Aji sat on his shoe-shine box, his eyes alert as he scanned the jam of tourists moving through Manali's main thoroughfare.
"How about him?"I asked,pointing to a large bellied Indian man dressed in businessman-like clothes and expensive shoes.
"No, him no good. Spend money on food, not shoe-shine". I wasn't about to question this ten year old street urchin's client spotting ability as he had proved time and again he had developed a keen eye for profit.
"Him?" Another middle aged Indian , this time drressed in less costly attire.
"No, him local man, never have shoe-shine." Aji seemed annoyed at my innability to spot shoe money and let out a heavy sigh. It was lunch time and he had made only twenty rupees all day from one customer.
I had first seen Aji shortly after I arrived in Manali on my way to Vashisht. It was raining heavily and I was exiting a shoe store after purchasing a pair of waterproof boots, the slushiness of the streets causing my feet to almost freeze with the ill suited canvas shoes I had brought with me from Australia. He was then, as he was now, sitting on his shoe-shine box, a shop-front awning protecting him from the downpour. Looking at my shiny boots I wondered if I my see him again.
Now sitting with Aji on the roadside kerb I realised we had now known each other for two weeks, Aji having the uncanny ability to find me the every few days I walked to Manali. Our first few conversations were mostly driven by Adji's insistance all shoes should be shined regularly to avoid disrepair. Two weeks on our chats were more varied with Aji's only shoe-shine request coming when he raised his shine brush and eyebrows in unison if it looked like I may be readying to leave.
I'm not entirely sure Aji was an orphan as he claimed, but looking at his dirty bare feet, grubby yellow jumper and torn jeans it was evident that this enterprising man was far from wealthy. I once asked if he had any fees or charges enforced on his shoe-shine business from some type of shoe-shine mafia boss, to which he replied,"No, money for food" Perhaps he is orphaned.
I slipped my newly polished boots onto my feet and paid Aji the twenty rupees for my first use of his services, stood up to leave, then reached into my pocket again and gave the young businessman another twenty rupees. I would pay for a shine in advance.
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"How about him?"I asked,pointing to a large bellied Indian man dressed in businessman-like clothes and expensive shoes.
"No, him no good. Spend money on food, not shoe-shine". I wasn't about to question this ten year old street urchin's client spotting ability as he had proved time and again he had developed a keen eye for profit.
"Him?" Another middle aged Indian , this time drressed in less costly attire.
"No, him local man, never have shoe-shine." Aji seemed annoyed at my innability to spot shoe money and let out a heavy sigh. It was lunch time and he had made only twenty rupees all day from one customer.
I had first seen Aji shortly after I arrived in Manali on my way to Vashisht. It was raining heavily and I was exiting a shoe store after purchasing a pair of waterproof boots, the slushiness of the streets causing my feet to almost freeze with the ill suited canvas shoes I had brought with me from Australia. He was then, as he was now, sitting on his shoe-shine box, a shop-front awning protecting him from the downpour. Looking at my shiny boots I wondered if I my see him again.
Now sitting with Aji on the roadside kerb I realised we had now known each other for two weeks, Aji having the uncanny ability to find me the every few days I walked to Manali. Our first few conversations were mostly driven by Adji's insistance all shoes should be shined regularly to avoid disrepair. Two weeks on our chats were more varied with Aji's only shoe-shine request coming when he raised his shine brush and eyebrows in unison if it looked like I may be readying to leave.
I'm not entirely sure Aji was an orphan as he claimed, but looking at his dirty bare feet, grubby yellow jumper and torn jeans it was evident that this enterprising man was far from wealthy. I once asked if he had any fees or charges enforced on his shoe-shine business from some type of shoe-shine mafia boss, to which he replied,"No, money for food" Perhaps he is orphaned.
I slipped my newly polished boots onto my feet and paid Aji the twenty rupees for my first use of his services, stood up to leave, then reached into my pocket again and gave the young businessman another twenty rupees. I would pay for a shine in advance.
Cheers
Hammockman