One fine summer afternoon, when the heat was on the rise, the economy on the decline and I had my vest pulled up, for some respite from the unbearable heat, just above my proud shopkeeper’s belly, and the hair on my torso was swinging to the rhythm of the oscillating fan attached to the wall opposite me, my left eye started twitching. This can’t be good, I thought.
I said to Raju, ‘Raju, my left eye is twitching. What do you think it portends?’
‘How would I know Sambhu Seth? Maybe a check is going to bounce, maybe we will find a dead rat inside one of the sacks in the godown. How would I know!’ said the fool good-naturedly, flashing his chipped front tooth.
I grabbed a handful of peanuts from the sack beside me and hurled one at him, ‘This is for putting those thoughts into my mind,’ then another, ‘This for responding in Hindi.’ I require my workers to speak in Kutchi in the shop, a practice I’ve inherited from my late father.
‘I am learning, Seth,’ he said, this time in unsavoury Kutchi. I shook my head and popped a peanut into my mouth. The last time one of my eyes twitched, one of my biggest customers ran away without clearing his dues. If it happens again, I’d surely go into debt, I thought. I mentally went through the list of people who had taken stuff on credit and then I thought, Wait a minute, this time it must be something else; lightning never strikes the same place twice.
‘Two chewing gums,’ demanded a boy, who had just entered the store, looking at me defiantly with his eyes raised. Worst kind of customers I tell you, these one-rupee chocolate, one-rupee chewing gum kids. How much money I will make off them, next to zero, yet they will eat up the majority of my time. I slam the chewing gums on top of a toffee jar, the kid slams two one-rupee coins on the top of the next one, one of which falls into the space between the jars. Ugh! The swagger! How I hate these kids. On the way out the boy peeks into the ice cream freezer, picks an ice cream cone, and asks its price. ‘Enough, run along now,’ shouts Raju, acquainted with the way of these kids; the boy slams the freezer shut and walks out haughtily. Raju was as tired of them as I was. To be honest, I didn’t mind this behaviour much in itself, but the thing is, they stole sometimes.
Anyway, the lost coin: I could not reach it from where I was sitting, so I went to the customer side, bent my heavy frame, and dipped my hand in the space between the jars where the coin had dropped. After feeling around a bit for it, my index finger touched something that I thought to be the coin. I pushed myself some, just about managed to get hold of the coin, then while returning pulled myself back a little too forcefully, lost my balance, and hit the customer behind me with the back of my head. The unfortunate lady gave a shrill cry and covered her nose with both her hands. I did not know how to console or help her; the bastard, Raju, just stood and watched, uselessly. ‘Are you fine, sister? Do you need water or something?’ I volunteered. ‘No need’, she said, rage in her eyes. She seated herself on the big weighing machine outside (there being nothing else to sit on) and ow’ed a few times. What happened next, I recall in slow motion: Her hands coming off her nose, my eyes running over the curve of her nose, me thinking ‘is it?!’, my vision zooming out to see the full face, me realising, ‘Why, it is!’, Jahnvi, my school-time girlfriend.
I looked at her and grinned like an idiot. ‘What a strange man you are!’ she said, ‘First you hit me and now you are grinning. Are you psycho or what!’ So she hadn’t recognised me. Of course, she hadn't, I thought. I had put on so much weight since the time we had last met (must have been around twelve years back), I was double the size I used to be. And I had also started sporting a very thick moustache. I looked at myself through her eyes – a fat shopkeeper, with his vest pulled up, smiling ear-to-ear. I suddenly became so embarrassed that I wanted to disappear.
‘Have you worked in another shop before? I feel I have seen you somewhere?’ she said.
‘I own this shop actually. I don’t think I have seen you before,’ I said, shamefaced, pulled my vest down, turned, and went back to my seat. But it was quite something to see her after so many years! Age had only deepened her beauty and gifted her grace. If only my shopkeeper friends and acquaintances were to see her! Which of them would believe there was a time when I had dated someone like her, in fact, anyone at all since they mostly came from places where one did not interact with girls, let alone date; which of them could even imagine the kind of life I led before fate decided this is was what I was to do.
