Every morning, around 10.30, she used to shatter the tranquility of the neighbourhood with her piercing cry: “Batlibai! Batlibaieyeah!” Sitting at my desk below the window, I could never miss her. Even after she moved on to the next building, I could still hear the fading echo of her call drifting through the lane. Then one morning last year, hearing the familiar cry, I curiously peeped through the curtains. Batlibai spotted the movement. Minutes later, she was at my door, huffing and puffing after climbing the stairs to my first-floor flat.
As far back as I can remember, the old junk merchants who came around with handcarts were always men — jaripuranawalas, raddiwalas, batliwalas. But here was Batlibai, a short old woman of ample proportions, grinning through paan-stained teeth like an old friend. Her sari tucked dhoti-style between her legs. Over her shoulder hung a cloth sack clattering with empty bottles. Another bag bulged with old newspapers. She lowered both with a sigh and squatted at my doorstep, hopeful and expectant.
I brought out empty liquor bottles, stacks of old newspapers, shoes and slippers I no longer wore. Her tired old eyes gleamed at the sight. After a quick mental calculation, she asked what I wanted for them. “Nothing,” I said, happy simply to clear the clutter. Batlibai beamed. “Tomorrow I’m going to the gaon for an operation,” she told me. “I have pain in my chest. There is a free municipal hospital there.” Then, resting one hand gently on my head in blessing, she slowly made her way down the stairs, crying out, “Batlibai! Batlibaieyeah!”
I did not hear her again. Until yesterday. The same cry floated up from below my window, “Batlibai! Batlibaieyeah!”. Older now. Slower. Less certain of itself. But unmistakably Batlibai. Almost relieved, I called her upstairs and brought out a year’s empty alcohol bottles I had saved for her. She sat quietly at my doorstep looking at the haul. But instead of brightening, her face clouded over. Then, almost apologetically, she said, “Saheb, I have become old and weak. I can no longer carry these heavy bottles. I only take newspapers and old footwear now.”
I had no newspapers for her. The raddiwala who comes monthly had already taken them away. The old shoes and slippers I had given her last year were replaced by footwear that was still new. For a few awkward moments she sat at the door looking at the bottles. Then Batlibai slowly lifted her empty sack, steadied herself against the wall, and began making her way downstairs. As she disappeared, I heard her call out into the lane: “Batlibai! Batlibaieyeah!” I wondered why, when she no longer took bottles. Perhaps after a lifetime of walking the streets crying out that name, she no longer knew how to be anyone else.
About Mark Manuel
The above thoughts/content has been proudly copied from the wall of Sir Mark Manuel. Being interviewing almost every role model of this country and going stronger each day. Mark Manuel is a respected Mumbai editor, writer, and columnist.
With over three decades of journalism in leading publications. This includes the Free Press Journal, Times, Dainik Bhaskar, Mid-Day, and Afternoon. He is famous for his brilliant pen interviews. He himself is a TEDx speaker.
Further
His interviews have featured in several leading media houses. They include the Hindustan Times, Huffington Post, BBC, and Network 18. Almost every famous person has been interviewed by him in the country from Mother Teresa to Muhammad Ali. His first book is just out. It’s titled Moryaa Re! It is a crime thriller that is perhaps the country’s first police procedural. He began his career covering crime. And in a tribute to his experience and knowledge of this beat.
Several distinguished officers of the Mumbai Police and its Crime Branch collaborated with him to make this book possible. Amitabh Bachchan wrote the forward in a statement of friendship for Mark Manuel and admiration for his work.
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