The Sari Shop (3 page)

It was no fun thinking these thoughts alone, thought Mrs Gupta. She had plenty of relatives in Amritsar, but there was another wedding in the family coming up in ten days, and her relatives would think her selfish if she started talking about her own plans till that wedding was over.

Mrs Gupta reached for the cordless phone that Puneet had got her on his first visit home and called up Mrs Sandhu’s number.

Mrs Sandhu answered at the first ring.

‘Hello, ji,’ she said, when she recognized Mrs Gupta’s voice. ‘How are you?’

‘Bas, I am all right.’

‘Arrangements started?’ Mrs Sandhu asked her, for she had been informed the very day Tarun’s marriage had been fixed up.

‘No, not yet. Hardly any time. You see, my niece is getting married after ten days. So the family is a little busy. I have already done all my shopping for her wedding, so fortunately
that
tension is out of the way.’

‘That’s what I admire about you, Mrs Gupta. One has to say, you are so efficient,’ gushed Mrs Sandhu.

Mrs Gupta said self-deprecatingly, ‘No, no, hardly…’

Then she came to the point. ‘Actually I was thinking of going out to do some shopping. Will you come with me? There are so many saris to buy.’

This reminded Mrs Sandhu that she too would have to buy a sari as a gift for Mrs Gupta’s would-be daughter-in-law.

When Mrs Sandhu’s niece Mini had got married, Mrs Gupta had been invited to the wedding. Mini had studied to be a dentist and had married another dentist. The couple had opened a clinic together – the dentist’s chair alone had cost one-and-a half lakh rupees. At the wedding, Mrs Gupta had graciously presented the blushing bride-dentist with a beautiful, heavily embroidered purple silk sari.

Pity that Mini had never worn it, Mrs Sandhu thought, but Mini had said she was a doctor, even if just a tooth doctor, and she ought to look smart and professional, and she felt she looked smarter in short, plain salwaar kameezes. But, anyway, now she must buy a sari for Mrs Gupta’s daughter-in-law that cost the same, at least, if not more, for Mrs Gupta remembered these things, and told other women too.

‘Of course, I’ll come,’ she said aloud to Mrs Gupta.

‘Oh, thank you. You know how it is, you just
can’t
shop for saris alone.’

‘You don’t have to thank me. After all, it is as if my own son was getting married,’ Mrs Sandhu said piously, still
desperately trying to remember exactly how much that sari had cost. ‘And anyway Manu won’t be back for three hours. He has gone to college. After college, he’ll go to his Physics tuition, then to the Chemistry tuition, poor boy. And they are having the Sports Day at the younger one’s school. So, he won’t be back before evening either, though he –’

Mrs Gupta interrupted her. ‘Okay, so you come to my place in half an hour and then we’ll go,’ she said.

‘Okay. I am just coming,’ Mrs Sandhu said, still wondering how expensive a sari she should give to the girl who was to be Mrs Gupta’s daughter-in-law. The trouble was, the Guptas were the only business family in their neighbourhood. So the woman thought she had a lot of money, but Mrs Sandhu always made sure, in her placid way, to show that
she
was no less than anyone else.

‘Okay, then. I’ll tell the driver to keep the car ready,’ said Mrs Gupta, before turning her new, cordless, Japanese phone off.

*

‘Ramchand Bhaiya, I have a sudden craving for a hot samosa,’ Hari said thoughtfully to Ramchand. ‘Or two hot samosas,’ he added.

A harassed frown immediately appeared on Ramchand’s face.

‘Look here, Hari,’ he said, ‘Gokul has gone to deliver some big order, and if you slip off…’

‘No, I won’t slip off, not really,’ Hari said reassuringly. Then after a while he piped up again, ‘Think of it. Just think of a big, fat, hot samosa. Crisp outside, and hot mashed potatoes inside. Spiced with chillies and coriander and onions. Oh, and the chutneys. The red chutney with imli in it, and the green mint chutney. With a hot and crisp samosa. Fresh from the
kadhai. Ah ha ha ha.’ Hari closed his eyes in rapture. His words were making Ramchand’s mouth water as well.

Ramchand tried to adopt Gokul’s stern method. ‘Hari, see, I tell you, you must not…’

‘I am really hungry, Ramchand Bhaiya,’ Hari said with pathos. ‘I’ll just run out, eat, and run back. That’s what I think I’ll do. These people, the Seth and all, are rich enough without me having to starve myself and slave.
And
I’ll get a samosa back for you too.’

