The Sari Shop (2 page)

And Gokul had made it his business to know his chunnis very well. There were no ordinary chunnis in Sevak Sari House. They sold saris, so if some chunnis had to be there, they had to be special. All of them were two and a half metres in length, and of the required width. No well-dressed sardaarni liked a chunni shorter or narrower than that; they thought that those kind of chunnis were for Hindu women or for very young girls. Apart from the length, the quality was taken care of. There were pure chiffon chunnis, there were lovely white silk chunnis that could be dyed to match any silk salwaar kameez, there were gold-edged bridal odhnis in red, pink and maroon, there were white chunnis with discreet light-coloured embroidery at the borders for widows from good families, there were the colourful ones embroidered with traditional phulkari work – usually bought by Sikh women for their daughters’ trousseau, and many others. And Gokul could handle all the customers who came in asking for chunnis.

Despite this, Gokul didn’t swagger. He was in awe of Mahajan and was always warning Hari to be careful not to get into Mahajan’s bad books.

Gokul now looked up at Hari and said, ‘You be quiet, Hari! Calling Mahajan a raakshas at the top of your voice! You talk too much. Some day they will hear you and chuck you out. You have too long a tongue. That tongue won’t earn you your living, boy.’

But Gokul was smiling when he said this. He had a small, benign face and a dome-shaped head sparsely covered with wisps of hair. Ramchand also gave him a wan smile. Chander was unlocking a cupboard nearby. All the walls of the shop were either covered with shelves, or had sturdy built-in cupboards that could be locked up with the more expensive or delicate stock inside. While the three were talking, Chander didn’t even look up once. He was a quiet man, very tall, and with a very pronounced Adam’s apple. He often did not turn
up for work, and maintained a melancholic silence whenever Mahajan shouted at him for this or for any other reason. He would just take in all the insults Mahajan hurled at him, staring into space all the while, biting his lower lip, not answering any of Mahajan’s angry questions.

The two oldest shop assistants, Shyam and Rajesh, had been working at Sevak Sari House for a much longer time than any of the others. Shyam had greying hair, a thin face and a large gap between his two front teeth. Rajesh was plump, with slightly rheumy eyes. The two kept to themselves, confabulating in low voices about the rising prices, nought per cent interest home loans and where you could get the best bargains for household electrical appliances. They were paid slightly more than all the other shop assistants. Everyone knew this, but it was never mentioned, and the two men never admitted it officially. Shyam had a young daughter he was hoping to marry off to Rajesh’s son. They lived in their own set, middle-aged world, went out for tea and meals together, and called all the other shop assistants ‘boys’, even Gokul, who was only a few years younger than them.

Ramchand spent the morning arranging new stock. Bhimsen Seth, the owner of the shop, came in at about eleven. The shop had been set up by his grandfather, Sevak Ram. Bhimsen had taken over at the age of twenty. That was when a fifteen-year-old Mahajan had come to him looking for work. Bhimsen had taken him in, and Mahajan had worked his way up in the business. He had, over thirty years, proved himself to be honest, reliable, enterprising and a hard taskmaster. Now it was Mahajan who looked after most of the practical affairs of the shop, though under Bhimsen’s supervision. Most of the time now, Bhimsen Seth didn’t need to come to the shop every day. He had some other businesses running that he also had to see to. Ramchand didn’t know whether Seth was his surname or if it was just a respectful way of addressing him.
He had asked Gokul once, but Gokul didn’t know either, and Ramchand didn’t dare to ask anyone else.

On the rare occasions that Bhimsen Seth did come to the shop, he just reclined prosperously in a corner of the first floor, surrounded by a garish assortment of pictures of Hindu Gods, burning incense sticks and greedily counting hundred-rupee notes with his thick, stubby fingers.

Ramchand watched him out of the corner of his eye sometimes. Bhimsen would intently flip the edges of the notes, and, if he happened to look up and catch Ramchand’s eye, he would give him a slow, fleshy smile that chilled Ramchand’s heart. He always found Bhimsen’s benevolent manner a little sinister.

In another corner of Amritsar, far away from the old city, in an area where many government officers, doctors and a few businessmen had made new, spacious houses with lawns in the front and kitchen gardens behind, Mrs Sandhu stood in her kitchen and watched the milk boil and froth on the gas stove. She was a fat, fair-skinned woman with a clear, glowing complexion and long, glossy hair tied back neatly into a bun.

