The Sari Shop (28 page)

Then he turned around and looked at his room in surprise. The room was a complete mess! Everything was in disarray and a thick layer of dust coated every surface. Ramchand felt confused and dazed. What had happened to him? How had he let himself and his room get into such an appalling state? True, he had been upset, but still…

Then, as a sleepwalker does, he went to the door and was surprised to find it locked. He didn’t remember locking it. He looked around for the key. It was on the table. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The wind burst in through the door, immediately stirring up the whole room into a flurry: blowing the dust settled on the floor across the room, rustling up clothes and the stale air in the room. The spider scuttled crazily across the floor to a corner.

Ramchand went to the back window, unlatched it and pushed it open. It creaked and opened. Now that both the windows and the door were open, the room rustled and swished even more thankfully in the strong wind that blew in.

In the landlord’s courtyard, Sudha sat in a sheltered place, mending summer holiday clothes busily, with a needle and black thread. She held the shirt she was mending tightly to
keep it from flapping. Tendrils of hair that had come loose from her bun framed her plump face, fluttering wildly. She wore a white and red salwaar kameez. Her red chunni fluttered too, like her hair, as she bent over the blue shirt in her lap.

The children were running around in the courtyard trying to fly a kite. The cool, windy day had made them bring out their old kite that had been lying on top of Sudha’s cupboard throughout the summer. It was a red kite, decorated with blue and yellow. Manoj held the kite. The younger boy, Vishnu, held the big ball of string. Alka, their sister, just danced around them excitedly, her green frock flapping around her brown knees. Their faces were flushed with excitement. However, now the gale was too strong and they had given up, content to merely run around holding the kite, emitting whoops of delight now and then. Ramchand called out to Manoj. The boy stopped running and looked up curiously.

‘What is the date today?’ Ramchand asked him.

The boy looked puzzled. Then he went into a whispered consultation with his siblings. Ramchand heard them argue. They apparently disagreed, for Alka suddenly thumped Vishnu on his back and he pinched her above her elbow.

Then Ramchand remembered it must be the middle of their summer holidays. The children couldn’t be expected to keep track of the days. Manoj then held up his hand, motioning Ramchand to wait. Ramchand nodded. The boy disappeared inside to appear with a pocket calendar. He consulted it with an important, business-like air, for a moment looking startlingly like his father, and then shouted up at Ramchand.

‘July 27!’ he yelled, in English. His mother gave him a proud smile from across the courtyard. She didn’t know a word of English herself. She didn’t smile up at Ramchand, though, as she usually did. She probably remembered how, without any provocation at all, he had spat down into her courtyard.

July 27! Ramchand leaned against the wall weakly, shocked. He last remembered only the 14th or so. And the shop! With horror, Ramchand remembered his behaviour on his last day at work. He had made a scene, he had shouted at everyone, he had flung a chair at somebody, he didn’t remember at whom. But he did remember that he had shaken Mahajan by his collar. And had sworn at him too. Ramchand grew weak at the knees. Mahajan must be furious, of course, or else he would have sent somebody to check up on him. He had lost his job! And it was the 27th! Almost the end of the month! And he was supposed to pay next month’s rent on the first of August! And nobody would ever forgive him! It all came back to him in a rush.

What had he done! People died to get a good job all their lives. They went from one city to another with their families, their bedding and their utensils, desperately looking for work. They did back-breaking work at construction sites and starved when the building was finished. They slaved for long hours in factories till they grew old and were thrown out. Or else they worked as craftsmen, learning to weave or make jewellery, and went half blind when they were in their forties.

And here he was – he had thrown a perfectly good job away. How would he survive now? What
had
he done?

He walked to the bathroom in a daze, washed the dust-covered tube of Colgate toothpaste and his toothbrush, and then brushed his teeth carefully, making a lot of foam. Then he went to stand in front of the small mirror on the wall. A gaunt, thin face with the beginnings of a beard looked back at him. He lathered on soap on the strange, new hair with his shaving brush, and shaved very carefully, leaving his moustache intact. The shape of the moustache seemed somewhat altered, but it would do. He looked around for fresh clothes. When he couldn’t find any, he opened his tin trunk and
rummaged around in it till he unearthed an old brown shirt and a clean white pyjama.

He took a bath, scrubbing himself carefully, scrubbing his rough heels with a pumice stone, cleaning his toes with an old toothbrush and vigorously rubbing the bar of soap into his smelly armpits.

Then he towelled himself dry and put on the fresh clothes. He was about to drape his damp, striped towel across the back of the chair as he usually did, before he noticed that the back of the chair was covered with dust. He picked up the rag he used as a duster and wet it from the bathroom tap. Then he carefully cleaned the back of the chair and hung his towel around its back to dry.