‘Write down,’ she said, looking at me apprehensively. I grabbed a pen and noted down the list of things, rice, oil, instant noodles, etc. I tore the note, handed it to Raju, and asked him to prepare the order. ‘So you just moved in here?’ I asked her, trying to make conversation, trying to make things normal. ‘I used to live here. It was only about a decade ago that I moved out. Now I am back.’ Mm-hmm, you don’t say. I looked for a sign that would confirm her marital status, knowing full well that there was no chance a lady her age, our age, would still be unmarried. She narrowed her eyes as if she was trying to make out something. I was determined to not out my identity.
How the tables had turned! I was reminded of the time when we were in school when I was a popular chap in my class and my classmates naturally gravitated towards me. Academically as well I was bright enough; I had planned to get a degree and get a proper career unlike the rest of my extended family. There was a continuous decline thereafter though. Not to say I am not satisfied with my life as a shopkeeper. If you ask me if there’s anything I would like to change, I would probably say no. But there are moments and times such as the one I am narrating when there is an uncomfortable brush with the past and one feels things could have been different.
Ours – Jahnvi’s and mine – was a familiar story. I made friends with her when she was going through a rough patch, something related to her family, and soon we got pretty close. Within a month the entire school had heard about us, there being not many couples in school at the time, and I started getting a little uncomfortable with how much I meant to her. Before it could get worse, I aimed to put an end to it. The relationship was not something I wanted at the time, I told her, during one recess, ending our relationship. ‘Oh is it? Not something you want?’ she repeated, her eyes welled up, she looked into my eyes questioningly for what seemed like a long time and then sat on the bench and looked out the class window. That farewell phrase of mine, not something I want, often came back to haunt me in later years; that her friends never missed an opportunity to use it in our interactions, with that bitter tone of theirs, didn't help.
‘You’re in IT?’ I asked her, growing uncomfortable by the silence. ‘Choreographer, actually’, she said, folding her arms, looking at me with her eyes raised and posture too straight.
‘You know I just realised this store used to be run by a friend’s father. The renovation work had deceived me until now, but I am starting to recall things…. And you know what….’, she said tentatively, turned and walked outside, looked at the shop signboard, and came back with a changed demeanour. ‘I knew it!’, she said, pointing her index finger at me and smiling. ‘Proprietor – Sambhav Dama’. I rose from my wooden stool, aiming to respond in English, wanting to show her that I was still the same ‘Sam’, muttered a sound, realised my English had become rusty from disuse, caught my foot in the stool and fell face down on the open sack of peanuts, all within a second.
‘Are you alright, Sam?’, she said, concerned. I slowly got up, wiped my face with my hands, and sat back on the stool, sure now that this was the lowest point of my life.
‘I am okay,’ I said, fiddling with the drawers and notebooks within my reach.
‘Look at you, moustache and all, haan! You look just like your father.’
‘The order is ready, Sambhu Seth,’ said Raju, placing the bag on the counter, a strange look in his eyes.
‘Sambhu Seth, is it! Sam Bhai to Sambhu Seth! Quite a journey it must have been, I bet! I want to know all about it.’
‘I don't want to talk about it,’ I said. I'm sure around that time she must have noticed the photo frame above me of my father's picture with a flower garland hung on it.
‘I'm sorry, I didn't realise,’ she said, frowning.
A shabby-looking man barged into the store. ‘Give me that soap,’ he ordered, pointing to the soap rack to my right. I got up and asked him which one. ‘Brother, the one which I always take. The white one!’ Most of the soap packets were white. I picked one from a well-known brand and handed it to him. Thirty-two rupees, I said. He took a look. ‘Not this one, the other one’ I picked another one and threw it onto the counter. He shook his head. ‘Brother, look where I am pointing,’ he said, nodding at his hand. ‘Take it or leave it’ I said, growing increasingly frustrated and embarrassed. ‘Is that so!’ said the savage, reddening, and hurled the soap at the soap rack. Pointing the finger at me now, he said ‘Stay within your limits, you! Your father’s goodwill will not be enough, one of these days!’ and stormed out. I had no option but to tolerate such behaviour, the entire locality was filled with these rowdy types and I did not have the gall to give it back to any of them as my father had. Jahnvi looked at me, shocked at what had just happened. I shrugged.
‘Are you alright?’, she said, after a few seconds had passed; I think she meant in general.
‘I’m doing well for myself, thank you,’ I found myself saying.
