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It was a rather weird acquaintance when I first met Kancha Bhatta on a street near my office. I was on a stroll after a heavy meal with a colleague of mine on the road overlooking a lake in West Mango Town. He was a short wiry boy, fair complexioned with roving eyes. He struck up a conversation by asking me, "Sir, kuch kaam milega? I was nonplussed at this rather unconventional entreaty from a stranger. Not having the heart to ignore him, I asked him, "Kya kar paoge? Kahaan se aaye ho? He retorted, "Aap mujse kya karwana chahte hain? Main kuch bhi karoonga. Chai banane aur pilane se leke saamgri bechne tak, main kuch bhi kar sakta hoon aur taiyyar hoon. Main Mumbai mein bahot saal raha, ab us nagari ko chod chadkar, yahaan aa gaya hoon"
Not willing to trust him at the outset but to afford him an opportunity to re-establish in a place alien to his comfort, I asked him to come over to my office to work as an errand boy. I was, in fact, looking out for one after the previous incumbent called up one fine day to say, "Saar naan nintaen"! (Sir, I have left)
Next morning, he showed up and commenced his work in earnest. He impressed one and all by making fine ginger tea and serving the finely brewed concoction in a most pleasant manner. The finance manager, moving over to my table with a cup in hand quipped, "finally, we have found a great guy for an office boy".
The same evening Kancha requested me to advance him a thousand rupees to send to his family in a neighbouring country, beyond the Siwalik range. Hesitating initially, I took a chance and obliged, though my colleague cautioned me against it.
He was missing the next day and there was no way I could contact him. But he did turn up the subsequent day, and the next and everyday thereafter. That was the beginning of a long but tumultuous association of sorts that saw mood swings dime a dozen between him and me.
Having lived and grown up in the streets in Bombay of the nineties, he was well versed in the matters of the world (he calls it "Duniyadari") and knows enough to eke out a solitary living and send a few thousands to his dependents living far away in the hills right across the sacred Sharda.
Bhatta is a living encyclopedia on all matters connected with Bollywood, from Sohrab Modi's Sikandar-e-azam of 1965 to today's Sajid Nadiadwala's Sikandar. This illiterate from the hills can, with an elephant's memory, trace, for instance, the relationship between Ajay Devgn and Shobana Samarth or describe the entire family tree of the Kapoor family meticulously from Shamsa Kapoor (who is this?) to Shehenshah Akbar of Mughal-e-azam. He can even passionately describe the ethos and emotions that actually formed the backdrop of the relationship between Yousuf Khan and Mumtaz Begum Dehlavi behind the shooting of the magnum opus over the longest period a movie was ever shot in Bollywood. He had, in the past, clicked selfies with many Bollywood celebrities from Randhir Kapoor to Sallubhai. If they did not oblige, he was content clicking himself with "Jalsa" and "Aashirwaad" behind him. These formed his "testimonials" if you can call them some.
Recently, he got me to talk to Dharam paaji over his (Bhatta's) mobile. Dharam's personal aide is closely related to Bhatta. I was overwhelmed when the Sholay star blessed me," Jeete raho beta, khoob phoolo phalo"
One fine day, after a year of service at my home and office, Bhatta suddenly announced, "I want to go over to my native village for a month. I am homesick, would like to see my only daughter and wife and return when I get sick of my native"! I bid him goodbye and sent him on a fully paid vacation for a month. He was too impatient to have his tickets booked on train and convinced me that he is comfortable travelling on the wooden sleeper seats in the last bogies of the train to Delhi. He boarded an early morning mail at the central station hiding behind loads and loads of stuff he purchased a day before at the markets abounding near the railway station.
He called me after about 4 days to confirm that he has reached his village after changing several buses, jeeps and vehicles from Kashmere Gate, Banbasa, Attariya and Silghadi.
A month passed and another two weeks. There were no calls from Bhatta. Then he called up a few more days later and demanded that I send him another month's "pagaar". I refused. He swore that he will never come back and that he was rathet happy boozing away his time at his village.
Yet another month later, he turned up at my door with his "bori and bistar" and announced "Tiger zinda hai"
