Old Papers, Empty Bottles
Old Papers, Empty Bottles
Kadayamma and the Recycler from Kochchikade
“Don’t worry,” Ram would say with a broad grin that revealed the full extent of his betel-stained teeth. “If all your old things weigh as much as a hundredweight (හොන්ඩරය), Amma, that will be quite enough for me to carry!”
He said it while casting a sidelong glance at Kadayamma, my grandmother, who didn’t so much as blink. She had heard it all before, many times over, and had long mastered the art of ignoring Ram’s cheek without encouraging him further.
Ram’s appearance did not suggest strength, yet he was surprisingly sturdy. Of medium height and wiry frame, he had the endurance of a bullock and the agility of a coconut plucker. With sweat streaming down his brow and collecting along his temples, Ram’s face took on a slick sheen, as if he had been polished rather than perspiring. His hands, too, glistened in the sun — more oily than damp — making him appear, oddly enough, like a man freshly oiled for a temple ritual rather than one sorting through old tins and bottles. A well-worn white turban sat securely on his head — partly a sign of his south Indian origin, and more practically, a cushion against the odd edges of glass bottles and tin cans. His white vest and cotton vetti had once seen better days; now they bore a uniform pale-yellow shade, coloured by years of sun, sweat, and generous helpings of turmeric-laced meals.
Ram was, as we’d say now, a recycler — but back then, he was simply Ram, the bottle man. In the 1960s Ceylon of my childhood, he moved from house to house with a large sack slung over one shoulder and a voice that carried only just above the clatter of passing carts. He would collect anything that was no longer wanted but not entirely useless — old newspapers, empty Horlicks bottles, rusting tins, jam jars, odd magazines, and forgotten cardboard boxes.
Kadayamma knew him long before I entered the world. When she lived at the old family house on Kandy Road, he was already part of her weekly routine. He would arrive without fail, usually by mid-morning, nod politely at the gate, and wait in the shade until summoned inside. He always paid in cash — small, worn notes folded and coins tucked away in a secret fold of his vetti. Once the transaction was complete, he would mutter something vague about the weather, offer a toothy smile, and vanish down the road.
Ram was never in a hurry. He spoke slowly in a mixture of Sinhala with a strong Tamil accent, his sentences ending with a laugh that sounded like a cough. He often spoke about his home in Kochchikade, near the sea, where he lived with his wife and six children in a house that leaked in three places when it rained. He had a fondness for children — he would often pinch my sister’s cheeks and nod approvingly at me as though inspecting a piece of good furniture.
When it came time for work, Kadayamma would bring out the stack of old newspapers — my father’s Sunday editions, her Catholic weeklies, my mother’s magazines full of recipes no one ever cooked, and the occasional monthly magazine. These, along with the bottles and tins — Cow & Gate, Nestomalt, Nespray — would be laid out for Ram’s inspection. He would go through them with the seriousness of a jeweller appraising gemstones, tapping the glass for cracks, checking the tins for rust.
Then he would produce his weighing scale — an old contraption with brass pans and iron weights — and begin measuring, weighing, muttering calculations under his breath, sometimes arguing about five cent here or there. And finally, after all had been weighed and priced, he would hand over the money, fold his finds into his sack, and trudge off into the sun.
To us, Ram was always around — like the crows on the roof or the postman’s bicycle bell. One of those familiar presences in a changing world.
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