"Hazbaan"
The sun was blazing. The helmet felt unbearable. What to do? If I had a government job, I would be sitting drowsily in an air-conditioned office on taxpayers' money. Or if I had a family business, I could have just made an excuse about the heat and given instructions to employees over the phone while staying comfortably at home.
But here, we only had a small family-run newspaper. No matter the season—winter, summer, or monsoon—I had to be at the press to ensure our daily bread and butter.
I was just tightening my helmet near my bike when I saw Mr. Khanna’s wife stepping out of her car and walking toward a neighboring house. Seizing the opportunity for a quick greeting, I asked, “You went to Mrs. Maruti’s house to congratulate her?”
She beamed, “Oh, you didn’t know? Mrs. Maruti received a grand honor on Women’s Day! I couldn’t attend the function, so I went today to congratulate her. It’s a big deal, you know! In today’s busy world, who really notices anyone’s hard work? Not everyone gets such recognition.”
“Indeed, your thoughts are admirable. But why was she honored?” I asked, puzzled.
She looked at me sharply. “You don’t know that either? And you call yourself a journalist! Journalists usually hear about things before they even happen!”
I couldn’t bring myself to laugh. Mrs. Khanna had quite the wit.
I wasn’t sure if she was actually annoyed at my ignorance or at being held up in the sun for so long. I took my leave and sped off on my bike.
Well, thanks to Mrs. Khanna, I now had my Sunday feature interview subject. Every Sunday, I published an interview with a prominent figure, and today, I had found my story—Mrs. Maruti.
Mrs. Maruti was a determined and hardworking woman who ran a café near her house. Her innovative ideas and creative experiments had made her café a local favorite.
I found her at the café.
Despite the afternoon heat, the place was bustling with customers. Employees were running around, serving orders, and the kitchen staff was busy cooking. Mrs. Maruti sat in her small cabin, relatively less occupied.
We talked at length.
“Ma’am, tell me about your café’s specialties. I’ve heard your tea is particularly famous.”
Shifting in her chair, she replied, “We don’t peel ginger.”
“Wow! But why?”
“Look, ginger is an herb, after all. If nature intended for its peel to be removed, it wouldn’t have put it there in the first place! And besides, why go through the hassle of peeling it? First, you peel it, then you cut it—such a waste of effort!”
“That’s true. It’s quite a task.”
“No, no, you’re not getting it.”
I looked around, wondering if I had missed something crucial. Seeing my blank expression, she continued, “I mean, after peeling and cutting it, you have to crush it too!”
“Crush it? Oh yes, of course.”
“So, tell me, is the person making tea or working in a factory?” she asked with a mischievous glint.
“Well, obviously, making tea…”
“Exactly! And how does one crush ginger? With an iron mortar and pestle!”
“Yes, that’s necessary.”
“So, imagine how much iron seeps into the ginger. What are we really drinking? Tea or an iron-infused concoction?”
“Oh, I see! That’s brilliant. Is this your innovation?”
She wiped some sweat off her forehead and smiled.
Then she added, “That’s why kids don’t eat spinach—it’s packed with iron.”
I was impressed by her knowledge and relieved that the tea she served me wouldn’t be overloaded with iron.
After all, I couldn’t afford to become an ‘Iron Man’ while running a newspaper. Flexibility was key in this business.
She gave me four or five photographs from different angles for the article. Now, I had to decide which one would complement the interview best.
I didn’t forget to take a selfie with her. A journalist must be forward-thinking, after all. Who knows? This picture might serve as a key to power corridors if she ever takes the oath of office.
It’s only fair—I, too, work hard, braving the sun every day.
Before leaving, I asked, “Do you manage everything here yourself, or do you have some help…?”
She laughed heartily. “Ah, I see! You’re asking whether my hazbaan helps me?”
“Hazbaan?” I repeated, confused.
“Oh, come on! You call my restaurant a restro, don’t you? I travel to Europe often with my husband,” she said, laughing again.
“Oh, you mean husband!”
I glanced at the café’s counter, calculating how many copies of the newspaper would sell here once her interview was published.
Back at the press, I handed over the interview to my staff.
A staff member hesitantly approached me with the proofed pages. “Sir, maybe we should also suggest holding such an award ceremony in our village. There, women call their husbands motyar… But even after working in the fields with heavy tools all day, they don’t escape turning into iron themselves.”
His voice grew faint as he finished his sentence.
