The Weeping Philosopher withdrew from the world, too aggrieved at the state of human misery. That was in Greece. But nearer home, Kale Baba, the gola kabab seller of Suiwalan, Old Delhi, tried to find a balm for common woes while delivering philosophical asides to his customers. A fat dark man of Bengali origin, he probably bathed rarely and wore the same greased kurta and loin-cloth that he had worn for as long as one cared to remember. A dirty rag was tied to his round, bald head and sometimes when the heat was too much to bear he took off his kurta and sat bare bodied, showing off a flabby chest with grey hair.
He did business only in the evening – winter, summer and the rainy season. You can include spring and autumn too which broadly speaking, merge into the hot and cold months. Basant flowers and late autumn marigolds were sometimes worn by him round his thick neck and, despite the heat of the charcoal brazier kept fresh because of constant perspiration. There was always a long queue trying to hurry him up with all sorts of excuses. One old man amused him greatly when he said, “Forget the others and serve me first or my wife will beat me”. Somebody whispered that she was 20 years younger and might indeed do as he feared. Another butted in to say that it was the other way round. It was he who was forever suspecting her and beating her up on vague assumptions whenever she went to her sister's place.
Meanwhile Kale Baba took his own sweet time to grill the kababs to a dark tan. He took even longer to roll mince balls and thread them into spikes placed on the niches in the red-hot brazier, constantly fanned by his son to keep it burning, even when the rain leaked through the tin shed above the shop. Kale Baba had evolved his own philosophy which was actually a subtle way of making the customers maintain patience and not walk away to another kabab stall.
Baba's discourse
“What is a kabab but the reaction of the masala on the mince! I have to pound more than a seer (heavier than a kilo) every day and then help the begums to mix the spiced stuff into the mince until it is well absorbed. It's like infusing goodness into human flesh. We all are an example of that for aren't our bodies stuffed well by constant eating? The creator has devised this way to replenish our spirits. A man mostly eats by force of habit. You may go to a tea party and have any number of snacks but at dinner time you will still feel the urge to eat,” Baba used to say.
This discourse had given him enough time to serve kababs to four customers. Then he took up another theme, ‘the futility of life'. “No matter how much you eat and how well you end up in the grave, taste stays in the mouth only for a short time. It's just like life. And what is life but a brief interlude before eternity – like the daily round made by a beggar, who goes away as soon as he has collected enough alms. The film song says as much “Tan, man, sab hai tera jivan jogi ka hai phera”. Bundu Khan couldn't live without kababs even at the age of 90 but what happened when he died last month? Did the taste linger?” Many nodded in agreement. “Quite right,” said a wizened old mian. “The taste is soon lost but only the name of God remains”. Kale Baba grinned though broken teeth and served another four or five customers, meat kneaded by his wife and daughter-in-law like a baker kneads the dough and a potter kneads the clay. He is no more but maybe his son still plies the trade minus his ubiquitous philosophy.
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