by Adithi Rao
Devendrappa now returned the paints and brushes to the shelf of the old urinal at the talkies. On the previous occasion, he had simply placed them there, feeling instinctively that he would return to paint another poster soon. But today, he fetched a piece of clean cloth and carefully wrapped the brushes in it to protect them from dust. He laid the bundle beside the cans of paint and left the room. Chinna arrived to tell him that Diesel Pai wished to speak with him. Devendrappa and Chinna entered the theatre building, climbed two flights of stairs and knocked on the heavy wooden door of Diesel Pai’s office room. At his curt command, they entered. Balamurali Pai sat enthroned upon a red velvet chair behind a large, polished rosewood table, wearing a brown safari suit that almost matched the colour of the desk.
‘Aah, Devendrappa! Come, come,’ he said with unusual warmth, and gestured for the men to be seated. Both folded their hands in greeting but remained standing, as was expected of them.
‘I must thank you for helping us out during this emergency. You did a fine job! A fine job!’ exclaimed the man, nodding vigorously. Devendrappa merely touched his palm to his heart in acknowledgement of the praise.
‘We don’t know what we would have done without you!’ went on Diesel Pai effusively. ‘I was just telling the others, what happened with the digital posters was most unfortunate. Perhaps Rudrapura is not ready for technology yet!’ He laughed heartily, and Devendrappa dropped his eyes. When Diesel Pai realized that he was the only one laughing, he stopped abruptly and came to the point.
‘So, Devendrappa, I would like to offer you your old job back at the talkies.’
Devendrappa looked up.
‘Same salary as before, no change. You may start from tomorrow itse—’
‘Ayya,’ said Devendrappa, ‘I am grateful for your kindness. But I’m sorry that I will have to decline.’
Chinna shot the poster painter who no longer painted posters a quick, appraising glance. Diesel Pai looked genuinely surprised. Devendrappa went on quickly, ‘I have got another job, and I am happy with it. That’s why…’
Disgruntled, Diesel Pai cleared his throat. ‘Not even if I offered you twenty rupees increase in salary every month?’
Devendrappa folded his hands with quiet dignity. ‘It is not about money, ayya.’
Diesel Pai looked at him long and hard. Something shifted in his eyes, a reluctant respect that surprised him more than anyone, as if he had never expected to feel that way for another human being. After a lengthy silence, he shrugged. ‘Very well, then,’ he said, getting to his feet and removing something from his wallet, ‘please accept this as payment for the work you did these past three days.’
He handed six ten-rupee notes to Devendrappa across the table. As the two men started to leave the room, Chinna suddenly turned around.
‘Sir, cannot we gift the old brushes in the store room to Devanna? He has started painting signboards now. They will come in handy…’
Diesel Pai grew alarmed. ‘But then what about us? What will we do if we give them away for free?’
Devendrappa, who had not stopped to hear the response, kept walking towards the staircase, an amused smile playing on his lips.
When he reached Rudrapura Only Mechanics, Suresh and the others were waiting eagerly for him. They burst out cheering, and Mani, the junior apprentice hugged him.
‘What is it?’ asked Devendrappa curiously, seeing that they were bursting with news of some sort.
‘You! It’s you, is what it is! You remember the lorry you painted the other day? It belongs to some fellow named Shetty from Shivamogga. He owns twenty-two trucks in all. He saw the butterflies you made, and now wants to send all his lorries to you to have them painted!’ cried Suresh.
‘Horn Okay Please!’ yelled the senior apprentice exultantly.
‘Blow Horn!’ cackled the junior fellow, pumping the rubber bulb of an auto rickshaw horn and creating a cheerful din. Devendrappa stood there laughing and shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. The only thing he could think of, over and over again, was, Nagi will be happy! She will be so happy!
After the celebration died down and everybody had returned to work, Devendrappa went off by himself to the corner of the garage premises, where they had left a blank white signboard, four brushes and three cans of paint, in readiness for the name board Basavaraj wanted to have painted for Narayanamma’s tuck shop. Basava Thatha, after enquiring discreetly from Narayanamma what she planned to name her shop now that it is was legally hers, had passed on the information to Devendrappa.