‘Yes, but, Hari…’ Ramchand tried again, but Hari had already got to his feet. He just winked at Ramchand and then made a big show of tiptoeing out, which was wasted, since there was nobody around. Ramchand sighed, and went back to work, feeling tense and edgy, cracking his knuckles non-stop, desperately longing for a cup of tea that would calm him down. Soon customers would start to come in. He hoped either Hari or Gokul would be back by then. Chander hadn’t come to work, and Shyam and Rajesh had gone out to eat at a dhaba. He was all alone. If a customer came and bought something, he would have to go to the counter downstairs where payments were made and write it out on the pad with the carbon paper underneath. He had done it only once before when Mahajan was out, and had shown it to Mahajan when he had come back. Mahajan had nodded approvingly, but the whole procedure had made Ramchand very nervous and he didn’t want to do it again.

In most shops shop assistants never took the payment, but Mahajan was sure that nobody could cheat in a shop
he
was the manager of, and always said that if any sari went missing he’d be the first to notice it and call in the police. Everyone believed him too, for his sharp eyes missed nothing. No one would ever try to sell a sari in Mahajan’s absence without making out a bill for it. However, usually when Mahajan was out, it was Shyam or Rajesh who did it. Only Hari wasn’t
allowed to, not because Mahajan doubted his honesty, but because he said he doubted Hari’s brains, if he had any, that was. ‘I am not letting that monkey go near the billing counter for the next ten years, not till that monkey becomes a man,’ he had openly said. At this, Hari had asked, ‘And what if I am still a monkey after ten years, Bauji?’

‘If I were in your place, Hari, I would be ashamed to be called a monkey at the age of twenty-two, but to you it is just a big joke. You really
are
a completely shameless monkey,’ Mahajan said angrily before walking away.

Hari had burst into peals of laughter after Mahajan had left and said, ‘The problem is, I might become a man from monkey in ten years’ time, but I think Mahajan will still remain Mahajan. Now
that
is a real problem. I forgot to ask our Mahajan something. How does he tell the difference between a shameless monkey and a monkey with proper shame?’

*

Ramchand leaned back against the wall after Hari had left. He pressed his palms over his tired eyes. He didn’t know why he had headaches so often these days. And there were days when he woke up at four or five in the morning and just lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of nothing at all, and then he’d realize it was eight o’ clock. Who was he during those three or four lonely hours? And why had the shop started to suffocate him? Why had he begun to get the feeling that something was wrong? A feeling that he was being told lies – big lies, small lies, by everyone, all the time, day after day after day. Always the horrible feeling, some gap, something missing, something that he didn’t know, something that he couldn’t see, something terribly important. And that something was the reason that he felt different in the shop, with all the people around him, and different when he was alone in his room.

And sometimes, he felt different from both these selves, especially when he woke up in the middle of the night, in the dark, floating between wakefulness and sleep for a few moments, before he drifted back to sleep again.

Then Ramchand heard the wooden steps creak. You could hear the steps only in the morning. Later, there would be women swarming all over the place, more saris would be shouted for, packets of saris would fly across the shop from the hands of one shop assistant into another’s and one wouldn’t even be able to hear oneself think, let alone hear the wooden steps. The door opened and Mrs Gupta appeared, with Mrs Sandhu panting in tow. Ramchand groaned. Did they
have
to come while he was alone in the shop?

They both talk too much, he thought unhappily.

The two women were talking even as they sat down.

‘I told you, it’s best to come before every shop becomes crowded. Later in the day, it is more elbows and less saris,’ Mrs Gupta said.

‘I know, I know. It is better to make important decisions with a calm mind,’ Mrs Sandhu replied.

Ramchand gave them a watery smile and asked what he could show them.

‘Good news, good news,’ beamed Mrs Gupta. ‘My son is getting married. So show me the best saris you have.’

Ramchand sighed. It had been such a lazy morning until now. He wished people wouldn’t keep getting married left, right and centre. It made him very sulky. But he started taking out saris anyway. They continued talking meanwhile, apparently resuming where they had left off to huff and puff up the stairs.

‘It is just the right time for him to get married. He has just opened his own factory, and, touch wood, it is doing very well,’ Mrs Gupta said smilingly.

Mrs Sandhu folded her hands and looked towards the
heavens. ‘It is all God’s grace. You should thank God that your children are doing well.’

