The Sari Shop (4 page)

Ramchand finished his tea and looked down into the empty tea-stained glass.

Or was he just being silly? What had he been thinking about? What reality? Ramchand paid for the puris and the tea in utter confusion.

He returned to the shop with a worried, wrinkled forehead, just in time to attend to the two women who had just come in. He knew who they were. One was Mrs Sachdeva, Head of the English Department at a local college. She was a squat
woman with a hoarse voice and hair pulled tightly back into a severe bun. She was known to have actually written things that came out in the Sunday supplements of the
Tribune
.

The other was Mrs Bhandari, a haughty, beautiful woman, wife of the D.I.G. of Police. She had won a beauty contest in college and was now in her early forties. She did up her hair in an elaborate way, with tiny curls piled high on her head in a kind of bun. She called herself a social activist when she introduced herself to people, and often organized charity programmes at the Rotary Club. Everyone said how talented Mrs Bhandari was! Even women who disliked her grudgingly admitted it. She could bake the most marvellous cakes that could beat the cakes in Delhi’s best bakeries, she could embroider every stitch that was known, the soups she made were heaven, and she could even make soufflés, which hardly anyone in Amritsar could. She spoke perfect English, had an unerring taste in clothes and any party that she organized was bound to be a success.

Both the women were regular customers at the shop but Ramchand had never attended to them personally before. He said an awed ‘Namaste’ to them. They both nodded graciously in reply.

It seemed to the anxious Ramchand that the Head of an English Department must be terribly knowledgeable and well read. He had read only a few books himself, bought from the second-hand book dealer behind Sangam Cinema near the City Bus Stand. And they hadn’t even been in English. They were Hindi paperbacks – detective novels with revolvers and half-dressed women on the covers. He had read three of them and had thought that they were very good, very exciting and inventive. But after reading the fourth one, it had dawned on him that they were a little repetitive. In all four the villain had forced the heroine to sleep with him, in one he had succeeded and the heroine had drowned herself because she thought it
was the only honourable way out. In the other three, the hero had come in with a pistol and had saved the heroine and her honour. Ramchand had felt cheated when he had realized they were all similar, and he had given up buying and reading them. And then one day he had passed a grocer’s shop that smelt of jute sacks and gramflour. It had immediately made Ramchand think of his father, and he had decided to see if he remembered any English. He had gone to the same second-hand book dealer and had bought a children’s English book called
The Magic Lime Tree
that was thirty pages long with lots of pictures in it. It had words like hearth, pixie, bashful, wither, wicked and toadstool in it. Ramchand had found it too difficult and had given up. He had given that book to the landlord’s young daughter, who had then sat in the courtyard and coloured in all the pictures in the book. And she had coloured the leaves of the lime tree purple. That was two years back. Since then, he hadn’t read a word or touched a book.

Mrs Bhandari cleared her throat. Ramchand realized he must have been gawking. He gave Mrs Bhandari an uncertain smile and asked what she’d like to see. He knew that she was intelligent too. He had heard lots of customers mention her, some with admiration, others with malice or envy. But women are women, Ramchand thought. He didn’t really know that, but that was what Gokul always said.

At least these two were a pleasant change from the wives of rich businessmen who usually patronized the shop.

The two settled down comfortably facing him and asked to see some silk saris.

Ramchand suddenly felt very hopeful. They were both learned, talented – they were both woman who were different from the rest. He eagerly took out a few saris and displayed them. ‘See, madam, this is our latest stock. See this plain orange with gold border, this one here is yellow with gold embroidery, and this one…’

Mrs Sachdeva interrupted him, fixing him with a cold stare. ‘I want some decent colours, not orange and gold and all. Something to wear to college, not to a village fair.’

Ramchand considered this for a moment, slightly disconcerted by the cold stare. He knew very little about colleges and village fairs, and even less about what women liked to wear to either. He took out another sari.

‘Yes, madam, bright red with a black border, madam. Everyone is buying these, madam.’

His heart slid tearfully into the tip of his toes at the hard looks on their faces.

‘Nothing shiny, please,’ put in Mrs Bhandari, scratching her nose with a fingernail painted pale pink. Ramchand, a little crestfallen now, took out a parrot green sari with a gold border. The women exchanged a look, and Ramchand heard Mrs Sachdeva mutter to Mrs Bhandari, ‘You can’t really make these people understand, you know.’

