As children growing up in Munnar, nothing enchanted us more than watching Ahmed, the knife-grinder, at work.The moment we espied his stooped figure trudging up the hill weighed down by the unwieldy machine on his back, we would ferret out everything that needed sharpening. For it wasn’t often that we got to see his rickety but eminently efficient grinder in operation.

Soon, with a bunch of curious kids clustered around him, Ahmed would gently pedal his machine alive and apply a blunt blade to the spinning grindstone. A shrill whine and a shower of orange-hued sparks would follow, making us back away. Heedless, Ahmed would remain hunched over the machine, his foot rhythmically working the treadle, his deeply lined face a study in concentration as he virtually kept his nose to the grindstone.

A pleasant-faced man of few words, now and then Ahmed would casually run a calloused forefinger along a wickedly glinting blade to test its keenness — something that made us gasp. Yet he never nicked himself. Once, trying to emulate him, I sliced the skin off my forefinger. More painful, however, was the spanking Dad gave me for my foolishness.

Ever eager to please, Ahmed gave his unflagging attention to even trivial tasks like sharpening the spikes of our track shoes, our blunt arrows and darts. And he accepted payment without ever haggling. Sometimes he allowed us to operate the treadle although we usually moved it a trifle too fast for his comfort. Once an exuberant sibling really overdid it: the big, spoked wheel broke free from its fastenings and hurtled down the yard.

... contd.