Aval
vendor
During the forenoon while I slowly
drift into my morning nap amidst the newspaper browsing, suddenly I would be
awakened by the shrill shout of the vendor. The frail looking old woman
steadfastly walking more than five kilometers a day under this summer hot sun
carrying a ten kilo pack of aval (flattened rice flakes)on
her bare head is a symbol of
suffering farmers. I did encourage
her once out of pity by calling her in
and buying a kilo of the ware. But warned by my wife about the steep difference
in price from our regular store I stopped buying from her long back. But this
lanky old lady is persistent with her voluminous yell especially on our door
front. I have never seen anyone from our
street patronizing her. With the only hope of reviving our old bond she comes
week after week braving the hot weather and repeatedly yells aval,
aval . More than once I responded
her desperate call by saying that we don’t need it and that we stopped eating it ( much
against the truth). But during those
occasions she would pretend as though she hadn’t heard it right and repeat her
plea. When once I explained how her commodity
is dearer than that of the store, she justified that her ware is homemade and
safer to consume regularly. I felt that
her explanation was hardly credible and thereafter I remained stone silent
whenever I hear her. Even when she entered our street from a distance I could
hear her frail shout which gradually became louder and louder as she approached
our house. With liberty she would open our gate, walk in and plead us to buy
her aval. All of us have learned how
to react to her imposed presence. I have also learned not to lose my temper,
considering her age and urgency. She is never offended by our stoic silence and
retreats with the same nonchalance with which she walked in. She never seemed to be disappointed with our negation.When confronted she would smile with her hollow cheeks and repeat her bargain. We have to learn a
lesson or two from this old illiterate vendor.
