In the nowhere place of Manila at Utterakhand, a tin shed serves as his office. In neat clean clothes, he greets us simply in morning and eve on way back. One day, he brought us a pahadi cucumber in his reserved way. "I was wondering what can I give as gift" he quietly added.
The shop is never quiet, always at work, radio playing 60s songs. Someone has died and he is stitching neat kurtas to wear on the 13th day. His sons are well off and ask him to stay with them. "I like my place here" he adds. Explanation as well as sense of belonging to this old, old ancestral land.
He is the Lyle of James Galvin's "the meadow", his Indian version. A small, quiet shop, and a big quiet greeting. That is Rawat ji.
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