He readied his materials and laid the board flat on the ground. Then, the lorry-and-signboard painter dipped his brush into the can of black and pressed it against the rim a few times to remove the excess paint. As he poised the brush over the board, his hand shook as some unnamed emotion gripped him. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again, took a deep, steadying breath and painted the words with clear, bold strokes: Hesarillada Angadi.
The Nameless Shop.
3
Left, from the Nameless Shop
The shutter on the Nameless Shop went up at six every morning, seven days a week. The people of Rudrapura counted on this to happen exactly so. Some suspected that Ebenezer, the peon at Christos Convent, sneaked out of the school premises and hid himself in the bushes to watch the shutters rise so that he could set his clock by it. Perhaps he was particular about ringing the school bell on time. Or perhaps it was that he had been secretly in love with Narayanamma, the no-nonsense proprietress of the store, these many years. The sight of that metal curtain going up to reveal, by degrees, her busy, brisk, sari-clad person, might have been the real attraction. But all that was conjecture and nobody ever found out the truth behind it.
After the death of her husband, Narayanamma, widowed at twenty-two, had locked herself inside her room for two whole weeks and wept. There was a young child to be looked after, an infant boy whom her mother saw to while Narayanamma was indisposed. But the mother had a home of her own to run, an ageing husband and other children of various ages to cook for and take care of. A fortnight was the most she could spare for her eldest daughter and grandchild. On the last day of her stay, she cast many worried glances at Narayanamma’s closed bedroom door as she fed and sang to little Srikanth. The baby waved his spoon about cheerfully, splattering ganji everywhere, quite unaware that the foundations of his little world were tottering.
But inside the bedroom, Narayanamma had dried her tears at last, exchanged her crumpled sari for a clean one, and oiled and combed the knots out of her hair. When she had made a neat bun of it at the back of her head, she looked at herself in the mirror for the first time since her husband’s passing and observed, with a little start, her new appearance – one without the customary red dot on her forehead and the string of jasmines in her hair. Well, she thought, forcing aside the sharp pang in her heart, that life is over now. This is the beginning of a new one.
When Narayanamma emerged from her bedroom, calm and poised, her mother looked at her, then hurried from the room to bring out dinner, but really to hide her grateful tears. When she returned with a pot of steaming soppu-saaru, the spicy red-leaf lentil curry she made so well, she found Narayanamma putting the baby to sleep. Then the two women sat down to their dinner and discussed the future.
‘I will open a shop, Amma, a little tuck shop right here in the front room of this house that sells …’ she paused to consider.
‘Sells what, Narayani?’
‘Well, everything,’ said Narayanamma, coming to a quick decision.
‘Your father and I are afraid of one thing. Ashwath didn’t leave a will, and his parents and brothers have always disliked you. Won’t they try to take this house from you?’ asked her mother anxiously.
Narayanamma dipped a clump of ragi mudde into the spicy curry and put it into her mouth. ‘Over my dead body,’ she said grimly as she swallowed.
Her mother knew, then, that if there was ever a time to take her d
aughter seriously, it was now. She was relieved.
The Nameless Shop got its name because it was nameless. In its early days, nobody had been able to come up with a satisfactory one. There had been many suggestions, all followed by the word ‘angadi’, which meant ‘shop’ in the local language. But there was already the Steel Angadi, the Seerey Angadi, the Mutton Angadi and the Tarkari Angadi. Narayanamma’s store sold such an assortment of things (even back in those days), that it was impossible to pin them all down with a single word. General Angadi was dismissed with scorn, and just simply Angadi was nothing on earth. And so the suggestions poured in, one name after another until no name at all seemed like the best option for the moment. Besides, the mother’s apprehensions had proved true. Ashwathappa’s family had lost no time in suing Narayanamma for the house, and the legal battle had raged on for twelve years. Right at the beginning, Narayanamma had felt that the title deeds should be good and properly hers before she named the store attached to the front of the house. Soon, people had fallen into the habit of referring to it as the ‘nameless shop’. Now, at the age of thirty-four, when she had finally won the case (the court had ruled in her favour just the previous day), nobody would remember that this nickname was neither appropriate nor worthy. Its location and popularity had made it a landmark in Rudrapura, and god knows you don’t mess with landmarks. So Narayanamma gave in and good-naturedly erected a sign board above the front of the store that read: Hesarillada Angadi.
