by Bajwa, Rupa
‘No, no,’ Mrs Gupta said, groping in her bag and drawing out a ten rupee note. She held it out to Gokul. ‘Just send for a bottle of chilled mineral water. Chilled. And only Bisleri, mind you.’
Gokul motioned to Hari, who had just finished selling a peach sari to a thin, harried looking woman and was looking pleased with himself.
Hari came over, swaggering. He rarely sold a sari all on his own.
Gokul gave him the note and the instructions. And in a lower voice, he hissed in Hari’s ear, ‘And be back in a minute. Don’t go off to loaf or to buy pakoras.’
Hari looked injured. ‘Have I ever done such a thing, Gokul Bhaiya?’ he asked in a pathetic voice. ‘Maybe I have,’ he added, ‘but not for a very long time now. These days, if you haven’t noticed, I have become hard working. You’ll hardly ever see me wasting time. And you know…’
‘Shut up, Hari. No drama now. Go immediately,’ Gokul told him and then turned to the two women again, smiling.
‘Show us some thin saris, for summerwear. But nothing that creases easily, okay?’ said Mrs Gupta.
‘We want cotton, but the most superior quality cotton you have,’ added Mrs Sandhu.
Gokul nodded and gestured to Chander across the room. Chander was looking weary. He could be heard throughout the shop arguing with a customer over the price of a zardosi-bordered sari. Chander nodded at Gokul and, continuing to argue, reached out to the shelf behind him and took out a few packed saris. One by one, he threw them accurately at Gokul. They flew over the heads of all the customers and Gokul caught them deftly.
He opened the packs one by one, extolling the virtues of each sari. Hari returned with a bottle of chilled mineral water. Ramchand remained huddled in the corner, watching silently, thinking of Chander’s wife.
Did Chander know? Should he tell Chander, ask him if he knew or not? But how could he speak to Chander about something this intimate concerning his wife? He looked at the animated, chattering face of Mrs Gupta. Should he tell her? What would be the right thing to do?
He groaned quietly, drew up his knees and bent his head down, resting it gently on them. He felt like crying, weeping out loud, collecting all the people in the shop and telling them everything. Surely, someone would do something.
Would they?
Ramchand continued to squat on the mattress, his ten toes sinking inside it, gripping the softness firmly.
‘Ramchand?’ A voice startled him. He looked up.
Mahajan stood towering over him.
‘What is this, hunh? The shop is full, everyone is so busy that nobody has the time to scratch his head even, and you are sitting here relaxing. You think you are sitting on a bench in Company Bagh?’
‘Bauji…’ Ramchand began.
‘Okay, okay. Now don’t give me any of your excuses. At least help Gokul if you have nothing else to do,’ Mahajan said, turned abruptly and walked away.
Ramchand looked at Mahajan’s unyielding, spiteful, flabby retreating back with fresh dislike.
He was about to shuffle closer to Gokul when he saw Mrs Bhandari come in with Mrs Sachdeva. It felt so unreal. He remembered a similar afternoon, or was it a morning, in the winter, when they had all come to the shop on the same day. He had attended to all of them.
But at least now he wouldn’t have to show Mrs Gupta any saris. He came forward and smiled weakly at the two women who had just come in. They did not look at him. They ran their eyes around at the shelves before they sat down in front of Ramchand, murmuring to each other in low voices, unlike Mrs Gupta and Mrs Sandhu, whose shrill conversation could be heard all over the shop.
‘Show us some new batik prints,’ said Mrs Sachdeva. Ramchand nodded and got up to fetch them. He didn’t feel like shouting to Hari, who was closer to the batik prints shelf, and have Hari grin and shout and throw him the packs.
He rummaged for a while in the shelf while the two women waited. Shyam caught his eye and frowned at him. It was considered criminal in Sevak Sari House to keep customers waiting. It was much better to drown them in a deluge of saris, till they had to choose one, even if just in order to escape. Ramchand hurriedly took out a few packs and went back to his place.
The women began the familiar routine. They felt the fabric of each sari with their fingers, they made comments to each other in low voices, they examined the borders critically. Ramchand didn’t say much. He did not try to push any sari forward or draw their attention to anything remarkable in a particular sari. He just sat there silently, handing them the saris one by one.
