by Bajwa, Rupa
At last, Ramchand was sent back to Amritsar with a distant uncle’s family so that he could go to school. He had never met this uncle before. Uncle worked as a craftsman in a jeweller’s shop. He lived with his family in a one-roomed house too, though they had many more things than Ramchand’s parents had ever possessed. In the room there was a dressing table with some cosmetics on it. There was a wooden cabinet for plates and glasses and they had a steel almirah in which there were hangers for clothes. Ramchand had never seen hangers before. His parents had kept all their clothes folded in a trunk. Everything seemed alien. Uncle’s wife was fat and irritable, and often stayed in bed all day with a chunni tied tightly around her head, complaining of a headache. She had two children of her own, both boys, younger than Ramchand. When she was in bed with a headache, her wrath descended on anyone who dared to make a noise and disturb her. Often, when one of the children made a slight noise, she would rush and slap all the three children hard, once on each cheek and then go back to her bed, pulling a sheet over herself. Her own children were used to it, and dodged and giggled when she tried to hit them, incensing her even further, but Ramchand had never been slapped before, except on Monday mornings, and he knew he had asked for those slaps. His aunt’s random slaps bewildered him completely. He sorely missed his good-humoured father and his temperamental, but loving mother. At nights, he dreamt of the red sari with yellow flowers on it that was doubled up and used to curtain off their ‘bathroom’ at home.
Ramchand was put into a new school, along with Uncle’s children. New home, new school, new smells. No more marigold-gunnysack smells for Ramchand. Ramchand started growing up.
Every summer Uncle dutifully took his family for a vacation to his wife’s parents’ house in Old Delhi. At this time, who was family and who was not, was made very clear to Ramchand. He would be sent to spend his holidays with his grandmother in the village. Year after year, he spent long summer afternoons alone by the river, and it was here that Ramchand first came face to face with solitude. In the hot, sleepy afternoons under the trees, where only the gentlest sunlight filtered through, with the river lapping coolly, all thoughts became a rustly, swishy, ripply, secret blue-green. And Ramchand came to know the other being in himself, the secret blue-green shadowy Ramchand, who either thought things that did not make sense, or who sometimes thought things that came so dangerously close to making sense that he backed off from them, the way one does from a slavering, mad dog.
The actual Ramchand-of-the-world gossiped, laughed, attended Mundan ceremonies, and bought new, shiny polyester shirts on Diwali with great pleasure.
But the knowledge that the blue-green Ramchand waited inside him changed the Ramchand-of-the-world gradually. He grew quieter, withdrawn. Waiting. In the same way as a man who has a tumour in his brain, or a hole in his heart waits.
When Ramchand was fifteen, Uncle decided that a boy like him did not need any more education. It was more important that he should be settled in some trade. Ramchand was taken out of school and sent to Mahajan, whom Uncle knew through a mutual friend. Even though Ramchand intensely hated his school, he was tearful throughout the last day. When the bell rang and the children left noisily, chattering and laughing and swinging their water bottles, it was with a heavy heart and dragging feet that Ramchand walked out slowly. He left the life he had known as a schoolboy, thinking uncomfortably of a vague memory he had of his father measuring out sugar into 200-gram packets and telling his mother that he wanted Ramchand to study in an English-medium school. He also remembered the times when his father would take him on his lap and make him promise he’d ‘become someone and not remain a shopkeeper like your father’.
With his eighth standard certificate lying at home in his trunk in a green polythene bag, Ramchand entered the shop.
Four years later, his uncle had died of a sudden heart attack. He had been at work, making a necklace in gold and pearls. He had just keeled over and died. Twenty days later, when it was long past the official mourning and all the guests had left, Ramchand’s red-eyed aunt, looking unfamiliar in a white sari without her bindi and bangles, like a tree that had shed its leaves, had politely asked him to leave and find his own way in the world, so as not to add to her already increased responsibilities. She had sent him off with all his belongings in a tin trunk and her blessings. It was then that Ramchand had, with Mahajan’s recommendation, managed to rent the small room with the two windows facing each other, the peeling paint on the faded walls, and a strange, musty smell.