Ramchand felt the tips of his ears burning. Mrs Bhandari addressed him in her refined voice. ‘Something, you know, well, something more subdued.’

Ramchand waited uncertainly. He wasn’t sure what she meant. He felt awful.

‘Some dullish colour, you know. Like brown or grey,’ said Mrs Sachdeva condescendingly. She liked to look plain and business-like.
She
wasn’t one of the vain, idle housewives that this city was so full of. She was a literate woman, Head of an English Department.

Ramchand stood up to take some more saris down from the top shelf. He could almost feel their eyes boring into the back of his head, expectant, impatient. He nervously showed them a few more saris. They took one glance at the saris he had spread out before them; Mrs Sachdeva rolled her eyes and sighed. He took down some more, his face red with shame.

The two exchanged an exasperated glance again. Then they
began to rummage impatiently through all the saris he had taken down while he brought them more and more. They finally chose a beige sari shot with brown silk thread, and left. Ramchand sat down with his head in his hands.

When the shop finally closed at eight in the evening, Gokul came up to where Ramchand was putting stuff away and said, ‘Come, yaar, let’s all go and eat at Lakhan Singh’s dhaba.’

‘Why Gokul Bhaiya, very rich man suddenly?’ Ramchand said, making an effort to smile while he said this.

Gokul made a disgusted face at this. ‘Arre nahin bhai, what rich man? My life is utter hell. Lakshmi went to her uncle’s wife’s brother’s marriage. And the same thing happened that happens every time she goes to attend a wedding. Comes back with her head full of rubbish. Says, I want this, I want that, we don’t have this, we desperately need that. And, mind you, it always happens.
Always
. I keep telling her, Lakshmi, when you see that others have something, don’t let your heart burn. Be content. Learn to be happy with whatever you have. But you know these women. This time she comes back in sulks, and, mind you, this is after she had bought a new sari and blouse and bangles to attend the wedding. Even after that she comes back with her face all blown up in a sulk. She comes and tells me that Munna wants new shoes just like Jaggu’s son’s. Bata shoes with laces! Can you imagine? Even my elder son who goes to school has never worn Bata shoes. And he doesn’t care either. He would go around barefoot if we let him. As if it matters what kind of shoes a little child wears. Isn’t it enough for her that she has bangles and a new sari? But, no, these women can drive you mad. I knew the reason why she was saying all this. I told her plainly. I told her, Lakhsmi, Munna is three years old. He doesn’t even know how to wipe his own nose properly. He doesn’t want new
shoes.
You
want. Because your heart burns when you see Jaggu’s wife putting new shoes on her son’s feet in front of all the relatives. How can I help it? I am not a rich man like Jaggu. Jaggu has a small electrical appliances shop of his own. And he isn’t a very honest man either. I am sure he cheats each of his customers over a rupee or two. I told her. But does she listen? No. Pretends I am not even saying anything. Going yak, yak, yak herself all the time. And in the end, she always curses my poor dead mother. Why
she
has to be dragged into all this six years after her death, I don’t know. I am not going home till late at night,’ Gokul ended with a sigh.

Then he asked Ramchand, ‘Do you want to come?’

Ramchand was about to refuse. He had a headache and the vague uneasiness had turned into a sour taste in his mouth after Mrs Sachdeva and Mrs Bhandari’s visit. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hear Gokul grumble all evening. But then Gokul usually didn’t grumble for long. And the thought of going back to his room and cooking a lonely, tasteless meal with the light of the kerosene stove illuminating the peeling paint on the walls made up his mind.

‘Yes. Let us go,’ he said.

Then Gokul turned to Hari and asked him, ‘Hari, do you want to go to Lakhan’s dhaba?’

Hari didn’t hear him. He was on his knees on the floor, mopping up some tea he had spilled earlier. He was also singing at the top of his voice, his eyes shut in concentration, swishing the wet rag about anyhow. Gokul clicked his tongue in exasperation, went across to Hari and thumped his back. ‘Hari!’ he yelled. ‘Come, let’s go and eat.’