Shyam caught his eye again and raised his eyebrows questioningly, looking slightly annoyed. In Mahajan’s absence, Shyam and Rajesh considered themselves to be in charge of the shop, as long as it didn’t interfere with their tea-drinking and bidi-smoking sessions.
Ramchand deliberately looked away.
He tried his best to appear calm when Mrs Sachdeva picked up a brown sari and complained to Mrs Bhandari, ‘See, this would have been perfect if the border hadn’t been so wide, wouldn’t it?’
Ramchand remembered the time when he had sat in the drawing room of the Kapoor House, listening to Rina Kapoor talk to Mrs Sachdeva. The Kapoors, who had been partners with the Guptas in the cloth-processing unit, who hadn’t paid Chander, who had made Chander’s wife so angry.
‘Are you listening?’ Mrs Sachdeva asked him sharply. ‘I said, do you have the same sari, same colour and design, but with a thinner border?’
Ramchand shook his head.
She looked annoyed.
Ramchand looked at the creases in her forehead. What would she say if she knew?
She was supposed to be a learned woman. Then another thought struck him. Did Rina Kapoor know that her father did not pay wages on time? At least sometimes.
Should he go to her and talk to her? But he felt doubtful. Who would believe him? To Mrs Sachdeva, Ravinder Kapoor was probably just the doting father of her star pupil.
Ramchand squeezed and pinched the area between his eyes. Everything seemed so dark and hasty suddenly. What could he do?
Now, Rajesh was frowning at Ramchand too. Ramchand felt a wave of resentment against him. Silly man, always talking, talking, talking, never even pausing to think what to say next!
Ramchand tried to collect himself together and pay more attention to the two exacting woman facing him. He took out some more saris.
‘Oh, hello, Mrs Bhandari,’ said Mrs Gupta suddenly.
Mrs Bhandari looked up, appearing to be surprised. ‘Oh, hello. I didn’t see you. Shopping?’
How silly, thought Ramchand, of course all the women were shopping.
‘You know Mrs Sandhu?’ asked Mrs Gupta, waving a hand towards her companion. ‘Her husband is Chief Engineer in the Electricity Board.’
‘Oh, that is nice,’ Mrs Bhandari said vaguely. ‘And I am sure you know Mrs Sachdeva. Head of English Department…’
Mrs Gupta interrupted her with a bright smile. ‘Oh, yes, of course I remember her. Don’t you think all of us met at the Kapoor wedding, you know Ravinder Kapoor’s daughter’s wedding?’
‘Yes, that is right,’ said Mrs Sachdeva. ‘But, you know, that girl is so bright that even if you say Rina Kapoor, one would know who you are talking about. She has forged an identity of her own, you know, she is not just Ravinder Kapoor’s daughter.’
There was an awkward pause in the conversation. Then Mrs Bhandari asked, ‘So, Mrs Gupta, what is your news? What is happening? How is your daughter-in-law? Shipra, her name is, right?
‘Shilpa,’ said Mrs Gupta, beaming. ‘Really, God is very kind. Very, very kind. Touch wood. She is expecting, third month.’
Everyone smiled at this.
‘Well, congratulations. We’ll wait for the baby and then you’ll have to give us a party,’ said Mrs Bhandari.
‘Oh, yes, sure. And she is such a nice girl, you know. So submissive and well mannered. And by God’s grace, my son Tarun’s factory is also doing very well. And my younger son calls up from the U
SA every week.’
Mrs Sachdeva looked at her, then turned her eyes back to the sari she had in her hands, saying in a very low voice, ‘That is very nice.’
Mrs Gupta beamed.
Mrs Bhandari then turned to Mrs Sandhu.
‘And how are your children?’ she asked in a friendly voice.
Mrs Sandhu replied in a slow, placid voice. ‘Oh, they are doing well. My elder son, Manu, Mandeep, his name is, but we call him Manu, he has cleared his entrance exams. He’ll be able to get into the Amritsar Medical College. Finally, I can use the mixer-grinder and the washing machine without worrying about making a noise and disturbing him. All Waheguru’s blessings.’
‘Well, yes, academics are very important these days,’ said Mrs Bhandari. ‘My Rosie has gone to Delhi to do her MSc. I told her, do it here, but she wouldn’t listen. There are such good matches coming for her, but she says she is not in the frame of mind to marry now. She says marriage and money aren’t everything in life.’
