Far from the Madding Crowd
By Meera Raja
Kumar adjusted his glasses. He stood in front of the mirror, clouded by time, so he looked softer. Yes, he thought, allowing himself a moment of vanity, this is good. Maybe he would apply some Vicks on the phone camera for the same effect — soft, non-threatening, knowledgeable, likeable. He had even shaved off his moustache, in spite of his wife’s remonstrations (‘For one day drama, you will shave your meesai’a?’ but he didn’t bother answering.)
He was excited about his first webinar. There were barely thirty minutes to go.
Everything was perfect so far. He prayed to Vinayaga and the assortment of gods placed on the shelf, unadorned for over a month. Hopefully, the gods wouldn’t take said unadornment to heart.
He had spent yesterday looking for the perfect background for the webinar, until Arumugam, his sister’s son, asked him to stop obsessing about his looks. ‘Everyone knows, mama, how it will be. What you say is only important — not anything else.’
The idea had come to him when his son’s class teacher sent the group a message on Whatsapp. School would likely start in a few weeks, but only online, it said. If parents didn’t have a smartphone to spare they could pick up a used one from the school. Kumar had almost volunteered to give some from his stash before better sense prevailed. And, not so subtly, a few minutes later, the school had sent a reminder to pay the fees.
Then there were the Facebook messages, asking people to use time wisely, to equip themselves, to learn a trade. Yes, it did look like a definite recession for his trade. He could still help others. What was it they said? The wise don’t lose time, they use it. That’s what he would do. He’d asked Arumugam, who was also his assistant, and therefore also out of a job, and he offered to set it up.
‘I’ll bring people, mama, don’t worry,’ he had said. ‘I know so many people who will now be affected in our… field.’ In any case, Kumar’s network was full of people who wanted to upgrade their knowledge, looking for alternatives in the recession that started with demonetization. Their cash-heavy operation was suddenly plummeting.
Kumar had suffered too, until he diversified. Yes, it was time to let people in on a few secrets, thought Kumar, adjusting his collar. Maybe he could even set up a franchise-type operation. After all, the city was huge and hungry.
He called Arumugam.
‘Dei, endha meeting, da?’
‘Mama, see where it says, “Cooking Basics 123”. That only.’
‘Cooking’a?’
‘Pinna enna, can we just write the truth? Pick-pocketing 123? Everyone knows the code. I’ll also log in, wait. I will introduce you.’
‘Thank you for coming today,’ Arumugam said, solemnly. ‘This is the first time someone has done something like this for our community. Most of you know Kumar mama — for some of us, he’s Purse Kumar. He has several years’ experience in the field. He has always been my guru. If I am anything today, it is because of him.’
The box heads bobbed, like Thanjavur dolls.
‘First, I want to make sure that you are all okay. Are you all okay? Lockdown time-le there is no way you can go to work. How are you managing?’
Several people seemed to be talking, but there was no sound. They were all on mute. Kumar felt a kinship that he hadn’t felt in ages. These here were his people. They may have taken different paths, but they were all in the same place now. He would do what he could for them.
‘Anyway, my nephew and I have decided to release a relief package for everyone here,’ he announced.
People were still talking. He un-muted one of them, a lady, also named Kumar. ‘Ey, you are taking 500 rupees from us, and then giving us “relief package”?’
Kumar was shocked. Did Arumugam take money from them? Running a side hustle? The boy had no moral compass.
‘Madam,’ Kumar said, in a business-like tone. ‘I will refund the money, don’t worry.’
‘Refund, it seems. Why even take the money in the first place?’
Kumar ignored her. It was time for some education. They had said, in that article, that webinars are successful only if there is ‘interaction’. Ask questions, it said. But don’t overdo it.
‘First,’ he began, ‘who can tell me what post-Corona life is going to be like, for us?’
‘Please type on chat,’ he added.
The lady had her hand up.
‘Yes?’ Kumar said, un-muting her.
‘Ot**, if I knew how to write, why would I be doing this?’
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Kumar said, even as harsher words threatened to spill out.
The ‘ma’am’ seemed to have done its magic. ‘I suppose there will not be much crowding,’ she said.
‘Good. And what else?’
Kumar looked at the boxes, in different stages of animation. Young, old, men, and women, most of them having an expectant look, as if he had some magic potion to release them from what was weighing them down. Sometimes, when Kumar picked pockets, he’d felt the same — that he was releasing people from the burden of their wallets.
Suggestions poured in.
‘There will no buses.’ ‘There may not be cash.’ ‘There may not be any money in the country.’ ‘Everyone will go back to their villages — no people, no money.’ ‘People will work from home, so no travel, no bus, no picking.’
Arumugam, not to be outdone, decided to butt in as the co-host. Damned if he would let his mama take all the credit.
‘Wonderful. You are all right. The whole world is in economic stress. It is going to be bad.’
They all started talking again, distressed that the webinar was not giving them much-needed hope.
Kumar muted them all, like that spectacled man did on the news channel that his son was forced to watch, because his teachers had asked him to watch TV news to learn English.
