The Bird Man
Elesaar Perfume Blog Series 3
The Call That Changed the Room
I was in the middle of a product launch review when Priya entered, gesturing at my phone in her hand, “You’ll want to take this call. It’s from Bhopal.”
Half-listening, I picked up.
A voice came through. Soft. Nervous.
“Sir, aaj subah ek courier mila hoga aapko hamaara, Bhopal se…”
I repeated his words aloud, “Courier from Bhopal?”
Priya understood, nodded sharply, and disappeared into the outer office.
The man continued, “It’s a handmade itra. I was told, you might consider.”
I interrupted, “My experience says that the costing for handmade itra is too high. You should revise it if you want us to even evaluate it.”
He hesitated. Then quietly said:
“Unhone kaha tha aap le lenge. Bas… aap ek baar itra ki khushboo mehsoos keejiye.”
I sighed.
“Arrey bhai, if it doesn’t fit into a clean pricing slot, why would I even open it? And who told you all this? Who are you talking about?”
Just then, Priya returned.
In her hand: a small cloth-wrapped bottle.
No branding. No tag. Just… fabric with frayed edges. Nobody sends their product like this to be evaluated. I knew I had no interest left.
But then, Priya gently opened the bottle.
And everything shifted.
The air changed.
The mood changed.
The room changed.
I stood still… one hand holding the receiver, the other now limp.
I tried to say something. But the line had gone silent.
Disconnected.
I dialled again.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
And in that moment, I knew.
We wouldn’t find him on a phone anymore.
The Real Home of Itra
Faridoon opened the door.
He was kind, but his eyes held doubt.
We explained why we were there.
“I understand,” he said. “But these things are not viable.”
His response was not unexpected. Faridoon has an MBA in Marketing.
We just placed the bottle on the table.
Moments later, Aunty entered the room.
She wasn’t an MBA. But she didn’t need to be. Truth guided her.
She saw the bottle. Saw us.
She walked over. Uncapped it.
No words. Just breath.
Just memory.
Her eyes closed… and she whispered:
“Feroz,” turning towards the picture on the wall.
Silence…
Not just in the room, but in us.
And then, my phone rang again.
Same number.
I answered.
A voice said:
“Unhone aapko phone karne ko kaha, isi liye kiya. Halaaki aap ne toh mana kar diya tha.”
I leaned forward, my voice sharper now:
“Kisne kaha? Aap ho kaun? Kahaan mil sakte ho?”
The call continued.
But something about me… had already changed.
The others were surprised by the way I was speaking —
anxious, curious, mystified, and gesturing far more than I usually do.
Even I realized it… a little too late.
When I finally looked up,
Faridoon was staring.
Priya, alert.
And Fariba Aunty…
She was now looking at me, not Feroz uncle.
The Man Who Waited for Jasmine
We were sitting next to each other, me and the Itra man, in an open space,
but I was mentally focused only on him and what he had to say.
On a small nudge from me, he began.
His words weren’t rushed.
He didn’t come to the point.
He remembered aloud.
He had a story to say.
A story that, from the word go,
sounded like me,
like us,
like Elesaar.
He told me he hadn’t made the itra for two full seasons.
Just because the jasmine didn’t smell right last year.
Ahhh, the beginning of the story… so Elesaar.
Without Darvesh, I would have probably given in.
I would have probably started much earlier.
But let me listen to what this poor man has to say.
He continued:
“I was told that if the celebrities, the influencers, agree to align with the honest product,
I might be able to take the itra to the right kind of people —
to those who deserve it.”
I knew he was wrong. “Nobody needs to align oneself with anyone or anything… we all have to simply align with the truth, the Universe,”
I wanted to say, but restrained myself.
I was all ears again after this minor deviation.
He, lost in his own story, continued, “I reached Mumbai to meet the influencers and celebrities.
Nobody wanted to meet a person from Bhopal from a particular class.
But three of them agreed to meet.
Only to meet.
They didn’t even look at me; they didn’t need to.
Even I, the moment I entered their offices,
knew this was not where I belonged.
These were the actors who sold the idea to the world.
But I was only the maker of the product.
How would I know how to sell?”
He paused, and then continued again.
“I returned. Not dejected.
I was sure I would have to take up a job.
But my cousin insisted that I should give it just one more chance.”
