The shop is not attended when I walk up, unlike the crowded establishments on both sides of this loud, dust covered street in Jaipur, India. Behind me is a non-stop cacophony of tuk-tuk horns, car horns, bike horns and cows with horns. For a moment I am alone with the shop and I peek inside. A musk of heavy-weight gear oil and lubricants takes me back to the days I used to work on my own truck and be elbow deep in synthetic oils; happy. I don’t sense the same joy here. My work was that of leisure and some insane pleasure derived from bathing in grease to fix the problem of the day.
This shop carries little joy. It hints at desperation. Desperation to feed someone somewhere. The caretaker gone, I slow and take in the scene; lanterns, innertubes, a pile of gears impossible to separate, hubs, a working air compressor serving as the heart keeping this business’ blood pumping. Tools and more tools. A family photo and a long dead clock. A calendar that is mercifully accurate unlink some I have seen from 1994 and earlier in other stores. A bucket of bolts and nuts not unlike mine at home. Grease over it all and not a single horizontal surface left uncovered. If it’s not covered with grease, it’s turning to rust. The cascade of commerce and forgotten parts making its way toward sunlight, before being shoved behind the roll-down security shutter each night.
No escape.