Years later Ramchand had realized many things. He realized that his father had once had a shop. A very small one, true, but a shop nevertheless. And by rights, that shop should have been Ramchand’s. Instead, it now belonged to Uncle’s sons. He also realized that the leaf-shaped gold nose-pin that his aunt wore had once adorned his own mother’s nose. He realized that after his grandmother’s death, her house in the village had been sold off by his uncle, not only depriving Ramchand of any share in the house and an assured home in the family village, but also depriving him of any more serene afternoons by the river.
Ramchand also understood now, years later, why he had never been introduced to Uncle when his parents had been alive, and why Uncle had never visited them though they lived in the same town. But by now, perhaps, it was too late. Or maybe Ramchand just couldn’t be bothered to fight for what was his any more.
*
Clouds hung over the city and blocked out the sunshine. A cold wind blew gently and people longed for the sun. By afternoon, it had begun to drizzle. Winter in Amritsar this year was already freezing cold, the drizzle made people shiver and retreat further into their mufflers, shawls and woollen socks. People moved around in the cold city with stiff joints, chapped lips and icy palms. They caught colds, noses became red, eyes watered. Dogs searched for warm, dry corners with their miserable tails tucked in between their legs. The wind became stronger and chillier, blowing the light drizzle this way and that, so that the rain danced about crazily in the air, wantonly lashing people’s faces and bodies and buildings sideways, instead of falling straight on the ground as decent rain should.
Inside the shop, everyone shivered and felt the glumness of the grey winter day. Everyone except Ramchand. He never found the rain depressing; he just could not. No matter what the discomfort, it was never the cold, the dampness, the mud and the puddles that he noticed. Rain had filled him with exhilaration even when he was a child. It did so now too. Rain always sustained him, even if it was the gloomy drizzle of a winter afternoon.
Hari groaned and grumbled till everyone around him began to feel gloomy. ‘This inhuman cold is giving me a body ache,’ he said. ‘And it has made every joint in my body so stiff that I just feel like an old man. Can’t move at all.’
Gokul snapped at him, ‘Hari, boy, all these aches and stiffness of joints that you have been complaining of since morning, they are not at all because of the cold. They are a result of laziness, of idleness, of not moving your joints at all till you are forced to do so. If you had moved your joints, the new batch of satin would have been put away neatly by now.’
‘What, Gokul Bhaiya?’ Hari said, stretching lazily. ‘Why is everyone always after my life? I think for the past one year I have been working myself to the bone.’
Gokul snapped again, ‘There is a lot of work to be finished, Hari. So just forget your joints and don’t tell me about your aches and pains, okay? Just sort out the satin immediately.’
Hari got to his feet with a martyred air, sighing wearily.
Gokul continued to frown.
Chander remained sunk in a depressed silence, speaking only when he was asked something. Shyam sat away from the others, sunk deep in thought.
Rajesh was talking to Mahajan in a corner. From the black looks they were giving each other, they were evidently disagreeing about something for a change.
Ramchand was the only one who was not in a bad temper.
He looked dreamily out of the window at the misted wo
rld outside, where all shapes and images were beautifully distorted by the raindrops floating in the air. He was sorting out some new stock and he hummed lightly to himself.
Aa chal ke tujhe main le ke chaloon
Ek aise gagan ke taley
Jahan gham bhi na ho
Aansoo bhi na ho
Bas pyaar hi pyaar pale
Ek aise gagan ke taley…
A few raindrops clung to the outside of the glass window. They gripped the glass, trembling a little, shining like fragile pearls. Ramchand smiled at them, his fingers busy at folding and unfolding and checking the price tags. He continued to hum the same song over and over again. He was happy.
And of course, he thought bitterly, you couldn’t even sing in peace in this shop. For he saw Bhimsen Seth come waddling up to Mahajan. These days he rarely came right up. His weight was making it increasingly difficult for him to climb the flimsy stairs.
