The seller of savouries

Cheere bhaja gulo, cheere badam bhaja gulo,bhujiyar packet gulo,tiffin chanachur (fried flaked rice and various other savouries, a favourite evening snack with many Bengalis). Any body taking the bus on route number 22 from the Kanchrapara railway station, in West Bengal would invariably be greeted by the monotonous yet melodious voice of the old man. No one really knew where he lived. No one knew where he got his wares from, or whether he prepared them himself. But everybody knew that “Dadu” as almost all the commuters lovingly called him will be there, selling packed Cheere bhaja (fried flaked rice). All sorts of people got down from the local trains, all with different moods. Someone had gained a promotion, someone had missed out. Someone’s girlfriend had said yes and someone had had a break up. A man had been blessed with a son a day after another’s daughter lost her battle with cancer. Some happy, some sad. Some elated, some contemplating suicide. But nothing could ever miss the eyes of Dadu. He had seen college goers falling in love, marrying their loves and then becoming parents. He had also heard many stories of young boys and girls consuming poison or cutting their wrists after their “break ups”. But he would always be there. Be it the 6:30 bus in the morning or the last bus at 10:15 in the night.
Rain, storm, heat humidity, nothing would ever deter Dadu from selling the savouries. And I have this feeling that the commuters would actually wait for him. He was like the guardian angel. He would ask the students about their exams. He would ask others how everyone in his or her family was doing? He was not just a seller of evening snacks. He was an agony aunt. He would listen to woes. And though it may be a little hard to believe, people would actually open up to him. I would really find it strange. Though I was fortunate enough at that time to have a bunch of good friends who were my agony aunts, I could clearly feel and understand the need of the others to have one. Dadu would often advise ladies, with children in tow, to take the next bus, as a particular bus would be full. Weather beaten, balding and surely growing old, he was the proverbial god father of hundreds of commuters who got down at Kanchrapara. The hundreds of common men and women, having hundreds of problems of their own.
How do I know about Dadu so much? Well, Kanchrapara was the town, nearest to our university campus. So anything we wanted to do other than studying would be done at Kanchrapara only. If you wanted to go to Calcutta, 65 km away, Kanchrapara was the nearest railway station. And Route No. 22 was the only one which would take us there from our campus.
I don’t know whether he is still there. Jusst before I left the university, he had had a stroke. And I really don’t know what has happened to him. May be I didn’t care either. The last time I went to the university to collect my degree (that effectively means that the probability that I will ever set foot in the university again is 1 in 100), he was not there. I might never really know whether he survived that stroke.