‘Believe me, I do. I also feed some poor unfortunates outside the Shivalaya temple every Monday.’

Ramchand looked up, a little startled. The Shivalaya temple was where his mother used to take him when he was a very small child. The smell of marigold flowers came drifting back to him…

He continued to take out the saris and Mrs Gupta continued her chatter.

‘I am such a lucky woman. I know I should also try to do something for others. I was talking to Mrs Bhandari, and she really encouraged me to do something for the poor. She has
very
high ideals. Always thinking of what she can do for the society. Only thing is… you know, I am sure you have also noticed it at times, I sometimes feel she is a little snooty, maybe because her English is so good, because the Bhandaris are certainly not very
rich
.’

‘Oh, who cares?’ Mrs Sandhu said, beginning to examine a beautiful pale yellow sari with a tasselled border.

Mrs Gupta nodded smilingly. ‘Maybe she is insecure. Only a daughter, you know. And still unmarried.’ Then the conversation moved on to other things.

Ramchand took another stack of saris to them. Mrs Gupta quickly pounced on a green silk sari that had an intricate border of dancing peacocks. She showed it to Mrs Sandhu, who immediately said she liked it. Mrs Gupta asked its price, and then kept it aside for herself. The two women continued to look through more saris. Hari came back and looked very amused at the glare Ramchand gave him. He showed Ramchand an oily paper bag that contained a samosa for him. Shyam and Rajesh sauntered in too. The two women spent the next two hours looking at saris, and by that time, Mahajan was back. He congratulated Mrs Gupta when he heard the
news of her son’s wedding and she left with three purchases. Mrs Gupta smiled at Ramchand before leaving, promising to come back soon for more. Ramchand was relieved when they disappeared down the steps finally, making their way gingerly down each step.

Ramchand thought Mrs Gupta had too shrill a voice. And he ate the samosa, even though it was stone cold by now.

This was just the beginning of the day. A steady trickle of women who wanted saris began to come in after eleven. Ramchand did not know whether it was true, or if it was only his headache that made him feel so, but everyone seemed extra-demanding today. They wanted
that
particular green, and a
thinner
border, please,
no, no, no
, they did
not
want such heavy embroidery on the pallu. There was no room for uncertainty or absent-mindedness, no room for anything in fact, and as the morning wore on, Ramchand felt the shop closing in on him. He began to feel that he was having trouble breathing.

He went out for a quick lunch at two. They were all supposed to go for lunch one by one, a rule that was often disregarded in Mahajan’s absence. He gulped down oily puris at a food stall in the next street, sitting on a wooden bench that shook if one chewed too hard. He ordered tea at the same place. Actually, there was a tea stall right opposite Sevak Sari House, but that was the official tea stall. Twice a day – once in the morning and once in the evening – all the shop assistants as well as Mahajan had a cup of tea – elaichi-flavoured in summer and ginger-flavoured in winter. It would be ordered merely by shouting out of the window, and a boy would soon appear with a steel wire carrier that held up to eight glasses of tea. He would bring seven, and then come back later to collect the empty glasses. The bill would be brought in at the end of the month, divided into seven, and every person would pay up his share. Occasionally, Mahajan had an extra cup, alone
or if a friend of his came to visit him, and then he would pay up for his tea there and then.

But Ramchand often had tea at other little stalls around the market, stalls in the nearby lanes that were out of Mahajan’s range of vision and away from the demanding cacophony of Sevak Sari House, stalls where he could relax, be alone, and sip his tea, for Ramchand needed much more than two cups a day.

Now, after the oily puris, it was when he had a cup of hot tea in his hands that he began to feel slightly calm again. He sipped the hot, fragrant brew and tried to think why he was feeling uneasy. And this uneasiness wasn’t new. It had always been there, but it had been growing on him lately. He imagined he could glimpse some reality. What, he did not know. He felt that if he really concentrated, really
thought
, he would be able to reach some sort of a final truth. He wasn’t articulate enough, that was the problem. He knew it. Look at other people, look at how clearly they spoke. When Hari described a cricket match, or when Gokul gave directions to a passer by, or when Mrs Gupta had explained what kind of saris she wanted, look how clear and precise they sounded. And
his
own thoughts – they always fanned out, spiralled upwards and downwards unintelligently, rolled themselves up into random curls, chased their own tails and came to nothing. He was twenty-six, but look at the way his mind worked!