Four warm handshakes by the front rail at Muthu with a short, tubby chap in
faded blue company polo, shorts and sandals, perhaps mid-thirties. Two front teeth
missing could only have been fisticuffs, or an accident on the bike perhaps.
With the enthusiasm of all four men, ranging from the old
plate-collector to the Bollywood spiv, one could discount the first—a brawler
could not draw such wide regard. The cashier’s shake was with both hands, the
left lingering with the last of his words given to the man. In each case, even with the reticent
floor manager, the gap-tooth received far more than he gave of both words and
gestures. To have passed the man on the street one would never have guessed his
qualities. A reminder of something one had the good fortune to learn in
earliest days.
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