He looked around for his watch. It was lying on the table and showed that it was ten in the morning.

There wasn’t a moment to lose now. It was probably already too late. He would clean up the room later, when he returned.

Ramchand rubbed in some Parachute coconut oil into his freshly washed hair, combed it neatly, with a side parting, and hastened off to the shop. The wind ran its fingers gently through his oiled hair as he hurried through the familiar lanes.

*

‘Ingratitude! That’s what I call it. After all these years. Plain ingratitude.’ Mahajan’s moustache was quivering with indignant anger. Ramchand stood before him abjectly with his hands folded. At first, Mahajan had refused to even listen to him. Then, he had let himself go for about twenty minutes. He had shouted, ranted and raved at Ramchand. Ramchand stood there with his head hanging down, not saying a word, hoping he looked suitably ashamed.

After the first angry outburst was over, Mahajan calmed down a little. Now he was just repeating all the points that
he had already made earlier. Ramchand continued to look deferential. It was pouring outside now, the first real monsoon shower. Rain was coming down in torrents. Black umbrellas dotted the street. Even though the street was flooded with water, drains were overflowing and every pothole had turned into a puddle, people looked happy. The relief from the unrelenting heat showed on every face. Most shopkeepers sat at their shop entrances, sipping tea. Ramchand knew that by now, Manoj, Vishnu and Alka would be sailing paper boats in the puddles in their courtyard. They did it each time it rained.

Mahajan continued to lecture and scold.

Finally, Mahajan looked up at him and, putting on an astute look on his face, asked shrewdly, ‘Tell me something honestly, Ramchand. Were you drunk?’

Ramchand looked up at him in surprise. Mahajan misunderstood the look. ‘So, that was it, was it? And you thought I wouldn’t know.’

Ramchand considered this. He had never tasted alcohol in his life. But if he said he hadn’t been drunk, how could he explain his behaviour away? Wouldn’t Mahajan be less offended if he thought that it had been under the influence of alcohol that Ramchand had grabbed him by the collar? How else could he explain away the rage that had possessed him?

So, Ramchand didn’t disagree. He merely hung his head down again.

‘Oh, so that was it,’ Mahajan said, looking satisfied now.

Now, Ramchand thought it was safe to speak. ‘Bauji, please forgive me. I don’t know how I could have…’ Here, Ramchand suitably faltered at the right place. Mahajan laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Well, this is the first time you have ever misbehaved. And the last, I hope. We all make mistakes in our youth. You can come to work at this very moment if you like.’

Ramchand fell at Mahajan’s feet.

Every single person watching the scene looked gratified. Gokul even wiped away a tear. Ramchand was back.

*

They all had to disperse because customers were coming in again. Ramchand went to his place and sat down, his legs shaky. Soon, the shop was full of the familiar chatter and rustle. Ramchand attended to three customers over the next two hours and sold two saris. He went out to have lunch and ate two puris at a food stall. At first, the other shop assistants were a little awkward with him, but in the evening, Ramchand bought samosas for everyone, offering two on a plate to Mahajan, who accepted with a smile.

After that, everything was back to normal. No one mentioned the day Ramchand had burst into the shop and attacked everyone. As Mahajan had said, everyone makes mistakes when they are young.

In the evening, Hari suggested they go to Lakhan’s dhaba. Chander had already left, and Hari and Rajesh were going to have dinner together at Rajesh’s place.

‘Ay, Ramchand. You will come with us, right?’ Gokul asked Ramchand, a happy smile on his face.

Ramchand smiled at Gokul and nodded. Hari leapt up to them and said, ‘Let’s go quickly. I am famished.’

The three went to Lakhan’s dhaba. Hari took a chair next to Ramchand, and when Lakhan came to take their order, Ramchand averted his eyes from him.

They ate sabzi and tandoori rotis and then ordered tea. When Ramchand felt the familiar feel of a warm glass of tea in his hands, he had to blink back tears.

Gokul and Hari bantered with each other and Ramchand smiled at both of them, contributing very little to the conversation.

After the meal, Hari and Gokul said goodbye to him. Hari winked at Ramchand and Gokul patted his shoulder. Then they both went their own ways.

Ramchand walked back the familiar route to his room, climbed up the dark stairs and unlocked his door. He pushed the door open and saw the dust-covered room. He looked for the rag he used as a duster and went to work, slowly wiping each surface, except for the shelf that contained his books. He carefully avoided that.

An hour later, the room was dusted and swept, and Ramchand lay down on his bed, staring blankly at a damp spot on the ceiling.

I would like to thank my family, my friends and all the people in and outside publishing who helped bring this book into the world.