I don’t know their names

 

By Shevlin Sebastian

At 6.30 a.m., as I reached the gate of my house to unlock it, by coincidence, the milk delivery man also arrived on his bike. I took out the two tokens from inside the plastic packet that hung from the gate and handed them over to him. He gave me two packets.

There was an imperceptible nod at each other as we acknowledged the successful exchange.

Then he shifted gears with his foot and moved away.

At that moment, I realised I didn’t know his name. Nor did I know anything about his family. I don’t know where he lives and what he does during the day.

But I have seen him now and then for the past 15 years.

For more than a decade, the dhobi came to my house on a weekly morning. In his late forties, he had a muscular torso and a swarthy moustache. His wife, in contrast, was slim and looked docile. She always accompanied him. Then, the dhobi fell ill.

After a year, he became thin and hobbled about. His wife came and collected money for the medical treatment. But tragically, he died. Now his wife has taken his place. But I still don’t know their names, where they come from, and how many children they have. I only know they are from Tamil Nadu.

There is a grocery shop where I buy essentials. I don’t know the names of the father and son who sit next to each other at the counter. A couple of months ago, both went missing from the shop.

After a few days, I asked the staff what had happened. While the old man had surgery, the son had fallen ill from dengue at the same time. I asked where they lived. The staffer mentioned a place nearby. But I forgot to ask their names.

This is the case with the shop where I buy fruits from. I don’t know the names of the father and son.

During the pandemic, I regularly visited the ‘More’ store at Padivattom. I don’t know the names of the people who work there. What about the petrol pump attendant? The same is the case with the medicine shop owner and staff. The man who sells fish. I have known them for years, but don’t know their names.

The people whose names we are not expected to know include the postal, government and municipal corporation clerks, the bank teller, the courier company staffer, the auto-rickshaw driver, the bus conductor, the seller of lottery tickets, or the policeman at the nearest traffic junction. (Of course, it is also a fact that many might not know my name, too).

I don’t know whether this lack of interest in people is a failure on my part or it is a common affliction among the middle class. When I polled a few friends, they said they spoke to all these people. One told me, “You are a man of few words.” In other words, I don’t talk because I am an introvert.

One person whose name I know is Vasu, who sells green coconuts on a cart by the side of the main road. He proudly showed me the corporation license to trade which he had got recently. I go every day and have a green coconut. The reason I came to know his name was because I was doing an article on street vendors and the problems they faced. So I interviewed him. Now we talk often about the state of the economy, the shenanigans of politicians, and the traffic problems.

Another is the newspaper supply man Louis who comes home to collect the monthly bill. I always ask him which newspaper sells the most, and who is second and third. This curiosity will always be there since I had been in a journalistic career for over three decades.

Having said all this, Kerala is an egalitarian society, at least on the surface. So, the plumber will talk as an equal with the house owner. He arrives at work on his motorbike. He carries a mobile and you can settle the dues through Google Pay.

At the newspaper office where I worked for over a decade, from 12.30-45 p.m., in the canteen, every day, the slot was for the sweepers and cleaners. On rare occasions, when I have felt famished, I have barged in to have a meal alongside them.

During Onam celebrations, they are unrecognisable in their nice sarees and jewellery.

People from the harsh caste-ridden states of North India should come and see this.

If you hire a driver to take you to a wedding, you have to ensure he gets a meal, which is usually at the same table as the other guests. Many of them own houses and plots of land. They have a TV and washing machine. Their children study in good schools. If they are good in academics, their children will end up in white-collar jobs.

This egalitarianism is the most delightful part of living in Kerala. Of course, below the surface, there are many castes, sub-castes and religious prejudices. But in social interactions, you will not see much of this.

In this aspect, Kerala sets a beautiful example for the rest of India.

No matter that I or many others do not know the names of the people we interact with.