Today, there was an article in the newspaper about Subiksha, the department store chain that is struggling to pay salaries and deposit Provident Fund amounts into the employee's accounts. It was just dry news to me. I have never shopped at Subiksha, probably been there twice to see the sub-standard atmosphere as compared to Food Worlds, Spencers, Mores and Reliance Fresh's. I don't know anybody working there. So, Subiksha's trouble is not a very personal news that bothers me.
Shakuntala is not like that. She is a 60+ woman? I don't even know her age. I have seen her since I was a child. She comes home every evening, veggies and the occasional fruits piled up high on her bamboo basket and another bag made of a white plastic sheet which held more veggies and her weighing scales. She used to come to my home at Reserve Bank Colony and she followed us to the current home; her routine, unfailing for 30 years now.
She is tall, years of bearing her burden yet to bend her spine. She walks tall - her dignity always intact. High cheek bones, possibly remnants of childhood chubbiness, sharp nose, a moon like forehead, her hair held tightly in a bun with a few indisciplined ones scattered by the winds as she travelled by the city bus with her goods. As she grinned, she revealed a line of crooked teeth but she always smiled graciously. Her smile totally belied her miserable life and the pain that wracked through her body. A small nose ring flashed on her face and made me always think she could have been beautiful - in different circumstances.
She lives in Thoraippakkam, about 6 km from my mom's place and closer to where my new apartment is. Every morning, she trudges nearly 25 km to the main vegetable market in Parry's Corner. She buys her goods and obviously negotiates better than the unsuspecting middle class folk she re-sold the goods to. She comes by 21D, the very same bus route that linked my home to my school. Fisherwomen and vegetable hawkers like her used to occupy the back seats as I made the return journey from school in the evening.
She would reach our little street, about 100 metres long, tree lined avenue, cars jammed against the walls of 2 huge apartment complexes on both sides and yet had no name. Anybody who wanted to give directions to the street would say - the street with Prashanthi Apartments or Maheshwari Apartments. Yet, this nameless street is her workplace, her guarantee for her next meal. She would settle down with her bags at the edge of Maheshwari, sort out her veggies and then start yelling out. The busy housewives who could still buy their vegetables in the street nearby (which has a name - TM Maistry Street) would wait for her. Banter with her, argue about prices as they had done for 22 years (these apartments came about only in 1987) and yet buy - taken in by her charm and honesty. She would slowly enter one complex, spread her wares out, blocking out the staircases for others to use (a sound business strategy) and then go about selling more than what the housewives needed anyways.
I always called Shakuntala "Spencer." Hard core Chennaiites would know of the grand building on Mount Road, about 120 years old, a fine example of British architecture that got burned down in 1983 and gave way to a very ugly shopping mall. If you called the modern Spencer’s building an eye sore, you would still be generous. Anyways, this building once was residence to India's first department store. You got everything you wanted and didn't. In the days when hawkers still came with hand-pulled carts and sold at your doorstep, in the days of non-corporatization of the basic act of buying your essential stuff, Spencers was an anachronism. People still went there to gawk and buy upmarket stuff. To gorge on puffs and sandwiches. You got everything but you paid a price - it was always more expensive than your neighbourhood kirana store. Well, everybody knew Shakuntala had to mark up her goods to make a living, so her prices were higher than street prices – lower than Spencer’s though. Yet, as a 8 or 10 year old, I took to calling her Spencer. It stuck. Mom didn't care, so didn't many others. They still bought from her.
Age is now catching up with her. She, a young widow, had spent years working hard to bring up her children. In one of her chatty days, she told me of a son who was married with kids. And, 2 daughters who were also married off. She longed for a restful time in her old age - a luxury she never will be able to afford. Her son, like many others among the Indian poor didn't finish schooling, barely holds on to a daily wage job. Her income supplements his. Shakuntala is highly diabetic now. She needs Insulin shots but can't afford them. So, she skips them when the money is tight. Yet, she goes on her daily survival act. Yet, she is not to be seen for some days. I wonder – is she unwell, is she dead? Will I ever see her again? It is amazing how you bond with just familiarity. You don’t share anything in common. A mere commercial transaction that passes for an interaction. Two strangers unaffected by each other’s lives yet strangely, bound by the timelessness of routine. Like your morning coffee and newspaper. You want the familiar things around you. So, when she comes after a fortnight, I ask her – what happened? She talks of high sugar levels, agonizing pain in her shoulders and lack of proper diet. Mom makes a hot cup of tea. I ask her if she wants to eat something. She always refuses. It is enough that you even asked, she says. I asked couple of times and then I stopped. Was I assaulting her pride and dignity unknowingly?
When she is ready to leave, I pull her back. I banter with her politely. Ask stupid questions so she is forced to sit down to answer them – that’s the only rest she gets on a unforgiving day full of arguing, selling, walking and climbing the stairs. I ask for that one vegetable she doesn’t have in her basket. I tell her about broccoli, something she had never seen. I tell her, I want it and she has to get it for me. I tell her it is like cauliflower, only green but the florets are smaller. She tries to make sense of it for she has seen everything in the market she buys but never this. I tell her, it is good for my health and that I need to have it and can’t find it in nearby stores. And, only she can get it for me. She promises me, yes she will look for it and get it for me. I hand out a tube of Moov that she can use to reduce the lingering pain on her shoulders. Her basket is also near empty now and she trots off. She comes back the next day and asks me to describe it again - she can’t find it. I scold her for being so inattentive, lazy or careless and do the drill again.
A news report says that Food World (spawned from Spencer’s) now operates in 70 locations across the country. Broccoli is very much available in Food World. The nearest Food World is barely a km away. I still wait for Shakuntala to get it for me. I need to see her every evening at 4. I love paying Spencer’s prices to her.
