Chudiwala Ladka

Shirdi evenings arrive like a benediction!

While the aarti dissolves into the dusk, the streets soften with mesmerizing liveliness. Temple bells fade into murmurs, incense floats lazily in the air, and devotion, no longer contained by the sanctum, spills gently into the lanes. Even time seems to walk barefoot here, careful not to disturb the calm.

After a pleasant darshan, I sat at the corner tea stall, the one at the bend of the lane, and ordered my favourite, ketli wali chai. The kettle hissed gently as the tea was poured, steam curling into the evening air. I sipped slowly, letting the warmth travel inward, watching the evening gather itself around me.

From that low stool, the street revealed itself layer by layer.

A pav bhaji stall sizzled nearby, butter melting into the pan, its aroma mingling unexpectedly well with agarbatti and prasad. A small shop nearby displayed rows of Sai Baba idols watching over the chaos with infinite patience. Two street dogs lay stretched near the curb, asleep with the complete faith of beings who know they are safe here.

An old granny stood at a snack stall, crunching masala noodles with unapologetic joy, her toothless smile stained orange, eyes bright with mischief. A little ahead, an elderly man examined gajras one by one, unhurried, choosing carefully for the woman beside him, probably his wife, steady and silent. Love, I noticed, did not rush here...

As I finished my chai and stood up, a thought surfaced. I was reminded of a dear friend who had gotten married recently. Her voice echoed clearly in my mind, the way she had said it while inviting me, almost pleading yet full of warmth:

“Mam, aapko zaroor aana hai. Mujhe acha lagega, please.”

I hadn’t made it to her wedding and the thought stayed with me not as guilt, but as a longing. I wanted to do something for her. Something simple and meaningful. That was when I saw the bangles.

Rows of chudis shimmered under warm yellow streetlights while each reflecting fragments of faith, celebration, and everyday hope. Behind them stood a young man, barely twenty, perhaps.

Our conversation didn’t begin like a transaction. It arrived gently, like familiarity without history.

He looked ordinary at first glance, almost unremarkable. It was only later that I noticed the quiet, cinematic strangeness in his face. Later it occurred to me that he resembled Ishaan Khatter, especially that composed, modern grace from-The Royals.

But what stayed wasn’t his appearance. He carried a stillness that didn’t ask for attention. It felt as though Shirdi itself had shaped him.

“Whom are these for?” he asked.

“A few close ones… and a newly married friend.”

He spoke of bangles the way one speaks of people, who mattered.

“For plumper wrists,” he explained, “broader bangles give balance.” he said thoughtfully.

“For slender hands, these crystal ones sit softly.”

He held them up to the light. “See how they catch it?”

Then, almost casually, he added,

“Aur aap apne liye yeh laakh ki chudiyan le lijiye… aap par bahut achhi lagengi,” handing over a set of beautiful red bangles.

Crystal bangles, he mentioned, are in trend. But he wasn’t selling trends. He was noticing. Height, posture, personality etc…Nothing escaped him, yet nothing felt assessed. There was a devotion in the way he worked, unhurried and sincere.

Between reds, ivories, and translucent hues reflecting temple lights, he spoke of himself, his plans to study BBM, helping his father every day, learning people, patience, trust and about his experiences with life. The lessons no classroom teaches. And I listened, because sometimes listening feels like sitting inside a temple even when you’re standing on a street.

Life moved around us like BGM. Orders were called out, bells rang somewhere distant, dogs shifted in their sleep. By then, we had spoken a lot about bangles, about studies and about Ordinary Days. Somewhere along the way, I had grown fond of his quiet, childlike warmth.

When the old couple passed by with flowers in hand, we slipped back into the business of bangles. The chudi set I was looking at had ₹550 written clearly as the MRP. I noticed it and pointed to it casually, more out of habit than intent.

He glanced at it, then smiled.

“Arre, rehne do didi,” he said lightly.

“Jitna man kare de do. Aapse kya bargain karna.”

There was no performance in his generosity. No declaration. Just comfort. As if bargaining would have disturbed something delicate between us.

And coming from a Baniya, it pleasantly surprised me. At that moment, the number written on the box suddenly felt irrelevant. I closed the transaction, exchanged a warm goodbye and left.

What stayed with me was the trust. The ease and the quiet dignity with which he chose connection over calculation. As the chit-chat culminated, I realised that I was no longer buying bangles. I was carrying away a conversation. The rare comfort of meeting a pleasant soul in a passing moment...

I walked away, with the bangles held close, I felt almost like a quiet blessing had brushed past me. The one where, in the sacred stillness of that place, an ordinary chudiwala ladka left behind a memory, soft, luminous and gently etched it into my Life Travelogue!!

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