Business Out of a Suitcase.

               His child was admitted in the pediatric ward of the hospital I used to work in. Bills were rising and money was scarce. The mother shuttled between home and ward, juggling the routines of her other child and the ill one.

One day, during a random walk-through, I came across the father and was annoyed: he had opened up a suitcase in the lobby where the relatives sat, and was hawking socks and handkerchiefs.

“How can you do this?” I demanded, at the ready to call for Security. “How can you make money right beside the room where your child is still struggling for her life?”

He was sweating, apologetic and he blubbered something about not being able to pay for the treatment. I let him talk.

He said, “I buy the goods at night when I get things a bit cheap in the wholesale market. Usually, I go from office to office selling these things. I used to have a stall on a pavement, but with this child’s illness, I couldn’t go daily and someone quickly occupied the space. Either I attend to my family or to my business. So I combined the two and started my dhandha here.” I had no idea whether he was telling me the whole truth, but I decided to err on the side of kindness.

I said, “Come down to my office.”

Enroute, I thought, this man wasn’t thieving, wasn’t cheating; he had no savings, no insurance, no mentor, no boss or colleagues who could pitch in and help. Being in ‘business’ at that level was tough. He had been managing to pay his bills on time on most days. His daughter she had spent over fifteen days in the ICU. She was a salvageable case, and in a couple of days she’d be home. It was a short-term obstacle.

I told him. “Instead of selling your wares in the ward, do it somewhere nearby, but not inside the hospital compound.”

He said the existing hawkers weren’t letting him. I requested a friendly newspaper vendor to help out. He did, for a fee.

Within two days, besides the usual stuff, he was selling cheap hand-towels, underwear and some snacks.

Talk of knowing what the customer wants… His hours were long and other than vada-pav and some chai he probably consumed little else through the day. He throatily advertised his ‘sokkus, henkees, bodees, chuddees, tuwaals’. At the end of each day, he’d pay his bills and take the rest of the money home. I learned to respect the man in that crumpled, sweaty-smelly attire, who knew no refined language or manners, who told me: “ Izzat was more important than a couple of rupees.”  

Our patient got discharged and is now probably in senior school. The man befriended many of the staff who walked to and from the station, discovered that they welcomed hot, fresh, snacks. He employed a local woman to cater to them and moved on to diversify to other businesses, other locations. His clothes progressively changed and the last I remember, they were fresh and ironed. His hair was neatly cut, his attitude more ‘middle-class’… he even owned a scooter. These, I believe, are the examples that make India shine.