‘Yes,’ Kumar shouted like he had seen that man do. ‘Yes, it is a sad time for us. But remember, that does not mean everything is lost. First, I will talk about precautions you have to take. Even after lockdown ends.’
Some of the boxes had stopped talking.
‘First things first. Remember safety. Always carry a bottle of sanitizer with you. Put it in your hand and touch the wallet.
‘Wearing a mask is okay, even after lockdown ends. In fact, it may be good for us; it’s more difficult for cameras to pick us up. So use regular masks — don’t go for designer masks. Enna Arumugam, understood?’
He had not meant to call him out, but his nephew was spending way too much on masks.
‘Anyone who works with chains?’ Kumar continued.
One boy, who looked like he was barely out of school, raised his hand.
‘You may have to change pa, for a little while. It’s near the mouth. Earrings also not possible. Don’t go anywhere near the face for some time, okay? Phones also, please use a cloth and wipe all surfaces clean. And wear gloves, no matter what. But you may find it difficult to blend in. Even if people start coming back to markets again. Remember the precautions.’
He then showed a picture he had asked his son to draw. He felt a little guilty that he’d made him draw it quickly before his wife returned from the ration shop. His son was truly talented, just like him.
On one side was a bus, with people stuffed like tamarind, reminding him of that kuppam they used to live in, and on the other was the same bus, loosely packed, like the new apartment they were given in what was then the back-of-beyond.
Everyone had then moaned about the lack of jobs, and many of his neighbours simply dropped off the map like unripe papayas unable to bear their own weight. He, a handyman, was also distraught. That is, until he saw an ad on one of those aimless bus rides. It was, quite simply, a poster for a credit card that said, ‘Life is the journey, not the destination’. The very next day, he was on 19B, after 5 p.m., the bus oozing hormones and new money. He had never looked back.
He turned to the poster. His son had drawn him on both sides, strong and handsome. In the crowded bus, he was happily helping himself to wallets and in the other, he was eyeing a woman’s purse.
He shoved the image closer to the phone.
‘See? Even if it is so easy, think twice. If you must, do it swiftly, and in open spaces, not closed spaces. Questions?’
There were a few. He answered them all patiently, and when they became a trickle, threatening to stop, he said, ‘Next, we will look at what else we can do in the current scenario of the future. First, we have to think beyond the body.’
‘Everyone is paying for things online. Google Pay. PayTM. PhonePe. But do we take time to look at each notification on the screen? Wait. Let us demonstrate.’
He un-muted Arumugam. And they started their little demonstration.
‘Look at this OLX ad. This person wants to sell his dinner table. And his number is given here. So, we call him.’
Kumar called Arumugam from another phone. Just yesterday they had had a long discussion about who would be the victim and who would be the conman. Suffice to say Arumugam was not happy with his role.
‘Sir, Arumugam sir?’
‘Yes. You?’ Arumugam, the dinner-table owner said.
‘Sir, I saw your ad for the dinner table on OLX, sir. I like it. Is it still available?’
‘Yes. But many people have called.’
‘What wood, sir?’
Kumar paused and looked at his students. ‘It’s important to talk naturally. Remember, you can’t just directly go to the money part.’
‘MDF, sir. We bought it in Home Centre.’
Again, Kumar looked into the camera. ‘Home Centre. We know he is rich. So you can feel less bad. If they are selling to go to America, even better.’
‘OK, sir. How old is it?’
He turned to the camera. ‘Keep the conversation going.’
‘I would like to buy it, sir.’
‘Without seeing it?’
‘I don’t want to let it go, sir. Maybe I will pay a token amount to reserve it. How much, sir?’
Kumar turned back into the camera. ‘You see, at this point, most people are greedy. Instead of saying, thousand rupees or something, they will ask for half the price. For this table, something like seven-eight thousand.’
Arumugam, as if on cue, said, ‘Ten thousand, sir.’
‘OK, sir. I can transfer the money with UPI. Do you have it? You will have to accept the money, sir. You’ll get a notification, just press Accept, sir.’
Kumar now showed them his phone screen. He requested money from Arumugam, and hit send. ‘Now look at Arumugam’s phone,’ he said.
Arumugam’s phone showed a notification that said, in English, ‘Kumar is requesting money from you. Accept/Decline?’
‘Because you have just spoken to him, and told him you will send money, chances are, greedy people will simply click Accept. They won’t read the thing properly. Dadaynggg. Money is yours.’
Kumar showed the money in his account. ‘Simple.’
The windows were looking at him, wide-eyed.
‘Very important, and please, please remember, throw the SIM away. Do not turn on any location info on your phone. Any questions?’
There were smiles all around.
The young boy who said he worked with chains clapped. Kumar un-muted him.
‘Nadakumma, sir?’ he asked, hopefully.
‘It has, so far,’ Kumar said, hoping his moist eyes did not show on camera.
Kumar un-muted everyone. Even the lady was clapping. And smiling.
He closed his eyes and basked in the sound that was like the pitter-patter of rain on the roof of his old house. Education, as they said, was indeed very fulfilling.
Meera Raja is an independent writer and editor of iMPACT, an international magazine for the development sector.