Chander was about to leave too. He was wrapping his woollen muffler around his head. ‘Shall we ask him also?’ Hari whispered to Gokul.

Gokul looked uncomfortable. ‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly.

‘Why?’ Hari asked, curious as ever.

Gokul looked exasperated but answered him in a low voice, ‘He goes out every evening with other friends. Old friends from the factory he used to work in before he came here. They drink and all.’

‘Oh.’ Hari subsided. Then he took his own sweet time wrapping up. After he was done, the three walked out of the shop and started towards Lakhan Singh’s place.

It was cold outside and the evening fog was building up. They shivered as they talked. Along the way they were joined by Subhash, Hari’s cousin. He was a shrewd looking young man with a very raucous laugh. He worked at Ladies’ Fancy Store nearby, which sold many things – parandees, bangles, lampshades, bindis, objects made of glass, brass and polished wood that came under the name of ‘decoration pieces’ – just about anything, as long as it was bright and colourful and glittering. The shop looked like its merchandise; it had polished glass counters, there were mirrors on every available surface on the walls, and the shop was lit by more bright lights than were necessary. Ladies’ Fancy Store was doing very good business, and just last month Subhash had been given a fifty rupee raise.

Subhash greeted everyone cheerfully and immediately started recounting how a customer had fought with him in the morning. She had bought a red parandee the day before and had woven it into her long plait the same evening. When she had taken it off at night, she had left it on a wet bathroom sill. The colour had run, the parandee was ruined and she was very angry. She had demanded either an exchange or a refund. ‘Can’t tell you how much she fussed and fought. All over a silly thing that women like to wear in their hair! What kind of brains do people have?’ said Subhash. ‘Even if you leave a human being soaked overnight, it will be the end of him. What is a parandee?’

Hari nodded in agreement vaguely and they reached Lakhan
Singh’s dhaba. It was warmer inside the dhaba because of the tandoor that was giving off a tempting smell of fresh baking rotis. The dhaba was full of shivering people sitting on low stools and on plastic chairs, warming themselves over hot glasses of tea. The comforting smell of elaichi-flavoured tea hung in the warmth of the room. In a corner was an empty table with two chairs on one side and a sagging charpai on the other. The group of four quickly claimed it.

When they had settled themselves in comfortably, Lakhan Singh, a tall, gloomy looking sardaar, came to take their order. He had been running the dhaba for the past thirty years and it was famous all over Amritsar for only using pure ghee.

He had lost two sons during Operation Blue Star in the Golden Temple in 1984. After that, he had knocked off Paneer Masala from his menu. He explained to his customers that it had been his younger son’s favourite. He always added in a low voice that his elder son didn’t have any favourites, he was such a simple boy. Lakhan had a big, protruding mole above his left eyebrows and wrinkled hands that shook sometimes. Ramchand ate at this dhaba often, and each time he came here he realized that he felt slightly uncomfortable in Lakhan Singh’s presence.

They ordered Daal Makhani and tandoori rotis and then sat waiting. Subhash was still going on about parandees and bad-tempered women. Ramchand’s headache persisted, and though he felt warmer now, his hands were still numb with cold. Hari, who was rubbing his hands together and blowing warm breath on them suddenly caught his eye and asked him, ‘What’s wrong, Ramchand Bhaiya? Is your mood off?’

‘No, yaar, just a headache,’ Ramchand said.

‘What headache and all, like an old lady,’ Gokul said with a laugh.

Ramchand smiled and they began to talk. Food arrived, hot and fresh, and cheered everyone up. A small boy, a helper at the
dhaba brought them onions and pickles in a small steel bowl.

Outside evening grew into night, and it got colder and foggier. The shops all over the bazaar closed one after the other. Shutters were downed, gates were locked and people began to make their way home. The din of the traffic and the shouts of rickshaw pullers got louder. The four inside the dhaba also grew louder and more raucous. They had cups and cups of tea and there was a lot of backslapping and bonhomie and telling of anecdotes.

Ramchand soon began to feel much better.

Hari did an excellent imitation of Bhimsen Seth. He lolled in his chair, he peered over imaginary glasses, he called for tea in a hoarse voice. In the end he pretended to count notes, eyes gleaming and fingers moving fast. At this Subhash laughed so much that he almost fell out of his chair.