‘Srikanth, bega maadappa! You’re getting late for school!’ called Narayanamma as she distractedly doled out milk packets to her customers. Srikanth had done all he could to help his mother that morning, as was the case every morning. He had fetched the newspapers and stacked them neatly in rows (taking care to arrange the Rudrapura Times prominently in the front), rolled up the store shutter, swept and wiped the shop floor, dusted everything on the shelves, and arranged the crates of eggs that had arrived that morning from the farm.
The high heat of summer had just passed and the local farmers had started supplying country eggs since the past couple of weeks, more expensive than the broiler ones but with yolks so irresistibly yellow that the richer households in Rudrapura always bought some whenever they were available. Stacking the egg crates was solely Srikanth’s job since his mother declared that handling them made her nervous.
‘Forget the money we’d lose. Imagine if my floor was splattered with thirty egg yolks, how long it would take to scrub the stink out!’ she had once said laughingly to old man Basavaraj.
Narayanamma’s shop was in the Five Lights area, in the centre of town. It was on the way to everywhere. What had begun as a tuck shop selling milk, bread, newspapers and a few sundry items like chikki and butter biscuits out of transparent glass jars, had expanded into a full-fledged provision store by popular demand. The thing was that people liked Narayanamma. It didn’t take them long to discover the warm heart beneath her business-like manner and bustling ways. And before she knew it, people were walking clear across town to buy soap, rice and their daily rations from her.
Surprised and touched at first, Narayanamma soon put aside emotion and rose to the occasion. If they needed something and cared enough to walk the distance, then she’d better make sure she stocked it. So there was Surf detergent for the Sheshadri household, Nirma washing powder for Doctor Bhaskara’s home, and tamarind aplenty for establishments with brass lamps. She saved up the husks of the coconuts she got and gave them away for free along with packets of Shashi dishwashing powder to old man Basavaraj, Devendrappa, and to Raghuvir Dixit’s ageing mother, knowing that they couldn’t afford anything else to scrub their utensils with.
Hers was the first shop to open in Rudrapura each day and the last to shut at night, with only an hour’s break in the afternoon when the sun was at its peak. At this time, Narayanamma took a nap, while Srikanth guarded her repose jealously against all thoughtless souls who decided to come shopping at precisely that hour, knowing full well that Narayanamma would never turn them away. More often than not, her half hour of slumber was disturbed by a creak of the front gate and an apologetic face peering in at the window of the main house.
‘Sorry, Narayani, were you sleeping?’
Or worse still, ‘I knew you’d be resting but…’
These words made Srikanth’s blood boil and he rehearsed many impolite rejoinders in private, but was forbidden by his mother from ever airing them. So, grumbling, he would invariably be sent off to open the store while his mother hurriedly splashed water on her face and adjusted her sari before coming out to meet her customers with a muttered ‘No, no, it’s okay. What do you need?’
So it was a happy business that Narayanamma had going, and a thriving one. It kept her comfortable, allowed her to afford the reasonable fee at Christos Convent where her boy studied, and to pay her bills on time each month. She had no assistants (except Srikanth who helped in his spare time), and ran the store alone.
That morning, old man Basavaraj was waiting for his packet of milk as he chatted with Narayanamma. There were other customers who had come ahead of him, but Narayanamma ignored their requests and quickly put the Rudrapura Times and a half-litre packet of Nandini milk into a bag for him as she listened.
‘It’s the heat, ma,’ he complained gently. ‘She just can’t take it. What to do? Seventy-six years in this place and finally the heat gets to us!’