Mrs Gupta sniffed. Mrs Sandhu said with a fond smile, ‘But believe me, Mrs Bhandari, today’s youngsters want everything. No matter what they say, they do want money. My younger son is just in Class Ten. And a new demand every other day. Now he is saying he wouldn’t go to school till we buy him a motorcycle. What can one do?’
‘Well, we are as bad, aren’t we?’ said Mrs Gupta, with a conspiratorial smile. ‘Just the other day we bought a new microwave oven and now I feel like buying an outdoors barbeque set.’
‘What to do? You can’t help it,’ said Mrs Sandhu. ‘You do need money, bhai, no matter what anyone says.’
Mrs Sachdeva suddenly said in a smooth voice. ‘True, money is very important. To maintain a standard of living. But there must be other things in life apart from money. Now look at Rina Kapoor. Doesn’t lack anything in life. She has money, beauty, a solid family backing. But she has carved out a niche for herself by writing a book, by earning her own reputation. Have you read the book?’ she asked Mrs Gupta and Mrs Sandhu.
Both of them shook their heads, and Mrs Gupta said, ‘Who has the time? For you it is your job, but we have to look after so much at home, you know.’
There was tension in the air.
Then Mrs Sachdeva suddenly smiled a friendly smile. ‘By the way, Mrs Gupta,’ she asked in a friendly voice, ‘your daughter-in-law is pretty young, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she is twenty-one.’
‘And what has she done?’ Mrs Sachdeva asked casually.
‘You mean?’ Mrs Gupta faltered.
‘I mean, her qualifications?’
‘Well, she did take admission in BA. But she couldn’t finish it, you see, the marriage got fixed up in the middle of it.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Sachdeva, and then fell silent.
Mrs Gupta looked disconcerted for a moment, then she said, ‘But, well, she knows all the things worth knowing. She is not one of those girls who knows the capitals of all the countries in the world but doesn’t know the name of the daal they are eating.’
Mrs Bhandari immediately replied, ‘There is no reason why a girl shouldn’t know both. Now, my Rosie is an excellent cook, apart from being a brilliant student. I miss her so much.’
Mrs Sandhu said pityingly, ‘I know, it must be terrible for you. Especially since she is your only child.’ Then, as an afterthought she added, ‘I am really glad that both my sons are so obedient. At least most of the time.’
Throughout the conversation, Gokul and Ramchand sat tired and helpless, watching and listening to the women, who held forgotten saris in their laps, waiting for them to remember what they had come here for. But this did happen sometimes. Women ran into acquaintances at the shop and carried on long conversations with each other while the shop assistants waited. There was nothing you could do about it.
Gokul was still sitting patiently, his mind far away. He was thinking whether he should buy a new stove or not – Lakshmi had been clamouring for one for the last two months.
Ramchand had been listening to the conversation carefully, completely unimpressed this time. Such a harmless life these women seemed to live, but as the Radiant Essays said – every coin has two sides.
In the world they conjured up, Chander’s wife featured nowhere. He stared at the four women.
He felt a void where some kind of an understanding or knowledge should have been. And then a helpless pain in his heart. Yes, he could actually feel it in the left side of his chest, where the heart was supposed to be.
Then suddenly, Mrs Bhandari caught Gokul’s eye. Then she looked at the brown sari in her lap. She gave a little laugh and said, ‘Just look at us. We have forgotten completely about our shopping.’
‘Happens rarely,’ laughed Mrs Sandhu.
All four women went back to the saris.
Mrs Sachdeva and Mrs Bhandari were the first to make up their minds. They chose one sari each, both with traditional batik prints, one in mauve and the other in sky blue.
They went back to their low mutterings as they decided. Ramchand stared impassively.
He heard Mrs Sachdeva say, almost under her breath, ‘These women… all the same… nothing in their heads except money and nonsense… why must we even talk to them?’
Then he missed something that Mrs Bhandari said. But he did hear her last sentence. ‘After all, we live in the same city… one keeps running into them… one has to be civil.’
Mrs Sachdeva nodded, then motioned to Ramchand to pack the two saris.
They smiled and waved at Mrs Gupta and Mrs Sandhu before they left.
