A dark skinned pair of hands, darkened more off dust than anything else, was at work, busy, avoiding the twelve-hour shift of activity on the toll-bridge. Aman Singh, sat at the cash counter, only his hands visible to the rest of the world outside his flimsy cabin -- collecting cash, returning the change and the receipt -- as if his hands were meant only to do that. In fact, nobody had the interest to notice him. He was merely the hand in the hole with whom their power to proceed rested.
All day through, on a morning shift, he listened to radio and drank tea. First it would be the trucks and the holiday makers. It would then give way to office-goers and finally to sparse, untimely holiday makers and day-hoppers, off for a casual long drive.
He would hardly notice the bump in the truck or the scratch in the sedan. Nor was he interested in the drunks in the SUV. Unlike his colleagues who would discuss attitude in one gulp and smoking and smoking hot women in the other, of their lunch break, he would pay a deaf ear and concentrate on his drab lunchbox of chapati and sabzi. Till today.
Earlier in the day, after a series of rough hands and sturdy ones, some cuff-linked, others belonging to drivers', his attention was caught by the glint of a green stone on a manicured hand. Father's money he thought. It pushed in a one-thousand rupee note for a one thirty rupees toll. It was 8.30 am and he could not afford to give away eight hundred rupees in change. He returned the note and said aloud, "No change."
The note came back, "No change." In such moments of anticipated disagreement, Aman's hands were replaced by his dusky face. He saw a shiny, red sedan, and a beautiful face, adamantly holding out her open wallet. "Check if you want."
The green stone reflected its exact amount of green sunshine into his once a truly soft pair of eyes. He saw the face that held the queue. It was behind big sunglasses, and red lipstick, just like in the movies. His nano second of distraction was well backed by his professional, "Card, Madam?" For some reason, he knew she wouldn't have any.
"No card" came the reply.
He had no choice but to give her the change. As he murmured a couple of swearwords under his breath, very ritualistically, he was suddenly stopped by her.
"Don't think I cannot hear you. Give me my money back. I will return from this point."
"Does not happen that way, Madam." He could sense the threat in her voice, it was certainly not empty. Her own money maybe. He counted the change and gave it to her.
"Thank you, Aman."
In his two years of being at this non-descript job, this was the first time that Aman heard someone thank him taking his name. Such stuff happen in english movies! His derelict vision towards life made him take up this job, much below what his education actually guaranteed. He was earning, but hardly in terms of values. "Yes, OK." After a quick end to his pause, he added, "Thank you, Madam." And looked directly out of the hole and smiled. She smiled back too, as she carefully kept the reciept in the glove compartment and looked out again. This time, with a "Good day, Aman." She drove away, without waiting for his response.
At lunch, Aman Singh finished his eating faster than usual and looked at the lines in his palm. This affectionate acknowledgement of identity had given him access to a confidence he had lost long ago. He opened his jhola and took out his notebook and pencil. He gave a good look at the toll area and sat to his actual work. With the same pair of hands, he deftly sketched the moments of his same twelve-hour shift. Masterstrokes and mastershades confirmed that Aman Singh had a sensitivity that had raced past him in wheels of experience.
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