The kitchen she stood in was spotless and fixed up with the latest gadgets. The marble slabs gleamed clean and dry. Hawkins non-stick utensils were stacked neatly in a shelf, there wasn’t a drop or stain on the LG microwave oven, and the floor shone. Mrs Sandhu’s husband was Chief Engineer in the Punjab State Electricity Board. Many of his underlings came into his residence as cooks or gardeners to do domestic chores, and they kept the house spick and span. The Sandhus used to live in the Power Colony, in a government-allotted house, and had recently built and moved into their new house.

Mr Sandhu was intensely interested in the house, and had planned the construction as well as the furnishing very carefully. Only the best would do. Even after he retired, people ought to be able to tell that he had been Chief Engineer. So the house was big, with the latest fashionable architectural features incorporated in its design. The bathrooms had granite floors. There was a big arch leading into the drawing room, which was sunk into the floor down two or three steps. There were carpets that Mr Sandhu had ordered from Kashmir. All the doors were made of teak, the furniture and upholstery were expensive and had been personally chosen by Mr Sandhu.
Many people commented that it was strange that a government officer, no matter how high-up, had been able to afford such a grand house – but then the Sandhus had property, land in their village and, of course, they added with knowing glances, these days which government officer doesn’t take in something under the table?

There was another Chief Engineer who had built a house close by, though he had built it step by step. First he had saved money for his plot of land. Then, over the next few years, he had saved enough to start construction. He had moved in with his family when the house was still incomplete. Five years later, he had hired carpenters to make built-in wooden shelves and cupboards to replace the two steel Godrej almirahs. He had a lawn and a kitchen garden too, but just a battered old Fiat, one ordinary carpet in the drawing room, old shabby furniture that his wife loved and refused to part with, and a not very large bank balance. He was a most impractical man, people said, most unwise… almost foolish.

Mrs Sandhu thought she was as good as anybody now. Never mind her weight, at least she was better than all those thin women with dark, rough skins and mousey hair. A beautiful house, status-family, a caring husband and good looks… what more could a woman ask for? Now, if only the children would do well…

She turned the gas off, and the milk subsided. She poured it carefully into a tall steel glass, filling it up to the brim. Her rolls of fat jiggled as she waddled to her son’s room with the hot glass in her hands. The door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and tiptoed to his desk, where he was working.

‘Manu, beta, drink this,’ she said encouragingly. Manu looked up at her. He was a gangly adolescent with the beginnings of a moustache and bony knees. He was soon to sit for his entrance exams to medical colleges. All eyes were on him. He was the P.M.T. boy, the pre-medical test boy. His parents
were proud, anxious and loving. He took the steel glass from her languidly, leaned back and took a sip. Mrs Sandhu waited, her rolls of fat now still and expectant, her lips slightly parted.

‘Chheee!’ Manu made a face and pushed the glass back into her hands. ‘Didn’t you strain it? You know I hate cream in milk. Take it away.’

He returned to his work without looking at her. She went back to the kitchen and took out her steel strainer, the one her mother had given her when she had got married. It was still in such good shape, she thought with satisfaction. She strained the milk carefully into another glass. The offending cream remained stuck in the strainer. She took the new glass back to his room. He was bent once again over his papers, his lips moving in a silent murmur. He took the glass from her hands without looking at her. He took slow sips without a word. She slipped out of the room.

The phone in the drawing room rang. She rushed to it, hoping the ringing hadn’t disturbed Manu.

It was her husband calling from work. He was in a good mood; he had just finished receiving a bribe that was politely disguised as a gift. He asked his wife gently what Manu was doing.

‘Studying,’ she answered proudly.

*

Two houses away, Mrs Gupta sat in her bedroom on a large bed covered with a peach satin bedspread. She was in her late fifties, though a careful diet and regular exercise made her look younger. Her skin was pale and translucent, but she had thin hair. To cover that up she had got it cut to shoulder length and tied it back with a hair clip. On another woman of her age it might have looked ridiculous, but it went well with her perky, overconfident manner, her smart walk and her trim
waist. Her eyes were small, and her nose a little hooked. She didn’t like these two things about her face, and the thin hair of course, but she knew that on the whole she looked good – smart, trendy, respectable and from a well-to-do family at the same time.