Everyone snapped to attention at once. Chander looked up, Ramchand stopped humming, though he continued to hum in his mind. Hari began to sort out the different shades of pink satin and Gokul took the frown off his face and tried to look pleasant but busy.
Bhimsen was panting when he said, ‘Mahajan! There is some important news. Ravinder Kapoor’s daughter is getting married.’
A gleam appeared in Mahajan’s eyes.
‘When?’ he asked, rubbing his hands together. Ramchand cracked a knuckle absently, watching the two men talk.
Mahajan turned to him and gave him a glare.
Ramchand stopped cracking his knuckles, went red and immediately got back to his work.
Mahajan turned again to Bhimsen Seth, his smile back in place.
‘In January,’ replied Bhimsen. ‘The exact date will be fixed in a couple of days.’
Mahajan nodded, pursing up his lips in concentration. Bhimsen said, ‘They are naturally not coming to the shop. They are so big. So send them stock at home, Mahajan, the best stock you can.’
He stopped, looking a little worried.
Ramchand looked up from his work again, intrigued. Bhimsen Seth rarely looked anxious.
Seth continued, ‘Send them saris every day, whatever they say, whatever they want. Send them the best lehanga-cholis too. Keep them happy, especially the women. They have a younger daughter too, you know. Two more years perhaps, or maybe even one, and then they’ll marry her off too. Big orders –’
Mahajan interrupted him, ‘Don’t worry, Sethji. I’ll take care of everything.’
Then they walked to a corner, where they discussed things in low voices and soon went out together, looking serious and preoccupied. Soon Hari reported that the two were not downstairs either. They had stepped out of the shop for a while.
Everyone was relieved, especially Gokul. ‘I forgot to bring my lunch today,’ he confided to Ramchand, ‘and I don’t even have enough money to eat from a shop or something. I have been hoping and hoping since morning that Mahajan will go out. Now I can go home and eat.’
He hurriedly left for home, promising to be back in half an hour.
But after a whole hour, Gokul still hadn’t turned up. This was very unusual for Gokul, the supreme stickler for rules. He came to work on time every day. Only an emergency like a forgotten lunch could induce him to break free of Mahajan’s authority.
He finally came in limping a couple of hours later.
‘What happened? You are late?’ asked Hari. ‘Got into a street fight?’
‘Don’t be silly, Hari. Of course I didn’t. You just shut up. I am in no mood for your stupid talk,’ Gokul said savagely, sinking down into the mattress with a groan.
‘Why, what happened?’ said Ramchand, wondering if Lakshmi had finally gone off her head and had beaten Gokul up.
‘A vegetable cart rammed into my bicycle on my way here,’ he said.
‘Or you rammed your bicycle into a vegetable cart…?’ Hari said cheerfully, and then added hastily, as Gokul turned to glare at him, ‘From his point of view… maybe.’
‘My foot is hurting,’ Gokul groaned, pulling up his right trouser leg to show them a swollen foot.
Hari’s face immediately contorted itself up in deep concern. ‘You just sit quietly. We’ll do all the work today,’ he said. ‘Or for as many days as it takes for your foot to heal,’ he added magnanimously.
‘Yes, of course, Sethji,’ said Gokul sarcastically. ‘So nice for me to have a boss like you who tells me to take it easy.’
‘These days, even if you try to help…’ muttered Hari.
The glass door opened and Mahajan appeared suddenly, without warning, as he always did. Hari often said that it was a mystery why the wooden stairs did not creak when Mahajan climbed them.
‘Gokul, drop whatever you are doing at once. I have a very important job for you. You’ll have to take some stock to Ravinder Kapoor’s house…’ he began, and then took in Gokul’s pained face and the swollen foot he was still displaying.
‘Now what has happened here?’
‘Nothing, Bauji. Just got hurt,’ Gokul said shamefacedly.
‘How?’ Mahajan asked suspiciously.
Gokul just hung his head down.
‘How, Gokul? Can’t you answer a simple question?’
In a burst of honesty, Gokul admitted his crime. Mahajan just stood there and lectured Gokul for a while on what responsibility meant. Then he asked, ‘So you can’t pedal, I suppose?’