I never met her after we were out of school. She tried to contact me repeatedly through the years, my friends often told me that I should get back with her, that she genuinely cared for me, that she was right for me, and stuff like that but it never felt right after that. Gradually, my prospects diminished in every single way possible, and I was left unmarried. My entire life revolved around the shop and I did not do justice to it either. I did not want her to know any of this.
‘I'm sure this is not something you want, is it!’ she said, smiling mischievously. So she remembered. Maybe she still thinks about me, I thought. I smiled and diverted my gaze; I found Raju arching his eyebrows at me, nodding at her. ‘Go inside and check the godown!’ I roared at him. He gave me a puzzled look and left.
‘It's not so bad, is it? You get to be your own boss,’ she said.
‘Don't patronise me,’ I said. Maybe there was still a bit of affection in her heart for me, first love after all never fades. ‘You are certainly living your dream, aren't you, choreography and all?’ I said.
‘I won't lie, it is somewhat of a dream come true.... I also offer dance classes. Maybe you can join, it will help with your weight management. You can opt for private classes,’ she said and winked. Was she flirting with me? Was this normal in her circles?
‘Don’t think I can squeeze time for that,’ I said, smiling awkwardly, ‘all of my time goes into running the shop. I work almost seven days a week, with only half a day’s leave on Monday.’
‘Mm-hmm.... What are your plans? After this shop, I mean?’
It took me a moment to understand what she meant, but once I did, I felt such contempt for the position of privilege she asked me that question from, that I never wanted anything to do with her or her privileged class ever again. ‘No plans. This is it. I’ll be running the shop till I die,’ I said, chuckling nervously, reddening a bit in my face.
She tilted her head to one side and frowned, looking me straight in the eye. I diverted my gaze again. Her order was ready, I told her.
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ she handed me a five hundred rupee note, without my telling her what the bill amount was. I took it as if we had some sort of understanding. ‘My man will deliver the bag to your place, you don’t need to carry it yourself,’ I told her. ‘Nah, it’s okay,’ she said, picking up the bag.
‘Stay in touch, do,’ I said, surprised with myself to have said that.
She again tilted her head and scrutinised me. Then smiling, she asked for my number. I gave it to her, elated inside.
‘I’ll give this number to my maid and ask her to get our groceries from here from now onwards,’ she chuckled and saying ta-ta spiritedly, left. I was utterly confounded. I didn’t at all know what to make of what had just transpired. A lump rose in my throat, and I opened my money drawer to sort the rupee bills, something I did when I wanted to avoid thinking about something.
From the corner of my eye, I saw three kids saunter into the entryway of the store, the boy who had come earlier amongst them. I didn’t pay them any attention, and with my head bent continued with my money sorting. The kids, seeing no one in the shop, became aware of an opportunity.
One of them soundlessly opened the freezer and took out three cones of ice cream. I couldn’t care less; I was thinking about Jahnvi and our brief encounter. I was sure that she had loved me once and had feelings for me for a long time afterward, the question was, could that love return? The boy shut the fridge and realised more could be had. He slowly drew from a rack an entire strip of packaged chips. But she was most probably married, wasn’t she? And wasn’t she openly mocking me? I mean there wasn’t an iota of chance, was there? Why am I thinking of this anyway! How desperate have I become! I sighed and absentmindedly raised my head, my eyes meeting with the eyes of the boy doing the stealing, and locked there for a couple of seconds. The boy must have seen something in my eyes, for he continued, now moving to a strip of packaged noodles. I bent my head again, pretending, like earlier, to not see them, thinking, what is one to do. ‘Aye, dogs!’ The shout rang through the store all of a sudden, Raju’s voice. The kids started, quickly gathered all they could carry, and rushed out of the store, with Raju charging closely behind them. I watched them turn a corner at the end of the street and disappear.
I have seen Jahnvi a number of times since then; toddler on her hip, husband by her side. She never seems to see me, though.
She is true to her word at least; she always sends her maid to my shop to get their groceries.
Perhaps one day when her maid is on leave, she will herself come down here, to get a bottle of ketchup or some such thing; Not that I am looking forward to it or anything.
*
Manish Bhanushali lives in Navi Mumbai. His stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Gulmohur Quarterly, Literally Stories, Whisky Blot Literary Journal and elsewhere.