The simple life

In my growing up days, we had a cobbler, barber, dhobi and others coming home every few days to render their services. Before them, their fathers served our grandparents. To me, they were friends of my father and uncles, with whom they shared a great camaraderie. Our relationship was defined with concern and understanding. We never thought of them as them. They were part of us. We knew about their kids and families. Their problems. They longed to see me get married. They longed to see my kids some day and serve them. It’s just that I have moved out to the city; the barber has his own salon; new dhobis come semi and fully automated; and now when your shoes need a stitch you no longer look for a cobbler but a dust bin. But they still come home sometimes. Sometimes their visits are separated by years. Even today when they see me, they stop me and reminisce and inquire of my welfare and whereabouts. And I feel humbled that they do so. Those were simpler days. Happier days. Days when we shared smiles and sympathy. I miss those days.