An Unfinished Business Of The Morning

Saw this neat pile of small gift-wrapped boxes, for the first time a few days ago in my morning walk. And, there they were yesterday too. 

It was at the entry to a women’s salon on a main road busy all day with pedestrians.

The pile remained undisturbed!! Felt good – ours must be topping the table for suburbs with most honest folks!!!

During the day, out of sheer curiosity, I went back. I had to…

It was a working hour and the salon was open with a private security guard standing outside – the business must be good or it was a smuggler’s front for hoarding contraband gold!

I went in past the main gate. The guard, alerted, rushed to and held the glass door open for me. Nice of him.

Immediately I ruled out the smuggler’s angle. Who else but a ‘fresher’ would take a 70+ man having difficulty with his balance, unaccompanied, not appearing to be a vendor or a policeman, for a prospective customer to a women’s salon? Smugglers don’t trust ‘freshers’, the movies tell us.

Wanting to set the record straight, I nodded my head a couple of times from left to right, leaving him completely confused. Read his mind: Who else would I be? Didn’t look a beggar (no bowl in hand) , a funds-collector (no leaflets to hand out), canvasser (elections still months away), or an alzhiemer affected. Or father to a girl working or worked upon therein?

Went up to him and said in a low voice: “I have a question for you.” 

Looking at me a little more closely, he stepped back a little, considered and dismissed with disappointment the possibility I was from local TV station. There was no mic in my hand or a van with a dish (antenna) standing nearby.

Confusion deepened. This was not his morning. Giving up on his line of guesses, he lobbed at me a well-mannered ‘What is it?’ – a difficult thing to do, believe me, to be well-mannered, I mean, after all the exertions he had gone thru – I belong to the tribe that does not balk at giving credit where it is due.

I observed: “I’m surprised why someone from the street has not taken off with a box or two.”

Looking for some enlightenment, I was served: “Because they are empty!”

Now it was my turn to be confused: “Empty, did u say?”

“Yes, saheb, you heard me right.”

Lord Emsworth would have cried, “That’s dashed rummy,” or something to that effect.

I quizzed: “Then, why are they not in a waste bin instead where they rightly belong?”

It was obvious he had not thought of it.

“Will be back tomorrow. Let me know if there is a reason.”

Needed to ask one more thing, more intriguing.  Pressing on like a hound on scent: “How would any outsider know the boxes are empty?”

“Arre, saheb, why are you making fun of me? If a box is taken in hand and given a shake, wont the rattle give away? And, simply by the heft…”

Smarter than I had taken him for!! But the matter on hand remained unresolved as ever. I pointed out a few dried tree-leaves dropped on the pile and a chunri like cloth, lying in place undisturbed all these days.

He understood what I was getting at – obviously it was getting a bit more complex.

Leaving the hapless fellow to deal with it, I turned around and walked out.

End