned. The eggseller accompanied us on our nightly walks to the temple, around 2 AM in the morning everyday. I remember stirring with the vibuthi and kumkum in the tin boxes before I ultimately mixed them, while the egg seller sat talking with my father. Often about the street, sugar prices, government and of course, the kali yug. Rarely about his house had been staunchy silent for years waiting for a child.  When the clock stuck three, heralding the priests we would run home, leaving behind the a smiling Ganesh and pale pink vibuthi. 

I saw the egg seller's son at his shop last week( yes he finally had a son). I heard the egg seller's family shifted to a bigger house shortly after we did. The son sat in the egg shop counting the eggs, looking at the street. His hair line had started to recede.  Soon he would resemble his father in his uncanny coral shirt and dhoti. The egg seller had departed a few years back. Sighing, I purchased a few eggs all the while aching for an orange mittai. And for North Car street.