Crystal ornaments sat on a shelf in the wall – crystal was the latest, and she made sure she kept adding to the collection whenever she could. There was a crystal vase, with imported artificial white flowers in it, a miniature crystal violin and a statuette of a dancing woman among other knick-knacks. Though lately she had been wondering if she ought to shift the crystal to the drawing room. Hardly anyone saw it here…

The large mirror of the glass-topped dressing table reflected the well-kept room – the beautiful double bed with a red velvet headboard, the crystal pieces, the glass-topped side tables, the rust-coloured carpet, and the pleated curtains with the rust and peach check pattern. It also reflected Mrs Gupta, sitting resplendently among all this, deep in thought.

On the dressing table, below the room-reflection, stood a jar of L’Oréal anti-ageing cream, a bottle of Lakme cleansing milk, packs of deep-red bindis and a big bottle of perfume. There were also sleek, red cases of Revlon lipsticks standing in a row like identical dwarf soldiers in red uniforms. These were the things she used every day. All her other cosmetics were tucked away neatly in the drawers of the dressing table.

Mrs Gupta had recently heard of Feng shui at one of the kitty parties she had been to. She had told her husband about it. ‘It is just like our Vaastu Shastra, but more modern. There are books and all in English about it and Mrs Bhandari has done it too. She has made a rockery just where the book tells her to.’

Mrs Gupta didn’t have much time on her hands to read books, but she managed to ask a lot of people about Feng shui and now, apart from many other changes and additions to
the house, wind chimes hung at the entrance to the room, quivering and tinkling every now and then.

She stroked the satiny surface of the peach bedspread absently, a satisfied smile on her lipsticked lips. Her elder son Tarun’s marriage had just been fixed up, and she was completely satisfied with the arrangement. The girl’s name was Shilpa. She was a demure girl, not exactly pretty – she had rather indistinct features – but she did have a fair skin and was slim. That was all that mattered, thought Mrs Gupta. The rest could be worked on. She seemed meek and eager to please, her shy manner completely unlike the brash way some girls behaved these days. Anyway, she could be moulded. The real thing, the most important thing, was that her father was a rich and respected industrialist. The status of the two families matched exactly, so there wouldn’t be any adjustment problems between the couple or between the families. Maybe, at a later stage, Tarun could even form a business partnership with her brothers…

Mrs Gupta had a lot to think about, the whole wedding to plan, in fact. Her younger son, Puneet, a computer engineer in America, would also come down for the wedding. He would help, of course. Mr Gupta was a well-connected businessman. He knew how to handle things. He would do most of the practical stuff, like ringing up contacts and making people like jewellers, caterers and tent owners give concessions on everything, but she’d have to do The Shopping.

The Guptas had had a lengthy, honest discussion with Shilpa’s parents, and they had all decided that there would be three ‘functions’ – Ladies’ Sangeet which could be incorporated with the Mehndi Ceremony, the actual wedding, and a Reception Party.

So she’d have to get ready three sets of clothes with matching jewellery to wear at each of these functions. She’d also have to plan and buy Shilpa’s clothes and jewellery for the
Reception, for, according to tradition, everything that Shilpa would wear immediately after the wedding, must be a gift from her in-laws. And they’d have to decide about Tarun’s clothes too.

Mrs Gupta herself had already decided what to wear on the wedding day. She had an old jewellery set of kundan and emeralds set in gold. She’d buy a silk sari to go with it. She couldn’t let her hair down, of course, though she knew she looked much younger that way, but it just wasn’t the done thing for the bridegroom’s mother.

Mrs Gupta sighed and turned her mind back to the shopping. To begin with she would get about twenty pairs of salwaar kameez stitched for Shilpa. She’d also buy as many saris for her. Then there would be saris for her own relatives, and clothes for the menfolk of the family too, of course. And cheaper saris for the maids… A lot of shopping to be done, Mrs Gupta thought exuberantly. She had spoken to Shilpa’s mother over the telephone the other day. Both the families – the Guptas and Shilpa’s parents – were planning to buy all the saris from Sevak Sari House. She hoped they wouldn’t run into each other there – it would make it awkward to discuss prices.