When a hawker is sorely missed

Those who are avid readers of human character often discover traits either common to people or simply special in a certain individual. Some have those inborn, others simply develop those as they grow, others have to think of peculiar ways in order to get noticed or even draw sympathy. A few succeed whereas most others do not. It is not easy to acquire a distinct character -one that sets someone apart from the rest of the pack. It may happen in the most unlikely place and in case of an individual not impressive otherwise.

How about a hawker? Can the many hawkers visiting a particular urban locality with their different wares instantly get noticed? The answer is 'yes'. In Shyamoli and Mohammadpur area, there used to visit a young hawker aged between 20-22. He looked older than his age because of the trade he chose for his livelihood. He had a wooden van not fitted on a tri-cycle but one that has to be pushed not pulled like a rickshaw.

This obviously was not his specialty. His specialty lay in the fact that he used to announce his presence by shouting the fruits - mostly those seasonal ones, tasting sweet and sour like green mango, plume, star fruit or carambola (kamranga), golden apple (amra), tamarind, guava, black berry, lotkon etc., by mentioning the place from where those fruits came to the capital. For example, he used to hawk, "Are you interested in guava from Kapasia, lotkon from Gazipur, amra from Barisal, kamranga from Narsingdi, black berry from Faridpur and so on and so forth. He had a tremulous voice to arrange the fruits in order and lengthened his sentence in a singsong rhythmic manner.

His voice was unmistakeable and his appeal did not go amiss on his target customers -usually children and teenagers who love pickles. Yes, he had equipment with him to peel of the skin off or do whatever is necessary to treat the fruits with kasundi (spicy mustard seed syrup) in his aluminium container which he shook violently before handing the mouth-watering mix to his eager customers. Of course, he used to sell a kilogram of black berries or a half a dozen or a dozen of golden apple intact without becoming a party to its later treatment. But he derived unworldly pleasure in satisfying the demand of his small customers.

As it happens in most cases, hawkers' voices grow louder with their ages but some are indistinct. That too is a ploy. Women and girls in particular are curious to know what the man, or in rare cases, women are hawking. Celebrated writer Syed Mujtaba Ali once threw a challenge before a young poet from Bangladesh to make out senses of the calls every hawker passing the road below his Calcutta flat made. Obviously, it is beyond any human's ability to develop such an auditory capacity. But this innovative young hawker hawking on streets and alleys of Mohammadpur and Shyamoli pronounced every word distinctly.

He surely was a character and became a part of everyday life in the area he roamed with his wares. His young customers used to keep their antenna up when their entertainer would come. But the man has stopped frequenting the area of his choice for sometime. This is the season of plume. His appearance was as guaranteed as that of the sun. What has happened to him? Can it be that he has changed his profession and returned where he came from -his quiet hamlet? Or, has he left Bangladesh with a job abroad as most youths these days are keen to do?

Unless he reappears once more, the answer will never be known. The other dark possibility concerning the futility of human life also cannot be ruled out. After all in a country where human life has become so cheap that no one cares about loss of life when the person involved is unfamiliar. The young hawker added spice to the dull and caged city life. He is sorely missed by his small customers, for he was a favourite with them.