Ali was short. It was in his genes. His father (Uppa) and grandfather(Uppooppa) weren’t known for their height either. He had accepted his shortcomings early in life. Life was tough. Aali (That’s how he was called) was forced to leave school early. Not that it bothered him much. He wasn’t too fond of sitting out there in the small classroom when the wide open fields beckoned.

Aali was in awe of his father. He knew that he was a strong man. A porter. Who used to be away for months and when he comes home, it was always a festival. Umma would gather the plumpest of the chicken, chasing them around the tiny courtyard, while they squawked and fluttered. The lucky ones escaped Umma’s hands. After a while, when the smell of biriyani wafted across the tiny verandah and all across the hut, guilt vanished from Aaali’s heart while his stomach would rumble.

Aali like to eat well. He loved the soft fluffy Pathiri’s his Umma made. He loved the chicken curry she makes. He grew up fast. Aali was not averse to hard work. He would help anyone without being asked.

Very soon Aali was a young man. Built like a bull. He was short, stocky and powerful. Maybe it was his complete faith in Allah or his unflinching prayers – five times without fail, every single day – that he acquired a very pleasing countenance. One that was so benign and kindly.

Almost always, he was in his lungi – with large checks – blue and green – and tied quite high up. Sweat and grime completed his look. A red head-band, actually a red towel tied hurriedly, kept his hair in place and announced to the world that he was a porter.

He had a walk that was firm. And a back that was straight. Even the heavy gunny sacks laden with freshly ground flour did nothing to bend him. He could hoist them easily, two at a time.

Aali would normally be found in the bazaar. The ‘Chandha’. The marketplace. The hub of commerce in the little village, he’d adopted for himself. He lived in a small rented room in the midst of it all.

Early in the morning, freshly scrubbed and bathed, ‘Niskaaram’ done, Aali would come to the junction close to the market. He had his favourite seat, a rough granite mile-stone with faded letters. He would sit and watch the action happening around. Since the place is a sleepy village in the hills, there is hardly any. Buses come every hour or so, stop for a few seconds and then leave. Some get off hurriedly. Ones who have to board run behind while the impatient driver slowly increases the speed.

For Aali, work usually begins when the milk tankers come in. He has to help them unload big aluminium barrels full of milk, fresh from the udder. Once that is done, the Fish Lorry comes in. There’s usually a few baskets of fish to be unloaded. And the ice boxes too. Once or twice a week, cement trucks come in. That’s when Aali makes some good money. And during the harvest season, there’s plenty for everyone. Sacks after sacks bearing coffee, pepper, cardamom, ginger, nutmegs, cocoa, vanilla – needs to be loaded on to waiting trucks. And the landlords and farmers are usually in an extra benevolent mood.

That’s how Aali built his house and married his sisters off. During season, he would work till his back ached. When he’s unable to bear the pain, he would go over to Moossad, whose oil massage would put him back on his feet the next day. And Moossad never took any money. Whenever he needed any help, Aali would be there.

Back in his hometown, his new house languished. Aali would appear rarely. Spend a few hours with his mother and return the same day. His mother decided that Aali needed a home.

He was married off to a nice girl in the same village. His wife was much younger than him. The next few years passed by in domestic bliss. Not that Aali’s life changed much. He now came home at least once every week.

On other days you could find him sitting on the rough granite milestone with faded letters, waiting for the next truck to arrive.

Over the years, his strength started waning. His hair became grey. His tooth was stained. But the glow in his face was still very much there. His forehead now had a black scar, the symbol of his faith.

Aali wasn’t blessed with children and his wife turned out to be a nag. He contemplated on retiring from his job. There were many youngsters who would willingly do what he did for a living. And many were eyeing his badge and towel.

He also wanted some rest. And one fine day, the rough granite milestone looked lonely.

Aali had returned to his home. But he didn’t get to rest there. His wife wanted him to earn. She nagged him every day to go and work.

Till one day, his huge heart just gave up. Aali had found rest.