Till a few years ago, there was a man in the Doon valley whom most of us had known at one time or the other. He was indeed a strange figure, dressed in dirty, ragged clothes (though it was always a shirt and a pant), white cloth shoes which were also all blackened with polish and dirt and a funny cap. A thin oldish man whose age nobody could guess.
A man who carried a bag stuffed with many things and went around purposefully from one street to the other, one market to the next, one colony to another. The nose on his thin face was long and prominent, the eyes were half-laughing, half-mocking and he seemed full of confidence that he would somehow manage in this world.
This man’s name was Robert and his work was to go anywhere he could find a car which had to be cleaned and polished. There were many homes in the valley where he would be called every Sunday. He would choose the ones that suited him best and then arrive, bag and all, with a specific light of hope in his eyes.
Our home was one of these homes where Robert was a visitor for many years. I had the opportunity to study this little, mysterious man with his magic touch that could make the dullest of automobiles shine after he worked upon it for a couple of hours. His bag was full of little tins, cotton rolls, brushes, pieces of cloth and bottles that contained some secret potions whose names he would refuse to reveal to his clients.
These were all part of the grand ritual which cleaning a car was for Robert. There was a little bottle from which he kept sipping from time to time. Asked what it was, he would tell us it was his medicine. We suspected — rather we were sure — that it was rum. Neither would he ever admit and nor did we insist that we knew!
A regular supply of black tea with a lot of sugar was what he needed from the kitchen while he polished the car. We kept sending him the steaming tea and all he would eat with it were milk rusks. Nothing else would do for him. Before calling him home, we would make sure there was adequate stock of milk rusks.
While he worked, a small screwdriver would remain suspended behind his right ear just like tailor masters keep a pencil behind their ears, balanced perfectly. We would often wonder why the screwdriver was there but dare not ask due to his unpredictable ways and behaviour. We could not risk provoking him and left him to do his work in peace.
What I remember specially about Robert, after all these years of his death, is the joy he took in his work.One could make out that the dirtier the car, the happier he would look while beginning his job. He took it as an opportunity to exhibit his ability. It was a challenge he had to meet successfully. He would be completely lost to the world for that time.
Our car stood under a huge, sprawling jackfruit tree in the driveway and here he sat, on a stool under the tree, sipping on the black tea and rubbing away with the pieces of cloth till they turned black. He would then go to the tap in the lawn and wash these again and again. A great example of recycling. He would never hurry at his job. In fact, he would take much more time than was actually required.
A quaint figure he was. The only one of his kind in the valley. He smelt of polish, his clothes were full of polish and so was his cap. He was literally immersed in his trade. Before him or after him, I have never seen anyone in this town who would come home to polish your car. There was only one Robert and he is no more. He had a great fascination for bags.
After his work was over and I had paid him, he would keep looking expectantly at me. It took me a few days to know what he was hoping for. He was always looking out for a new bag. And I gave him many over the years. Sometime when my car needs shining, I keep wondering whether anyone like Robert could be found again.