Phuchka Seller

"Phuchka! Golgappa! Paani puri!" cried Rajan as he expertly maneuvered his wooden cart through the crowded streets. The sun had barely risen, but Rajan had been up for hours, preparing his spicy, tangy treats for the day ahead.

The streets were beginning to wake up. Vendors were setting up their stalls, children in neatly pressed uniforms were walking to school, and the sound of honking cars and bicycle bells filled the air. Rajan’s cart, adorned with bright yellow and red paint, was a beacon for hungry passersby.

“Arrey, Rajan bhai!” called out a familiar voice. It was Meena, the flower seller, her stall a riot of marigolds and roses. “How is business today?”

Rajan smiled warmly. “Chal raha hai, Meena didi. Just getting started. How are your flowers selling?”

“Good, good. These festivals keep us all busy, no?”

Rajan nodded, the festivals indeed brought more customers to his cart. As he set up his stall at his usual spot near the bustling Gariahat market, a small crowd began to gather. Rajan’s phuchkas were legendary, known for their perfect balance of spicy, tangy, and sweet flavors.

“Bhaiya, ek plate idhar!” shouted a young boy, holding out a five-rupee coin.

“Bas abhi, chhotu!” Rajan said, deftly preparing a plate. His hands moved quickly, filling the crisp, hollow puris with spiced mashed potatoes, tamarind water, and a sprinkle of special spices. The boy’s eyes widened with anticipation as Rajan handed him the plate.

The morning rush was always intense. Office workers, college students, and homemakers all stopped by for a quick snack. Rajan’s hands never stopped moving, and neither did his mouth.

“Two plates, Rajan bhaiya!” said Ananya, a regular customer. “Make it extra spicy today.”

“Arrey, Ananya bitiya, you’ll burn your tongue!” Rajan joked as he prepared her order. “But as you wish. Extra spicy, just for you.”

The hours flew by, and soon it was midday. The sun was high and scorching, making Rajan thankful for the small umbrella he had rigged to his cart. As he took a brief respite, sipping on some cold water, he saw his friend, Karim, approaching.

“Rajan, you have any phuchkas left for me?” Karim asked, wiping sweat from his brow. He sold chai from a nearby stall and often took his lunch break with Rajan.

“Of course, Karim bhai. You’re late today. Busy morning?” Rajan asked as he prepared a plate for Karim.

“Very busy. These office folks can’t start their day without chai,” Karim replied, savoring the first bite of his phuchka. “Ah, perfect as always.”

The two friends chatted about their day, the rising prices of ingredients, and the ever-changing dynamics of the market. Despite the hardships, there was a camaraderie among the street vendors, a shared understanding of the daily grind.

As the afternoon wore on, business slowed down. Rajan used the time to restock his cart, carefully preparing more puris and chopping fresh ingredients. The lull was short-lived, however, as the evening brought a new rush of customers. Families, couples, and groups of friends all flocked to his cart for an evening snack.

“Baba, I want phuchka!” demanded a little girl, tugging at her father’s sleeve.

“Alright, alright. Rajan, make one for her,” the father said, smiling indulgently.

“Sure thing, sir,” Rajan said, his eyes twinkling. “One special phuchka for the little princess.”

The girl giggled as she took the phuchka from Rajan, her eyes widening with delight at the burst of flavors. Her father watched, amused, and paid Rajan with a generous tip.

As night fell, the streets transformed. The market lights flickered on, and the air was filled with the scent of food, flowers, and incense. Rajan’s cart, now lit by a small lantern, continued to draw customers. He enjoyed this time the most, the cooler air and the festive atmosphere bringing a sense of calm despite the constant flow of people.

“Rajan, you’ve been working all day. When do you rest?” asked a young woman as she took her order.

Rajan smiled wearily. “Rest? That’s for the rich. For us, it’s work, work, and more work. But I love what I do. Seeing all of you enjoy my food makes it worth it.”

The woman nodded thoughtfully. “You have a good heart, Rajan. Your phuchkas are the best in Kolkata.”

“Thank you, madam. That means a lot,” Rajan replied, feeling a surge of pride.

By the time Rajan started packing up his cart, it was late. The streets were quieter, the rush of the day giving way to the peaceful hum of the night. He counted his earnings, satisfied with the day’s work. It had been a good day.

As he pushed his cart back home, Rajan thought about his life. It was a hard life, no doubt, filled with early mornings and late nights, but it was his own.