Old man Basavaraj, affectionately called thatha or grandfather by the whole town, lived in a tiny house with his invalid wife Shanta. He was devoted to her, cheerfully taking care of all her needs and constantly worrying about her comfort.
‘Why don’t you buy tender coconuts from Ravianna every day?’ asked Narayanamma, turning to count out eggs for the next customer while keeping her attention on Basavaraj. ‘It will help Ajji if she drinks the water.’
‘I should, but I find it difficult to walk all the way to his stall in the heat.’
‘Then why do you? I’ve told you so many times to not even come here every morning. I’ll send Srikanth with the milk and newspaper to your house.’
‘Mornings are different, Narayani. It’s cooler and the exercise does me good.’
‘That will be ten rupees,’ she said to the buyer of eggs. And to Basavaraj she said, ‘If some morning you’re not up to it, I’ll wait for you till 7.00 and if you haven’t come, I’ll send Srikanth. Now go home before the heat begins to become unbearable.’
In spite of her brusque manner, her concern was unmistakeable.
‘Aythu, ma,’ said the old man before shuffling away. Suddenly Narayanamma remembered and called out to him. ‘Thatha! Did you tell Ajji the news about the court case?’
The old man turned around with a broad smile and nodded, and an answering smile lit up Narayanamma’s usually stern face. From where he stood, Basavaraj raised his hands in affectionate blessing.
That afternoon, Narayanamma was asleep on the chaapey in the hall, her sari pallu drawn over her face. The room was light and airy despite the heat outside. Only a picture of Ashwathappa adorned the wall, a fragrant string of jasmines around it. Srikanth was sitting under the window, his books spread out before him on the red-oxide floor. A car pulled up outside the house and he looked up from his homework. Getting to his feet, he checked from the window to see who had come at this hour. Narayanamma’s face emerged from under her sari in sleepy enquiry.
Srikanth saw two young women and a man in a white Ambassador car. The vehicle was covered in a layer of red dust, and Srikanth concluded that these were just out-of-towners passing through Rudrapura on their way to Bangalore. One of the women got out and looked at the closed shutter of the tuck shop in despair. She had straw-coloured hair, and her skin was very light, her eyes very blue.
‘Meera!’ she called to her female companion, ‘This one’s shut too. Aw god, whadda we gonna do now?’
Her accent was so strange that Srikanth almost didn’t understand her. Not from our country, he thought sagely, pressing his nose
to the grill.
‘Yaru bandidare, Sri?’ his mother enquired
‘Just some people who want to buy something. Too bad.’ He turned away from the window, losing interest.
‘Open the shop, I’m just coming,’ his mother said, sitting up slowly and adjusting her sari.
‘Why are you getting up?’ demanded her son indignantly. ‘We’re closed and that’s that. What would have happened if our store had been in another street and you were asleep at home? They would have had to go looking elsewhere, no?’
‘Yes, but I’m here only, and the shop is also here,’ she said reasonably. ‘It’s hot, putta. Poor things, they might be looking for Bisleri water. They won’t find another place open at this time. Tell them to wait, I’ll be out in a minute.’
Grumbling, Srikanth did as told while his mother went inside to splash water on her face. As he pulled up the shutter, Srikanth had to admit that the ‘foreign hudugi’ (as he thought of her) had looked about ready to cry from relief when he told her his mother was coming.
Narayanamma was right, it was mineral water the woman wanted. They had run out of it a while ago because they had poured all of theirs into the car, which had a tendency to overheat, she explained to Narayanamma in an accent that made no sense at all. But the woman was pleasant, and so Narayanamma nodded and said ‘ess-ess’, every time the conversation seemed to merit agreement.
She climbed the little stool to bring down the bottles of water from the top shelf. Meanwhile, the woman pulled out her organizer and browsed through it till she found what she was looking for.
‘Meera!’ she called to her friend in the car.
‘What?’ the other woman called back, poking her head out of the window.
‘The flight’s at 12.20 a.m. I’ll have to check in by 9.00 or 9.30 at the latest, it says here.’