The Toymaker

It’s the year - 1990. And there he was - The Toymaker. At exactly 5 p.m. in the evening, the children who were residents of the one particular street in Dholpur, Rajasthan, rushed outside their small, usually one to two story tall, old houses, to their favourite sound, the sound of The Toymaker arriving.

​ He usually arrived in a “Jugad” - a customized three-wheeler, with a large open carriage carrying all the toys and being pulled by a motorized, old green moped. His horn made a customary tune, indicating his arrival. The horn that made all the children of the street, leave anything they were doing, and rush to grab their favourite wooden toys. There were puppets, spinners, cone with ball and strings, wind-chimes, dollhouses, gillies or wooden balls among the assortment being offered.

​ The Toymaker was about sixty years old. He wore a clothing that was too uncommon to be ubiquitous among the lower middle working class in those parts. Nevertheless, it further enhanced his appeal. He often hid part of his face with a cotton cloth, wrapped around his head. In addition to his rare style of clothing, he was further famous for selling his toys at almost one-third the price to that of the local markets. It was almost like his sole purpose was not to earn from the sales but just to provide the children with toys to play with. Like some dreamy, inspired ineffable goal. With grey dotted beard and a seamless, quiet, loving manner about him, he came to be fondly called “Khilone wale chacha” by the residents.

​ Entering the street and seeing those children run towards him with joy and excitement, always filled his heart with immense comfort. But every single time that he entered the street, also brought with itself, the feeling of wistfulness, of memories and of longing for his long-lost son. His son was ten years old when he had succumbed to a freak accident, a time when the Toymaker was away. He had never managed to get closure. The Toymaker had started coming in around last year’s monsoon. Every single day, as soon as the local clock tower hit 5 p.m., the children heard their beloved Khilone wale chacha entering the street. They rushed out, trying to quickly lay hands on their favourite toys. Among this pack of children, is a nine-year-old - “Om”.

Om seemed like an introverted kid. He never tried to elbow or push around other kids to make way and reach the cart first.  Every single evening, he would stand quietly, at the edge of the crowd and wait for the other kids to make their buys and leave. Later, he would move towards the cart and pick up a wooden toy. Smiling, he would ask, “How much for this?”. The toymaker, with knowing eyes, would faintly smile and always reply the same, “For you, it’s free”. Om’s eyes would light up every single time and he would say thank you and leave, just as quietly as he came. This happened every single day, every single time.

​ One evening, on being given the toy again at no cost, Om asked the Toymaker, “Why? Why do you never let me pay. Other kids have paid for their toys”. The Toymaker smiled and replied, “I know your Papa, he also makes toys right?”. The kid’s eyes widened with shock, and he asked, “How do you know this? Yes, he also makes toys, but he is away in another city. Also… his toys are not as good as yours”. Saying this, Om put his small, fragile hands on his mouth and started chucking with laughter. The Toymaker also burst out in a loud laugh and replied, “He will get better, I assure you. Also don’t tell him this”. Om smiled back, and said, “Thank you”. Running towards his house, he turns back, smiling, he waves to the Toymaker, “See you tomorrow”. In a hushed manner with a sad smile, the Toymaker replies, “Bye-Bye”. 

​ The Toymaker returns to his small hut. The hut is situated at the edge of the town. He pulls in his Jugad along with him. The hut is full of wooden toys. There are toy making tools scattered all over the floor. He brushes them to one corner with his hands. Bolting the door from inside, he lets his body fall callously on the cot lying in the center. There is a small table placed right beside his cot. On it there is only one thing – a slim, tube-like structure made of steel, with a strip of glass with calibrations – helping an onlooker look at the level of sand in it. It looked like a thing from the future. It seemed like instead of the level falling, with every passing minute the sand level was rising in it. There were still two markings left for the sand to completely fill the tube. Looking at it, the Toymaker smiles and says to himself, “Two minutes remaining”. He shuts his eyes - as if in a soporific trance- and the level of sand in the tube, reaches the top.

​ Jagdish’s eyes flutter open, his breathing paced. He is seated in his leather office chair. The calendar on his table shows “14th November, 2020”. Sipping from a glass of clear green juice, he waits for his breathing to revert back to normal, in a manner that indicates banality. There are sounds of heavy machinery all around him. Thinking about his toy factory “Om Toys”, at sixty, he looks at the picture of his nine year old son “Om” placed on his desk. With a heavy heart, a feeling both of remorse and wistfullness, he glances at the pile of files placed on this desk. Time to get back to the present. All he has to do is pass time again and wait for 5 p.m. tomorrow. Gently rubbing his eyes, he picks up the steel tube, shaking it for the sand to settle back down and cautiously places the time-machine back in its secret compartment.