The two waved back. But as soon as they disappeared through the glass door, Mrs Gupta turned to Mrs Sandhu and said, ‘Really, these women, I don’t know what these two have such a superiority complex about. Mrs Sachdeva has no children and her husband is also just some professor somewhere. She is a nobody. And Mrs Bhandari, even though her husband is a D.I.G. in the police, well, her Rosie is twenty-seven, I think. And unmarried. Good matches indeed! Nothing is happening, so she will go to Delhi, get some fancy degree, and then show off about it. And talking about us like that, just sour grapes, you know.’
Mrs Sandhu was her usual placid self. ‘Never mind,’ she said, ‘what is it to do with us? They are probably frustrated. We should just thank God for all he has given us.’
They left shortly after buying an expensive sari each instead of the cotton saris they had come for. Mrs Gupta’s was one of the crushed tissue saris that had been exclaimed over delightedly by the college girls a few days back, and Mrs Sandhu’s was an onion pink silk with filigree work.
As soon as they left, Gokul said, ‘These women can be real headaches. If they are not bragging about their houses, it is their husbands. And if isn’t the husbands, it is the children. Ramchand, do you think I should buy one of those new Clix gas stoves?’
‘I really don’t know anything about gas stoves, Gokul Bhaiya. I have a kerosene stove,’ said Ramchand in a low voice.
The kerosene stove, the purple sari, the flowers… Ramchand went to the tiny toilet adjoining the storeroom at the top of the shop, locked himself in and then cried for a while. Then he wiped his face with his hanky, came out, and went back to his place in the shop.
7
Yes, Ramchand had decided. He was going to do it. And he felt it was the most important decision of his life. He couldn’t bear his own falseness any more. He, who felt nervous even when showing customers beautiful saris, was going to gather all the moral courage he had, dig it up from all corners of his mind and soul. And he was going to do it. The very next time Mrs Sachdeva came to the shop with Mrs Bhandari. After all, Mrs Sachdeva was a learned woman and Mrs Bhandari’s husband was the D.I.G. of police. Besides, more importantly, they were women. Surely they would understand the urgency.
Ramchand went around looking drawn and ill. He was thinner than ever and now his eyes looked sunken, his shoulders had begun to look bony through the thin cotton shirts he wore these days.
After the decision, came
the waiting. For the next few days, every time the glass door of the first floor opened, Ramchand looked up with a start, his heart beating a shade faster, and subsided when he saw it wasn’t Mrs Sachdeva with Mrs Bhandari. But many days passed, and neither of the two women appeared. Ramchand expected them every day, for both of them were frequent shoppers. As he had heard Mrs Sachdeva tell Mrs Bhandari many times, when you went to a good college to teach every day, you couldn’t keep repeating saris.
Then, one day, when he was looking out of the window, anxiously watching the fruit-juice seller fix the wheel of his cart – Ramchand was afraid the pile of oranges might topple over as the cart shook and heaved – he heard the sound of the door open and turned his head sharply. And there she was. Mrs Sachdeva. But Mrs Bhandari wasn’t accompanying her as usual.
Ramchand was a little disconcerted. He had wanted to talk to both of them together. But he collected himself quickly. He saw her move to the empty space opposite Chander and hurried forward, ‘Please come and sit, Madam. What would you like to see?’
So she came and sat opposite him, producing a small velvet pouch from her bag. She opened it reverently to reveal an exquisite jewellery set – a thin gold necklace set with tiny green stones and matching earrings. She showed it to Ramchand, pointing out the green stones to him.
‘See, it is like this. I want the same green as this, exactly the same, in pure chiffon. Plain or printed doesn’t matter, I just don’t want any borders with very loud colours.’
Ramchand nodded absently. He took out some green chiffon saris. Then he said to her, ‘Would you like to come near the window? You’ll make no mistake about matching the exact colour then. Here, under the tube lights, you might make a mistake. Things look different in the daylight.’
She looked pleased at the considerate suggestion.
She went to sit near the window and Ramchand followed her with an armful of saris in varying shades of green.
They sat down. Now, nobody would be able to hear what he had to say to her. Mrs Sachdeva pursed her lips, a small crease of concentration in the middle of her forehead, and started examining the saris one by one, her eyes darting from jewellery to sari again and again.