The Itra man smiled faintly and then continued about his cousin.
“He made a page for me,
and for thirty days, I waited for likes, comments, and shares.
None came along.”
“I am never dejected. But I wanted alone time.
I sat at the square. And I met him.
The only person who looked at me with some interest…
Just like you.”
The Itra man looked at me, and I took the opportunity to ask my original question.
“Who are you talking about?”
Flashback – Guddu ki Chai and the Man Who Knew
“He was already sitting when I arrived,” the Itra man said.
“Old man. Simple but clean white cotton kurta. Smiling, like he had been waiting for me, and then said in a most welcoming tone… Aa gaye beta.
There was no hesitation in his eyes.
No need to introduce himself.
He had the rare glow of someone who’s spent years in silence…
because he was learning how to listen.
Pigeons fluttered near his hands,
and instead of shooing them,
he gently opened his palms,
as if welcoming old friends.
He looked at me again, and said, almost in a whisper…
“Tried everything. Except sitting still.”
And before I could say a word,
he called out:
“Do adrak waali cutting.”
The chai arrived.
The wind arrived.
And slowly, without ever asking what I did or what I wanted,
he began telling me exactly what I needed to hear.”
The Paper, the Birds, and The Bird Man
I was eager now that the Itra man stops the story and comes to the point. The story thus far was enough for me to know what transpired later. But the simpleton was in no hurry. As he was about to continue, that urgency crept into my voice again.
“Why and how did he ask you to approach Elesaar?”
The Itra man did not like the way I interfered in his thought process. Nevertheless, he continued from where he had left.
“The old man just smiled, then looked around at the pigeons sitting near our feet. One fluttered onto the bench. Another hopped onto his wrist, and then onto my shoulder.
He said that the birds were comfortable in my presence.
They recognize the goodness in me.
I didn’t know how to react. Nobody has ever spoken to me in this language.
And just then, a gust of wind swept through the square.
A piece of old newspaper came spiralling through the air
— tumbling, turning —
and landed softly in the old man’s hand.
He didn’t look surprised.
He just held it, like someone expecting a letter from the sky.
He again uttered a line that sounded straight from the scriptures. Pointing at the piece of paper, he said that the wind had smelled the goodness in me and wanted to spread the fragrance I carry.
And then he felt silent. He took out a pencil from a cloth bag, which I didn’t even notice till then. He scribbled something in the corner of the newspaper.”
The Itra man stopped with his narration.
I interrupted, gently.
“He scribbled my address and phone number on that scrap,
and gave it to you.
Told you when to call me.”
The Itra maker smiled, this time with the warmth of an old friend, and then continued with the last bit of his story.
“He also told me you would come to meet me.
Asked me to bring you here…
and offer you Guddu ki Chai.”
For the first time, I glanced at the place where we were seated. I realized I was at the square. I saw the shop, Guddu Ki Chai. By the time I turned around to attend to the Itra maker, chai arrived. The steam rose from the chai, and the veil lifted from the story. A wide smile spread over my face when I realized that this was the same place where the Itra man met the mysterious man.
And just then, as if on cue, the birds flew in again.
One settled on my shoulder.
Another on my palm.
The moment was too strange to explain,
and too soft to resist.
I looked at the Itra man and said:
“The old man said about them, too, didn’t he?”
We both laughed — not smiled, laughed… like friends who had met many lifetimes ago.
And almost unintentionally,
like a whisper that had waited for hours,
I muttered out:
“Darvesh.
The Bird Man.”
The Reflection, the Realisation, and the Invitation
Neither of us said a word after this.
It was not needed.
Even in the silence that prevailed between us,
we didn’t hear a single sound of the busy surroundings.
We began sipping the chai, slowly,
even though it had gone cold —
colder than the coldest I’ve ever had.
But my mind was running fast…
There was only one thing I could think of then, which was running faster…
The number of good people who were joining Elesaar.
Till just a few days ago,
I felt I was alone.
But now,
Elesaar is growing.
As a brand, yes…
but not just as a brand.
As a quiet thread.
Tying together those who still believe in truth,
in craft… and kindness.
Come.
Take your place.
You were always part of this family.
Even before you arrived.
She isn’t alone. Not anymore.
Each of them came looking for something they needed.
They stayed for the truth.