Gokul didn’t answer.
‘Who am I going to send to Ravinder Kapoor’s house with the stock tomorrow?’ Mahajan muttered. He looked uncertainly first at Ramchand and then at Chander.
Hari piped up, ‘I could go, Bauji.’
Mahajan’s nerves were already frayed. He turned his wrath on to Hari. ‘Yes, you could go. You are such a sensible creature that I’d gladly hand over saris worth lakhs to you. Yes, you could go. And break Gokul’s bicycle, your own neck, stop somewhere to eat a kulfi like a schoolboy and let a cow chew up saris worth lakhs of rupees.’
Hari looked surprised. ‘I don’t eat kulfis in the winter, and I don’t think cows eat saris in summer or winter. Goats do.’
Mahajan’s face went red, and Hari quickly said in a polite tone, ‘I’ll order your evening tea for you, Bauji,’ and scuttled out.
Mahajan looked at Hari’s disappearing back with malevolence. ‘Thankless job, mine,’ he said, in an uncharacteristic fit of frankness, and then he turned to Ramchand, who had gone red on Hari’s behalf. ‘Ramchand, you borrow Gokul’s bicycle tomorrow, and take some good stock to Ravinder Kapoor’s house.’
Ramchand was stunned. He, Ramchand, was to do this? To think that he was being given such a big responsibility! Such expensive stock! And he had heard Ravinder Kapoor was the biggest industrialist in Amritsar. He was supposed to have a huge, palatial house with soft carpets, air-conditioned rooms and four cars. And he’d have to go there. His stomach lurched with nervousness.
‘Gokul,’ Mahajan continued, ‘you supervise the selecting of stock. Send only the best saris. Also pick some pieces from the latest silk consignment. Maybe some of the raw silk lehngas too. Also the ones with silver ghungroos at the hem. And let me see first what you are sending.’
But Ramchand wasn’t listening. His mind had shifted to other things.
An errand like this would probably take many days. He knew how these things worked. He would take to the Kapoor House a collection of saris in a big bundle. Hours would be spent by the bride-to-be and by the other women in her family to select a few out of them. More demands would be made. Tantrums would be thrown by the bride-to-be. Then they might change their minds about a sari and call up Mahajan. Then he, Ramchand, would go there again to offer a replacement for that sari. This way he would probably have to cycle many times to Ravinder Kapoor’s house with saris.
After years of being cooped up in the shop, week after week, month after month, except for Sundays and the three days last year when he had sprained his ankle, he would now have a chance to be out in the open,
cycle in the sun, look around, and maybe even sneak off to see if he could buy some second-hand books. Maybe he could also have some mossambi juice at Anand Juice Shop.
Mahajan turned to him. ‘And, Ramchand, make sure you dress well before you go there. They are big people. We don’t want anyone from our shop going there in rags. You should be dressed decently and look bathed.’
Ramchand immediately curled up his toes, to stop any smell that might be emanating from his feet from reaching Mahajan’s flared nostrils. Was Mahajan making a dig at his shirt with its frayed collar and at his old trousers?
Well, he’d show him then. Enough was enough. Who did Mahajan think he was? He’d dress well and he’d also have a good time.
Ramchand was distracted all day and got into trouble with Mahajan. He misplaced a light yellow cotton sari that a customer had ordered, and spilled water on one of the white sheets that covered the mattresses. Mahajan insulted him, saying that he was as bad as Hari. Hari just grinned at this, but Ramchand felt the rain was spoilt for him. He wished he could have taken the day off. He could have sat by the window in his room with a cup of tea watching the soft rain caress the guava tree in the courtyard below.
In the evening, he feigned a bad headache and left early. He went to a garment store nearby, and bought himself new black trousers and a crisp, sparkling white shirt. He felt extravagant and reckless. He hadn’t bought new clothes for over two years. Rags, indeed! He would show Mahajan!
Then he bought a bar of Lifebuoy soap and new socks. Finally he stopped at a vegetable vendor’s cart and asked for a lemon.
‘Just one?’ the vendor asked in surprise.