Mr. Hari was a reluctant greying salesman
who used to smoke fat cigars in the cafeteria of his office. He called himself
Old Harry, as said on his business card.
He took the stairs when it was
raining. The lift didn’t work then. There was a dog on the third floor that
used to sit outside the flat with a glass door. The dog barked at him often.
The owners of the house looked outside on some days to see if everything was alright.
The owners felt relieved as they too, like their dog, did not like salesmen.
Mr. Hari used to sell nothing. He
knew nothing, very well. He would fill it with soaps or powders or juices or
coffee or cars. And he would smile and make gestures and lock eyes and wink. And
every Thursday evening he would walk to the big famous temple outside of which stood
police with guns. Mr. Hari did not ask for anything but a long vacation. He did
not seem to be getting it.
On one stormy day the dog on the
third floor got so furious that Mr. Hari tripped himself over the stairs and
broke his leg. He messaged everyone he knew that he would not be available for the
next few weeks. He ended it with a smiley. People loved it.
Lying over his bed with his one
leg hanging and wrapped in the white plaster, he had the time of his life watching
TV with his family. When his leg turned fine, he just did not want to go back.
His wife had a big fight with
him. She was a furious. They locked their kids inside as she threw utensils and
sofa pillows over him. He had to give up and go back to the office the next
morning.
He took the stairs more often
now. The dog on the third floor did not bark at him anymore. The owners of the
house looked outside on some days to wave and ask how everything was,
especially his leg.
He stopped going to the temple now, and got new business
cards which called him Hari.
_