Santaji Dhanaji

It's rare these days to see someone in bright white shirt and pants. But that's my enduring image of Santaji. Always in white clothes so spotless and bright that on a sunny day, you were tempted to cover your eyes. 

His black Enfield was Dhanaji.

"You boys have to come help out with Ganpati decorations all night, okay? You're old enough now!"

We were 12. Old enough that parents could let us spend the night with someone they trusted. And everyone trusted Santaji. He was charming, well dressed, and extremely social!

Santaji had this ability to seem more important and influential than he was. As one of the many travel agents in our suburban Pune neighborhood, he wasn't exactly a titan of industry. But he carried himself in ways that made everyone treat him with a baseline respect.

A wiry man standing at about 5 ft 5, he was not physically imposing. But his signature bright white clothes, his always gleaming Enfield, his stylish sunglasses, and a shiny gold plated Hanuman locket meant it was hard to miss him in a crowd. He was chatty in a good way.

"You two, cut the thermocol. You two, mix the paints."

He gave directions and we obeyed. He didn't hold any official post in the Mandal beyond just Karyakarta or Volunteer. But even the Mandal Chairman and Secretary deferred to him on anything he took an interest in.

At dawn, after we finished all the decorations, Santaji took us all out for breakfast.

"It feels strange to eat eggs after making Ganpati decorations. But you boys need to become taller so you can take over my duties." He said as we wolfed down burji pav.

After that, whenever he ran into any of us, Santaji offered us a lift on Dhanaji or a quick snack from the corner shop or both. All we had to do was listen to him chatter on about whatever was on his mind. Sometimes it was stories from his travel agency. Sometimes cricket.

For the next couple of years, every Ganpati, Santaji would recruit us to volunteer for whatever he was doing. Which varied. Once it was the decorations. Then it was organizing games. Another year it was visarjan logistics. Once he told me to get lemons for a lemon spoon race.

"I'm doing decorations this year again, boys. And I have big plans! We will need to go to Laxmi Road Wednesday evening for supplies."

We were sixteen.

"I have maths tuition then." One of us said.

"Thursday?"

"Science tuition. It's 10th boards year, Santaji."

"Is that so?"

He gushed a little about how fast we were all growing up. Then he said studying is very important. And we should all become engineers. And he sped off on Dhanaji.

Santaji never asked you anything twice and always respected your refusal. 

In the years to follow, we drifted apart. He still waved his signature exaggerated wave when he passed us on the bike. But the stop and chats grew less frequent. We were in a rush. He was in a rush. He had recently opened a small snack cart outside his travel agency. Business was booming for him.

For a while anyway.

I was returning from college one day on my moped when I saw Santaji in his usual all white standing at a bus stop near Karve Road.

"You're so grown up, now you're offering me a lift!" he smiled as he got on.

I expected the chattering to start. It did not! He sat in silence.As I dropped him off at his travel agency, I noticed that the snack stall was gone.

"Too much work." He said. Probably the shortest sentence I had heard him speak.

I also noticed that his clothes were not gleaming white. Just regular white. And a few stains were visible. I later heard that he had shut down the snack stall after hapta demands from local cops went up and that bribes from his competitor two buildings away were the reason.

I don't think I really thought of Santaji too much for the next couple of years. College was followed by MBA.I was 24 and a freshly minted MBA, spending the break at home before I had to join my job in Bangalore. 

The company told me to book a flight ticket and keep all the paperwork for reimbursement. I or my parents didn't have a credit card. I headed to Santaji's travel agency.

"Look at you! So grown up!"Santaji hugged my stunned self for a quick second. 

I was stunned because he was wearing a brown T-shirt and gray trousers.

"Why aren't you in all white?" I asked. "Did someone die?"

He laughed hard. Said my jokes were getting smarter with age. 

He did not answer my question. Just got on his ancient computer and asked me for travel dates.

"Where's Chhaya tai?" 

She was his longtime assistant who was always a fixture at the shop.

"Had to let her go. Couldn't pay her. Internet, you know. You're an MBA. You know."

I had done a Priceline case study during my MBA. So I did know that the travel agent business was the hardest hit by the sudden explosion of the Internet. And the case explained in detail why.

Like an idiot, I repeated the case study details & findings to him. He listened.Listening to my academic dirge about his livelihood could not have been easy. But he listened. He listened as well as he talked. Probably what made him such a successful travel agent. In the twentieth century anyway.

But in the twenty first, he suddenly looked jaded.

As I walked out with the ticket booklet, I noticed Dhanaji parked on the side, also looking jaded. There were dents and chipped paint. And there was a layer of dust!

A layer of dust on Dhanaji and no white clothes on Santaji.

It really was a new century!

The End