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A Ganesh Nadar
My dad seemed pleased
to be rid of me
I used to rise at 7 am to face my mom's disapproving look. "Daddy
is already in the shop" was the morning rhyme. I ignored
her, grimaced and wondered what I was doing here.
Life in Bombay, when you were running a grocery shop, was existence
in its purest form. The question of living never arises. From
8 o'clock in the morning to 11 o'clock in the night, it was the
same routine - smile at your customers, take their orders, pack
the goods and hand it over. In those days, packed goods were not
the trend. The customers liked to see, feel and sometimes taste
what they were buying.
In the afternoon, after lunch, I barely had time to yawn. I used
to go to Masjid Bunder on the harbour line. That's where the wholesale
market was. One does feel sleepy after a good meal, but I had
to take a local train. The locals in Bombay have pickpockets who
know that the shopping hours for Bombay's retailers are in the
afternoon. They also know that shopkeepers carry a lot of cash
because issuing cheques means accounting, which leads to income
tax.
Masjid Bunder's roads are clogged with lorries, mini vans, bullock
carts, hand carts and bicycles. They are either loading or unloading.
Coolies run at phenomenal speed, even when they are carrying 100
kg bags of rice on their backs. I avoided the vehicles and the
coolies with great difficulty. One brush with a coolie and the
stink of sweat won't leave you for the rest of the day.
To add to my woes, there are vendors on the footpath. Navigating
these roads, bargaining for the goods and then paying my bills...
I was usually sick by the time I had to return. On the return
journey by the local, I had the company of Bombay's irresistible
office goers. Jam-packed was an understatement.
I reached home crushed, had time for one cup of tea before I was
back in the shop. In bed at midnight, I confided to my wife that
I had decided to call it a day. She, dear girl, was thrilled as
she was a pure-bred village girl. I expected my Dad to explode,
but nothing like that happened. He seemed pleased to be rid of
me. My friends were surprised, but nobody dissuaded me.
The journey from Bombay VT to Madras by the Janata Express was
hot and uneventful. In Madras, we stayed with my married younger
sister. She was shocked that I was retiring at 30 years. But she
kept her counsel.
In the evening, I boarded the Nellai Express on the metre gauge
to Tirunelveli. Here it was more entertaining because Tamilians
are very friendly and love to gossip. We chatted all the way on
the 15 hour journey. By the time we got off, we knew the life
history of all our neighbours. From Tirunelveli, we boarded a
passenger train to Tiruchendur. This was pulled by a coal engine.
It took one hour 45 minutes to travel the 40 km to my village.
At Kurumbur station, we alighted. The station master made sure
that we had got off and had removed all our luggage before he
showed the green flag. I smiled as I wondered what would happen
in Bombay if the guard paused to check if the passengers were
all right every time he flagged off a train.
I had to walk one kilometre to get a cab, which would take us
two kilometres to my village. The minute we landed up in the village,
we were swamped with relatives. Everybody had somebody in Bombay.
They all wanted messages or assurances of good news. Some had
sent money for their families which I dutifully handed over. Others
had wanted to send packages which I had refused.
Cleaning the house was quite a pain as it was huge, compared to
Bombay standards. My wife did it with the help of my numerous
aunts and cousin sisters. Here, everybody was related. It was,
sometimes, a blessing. But if you needed privacy, you were doomed. Everybody interfered in everybody's business.
Illustrations: Dominic Xavier
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