The store at the end of the road

 "Can you get Puliyogare mix?. I have put the rice cooker on the stove and realised there is no Puliyogare mix !"

It was my wife. The advantage of having a grocery store a 100 odd feet away from home is , you could get stuff right at the last moment when needed. I stepped out of home and trundled towards the store. As I reached, a familiar sight welcomed me.

My dad was there sitting on a stool. My toddler son sitting on his lap, hiding a candy in his hand - which is grandfather had got him- lest I scold him.  This was a ritual of my dad. To sit at the provision store  with my son, talking to the store owner. His friends Mandanna, Chengappa, Bopaiah Uthappa stood around.

They moved from their ancestral villages in Kodagu looking for livelihood around same time, joined the various Public Sector Units which had opened up in Bangalore, stayed together as bachelors,  bought plots and built homes in same neighbourhood, raised families and retired. Their day now constitutes of going for  their morning walks together, to surreptitiously eat a masala dosa or a vada (which they been forbidden to eat) at a restaurant and congregate near the provision store to reminisce, compare the various ailments they are afflicted with,  discuss politics, talk to the people from the neighbourhood as they pass by.

As I was waiting for the store keeper to serve me, I heard my mobile ringing. Thinking it was my wife looking for her Puliyogare mix, I took it out. It was the alarm, I woke up and the reality hit.

I no longer stay in that locality. The grocery store had shuttered down. My dad, Mandanna, Uthappa, Bopaiah - all have passed away. Only Chengappa is alive, the last of that generation who built that neighbourhood. He still painfully walks down to the road with a crutch, stands where the grocery store once was , his rheumatic eyes searching for those who are no longer there, looking for anyone who can spare a few minutes and words with him, waiting to join his friends.