The Sari Shop (10 page)

Then, feeling enormously tidy and virtuous, he pulled the table close to the bed so that he could sit on the bed and write
at the table. This way, the bulb hanging overhead was exactly above the table.

Then Ramchand took out his new books and began to read haltingly.

He started with the
Complete Letter Writer
. To his dismay, he found that he could barely read. Any word that consisted of more than four letters caused him trouble. And even when he had painstakingly pieced together the letters and made the word, what it produced was only an empty sound to Ramchand. He rarely knew what it meant.

When he tried looking up a difficult word in the dictionary, first it took him ages to trace it, and when he finally did, he found that some of the meanings were as difficult as the words themselves.

Ramchand felt so disheartened at first that he almost burst into tears. He sat there staring at the open pages for a while, wondering if he hadn’t just thrown money away by buying these books. Would he ever be able to read, write or remotely understand English? But, after a while, as the night noises grew fainter and the moon outside climbed higher in the sky, Ramchand set to work with an uncharacteristic determination, reading haltingly, constructing childish words in the new notebook, his head slightly aching with the effort. He dropped off to sleep at two in the morning, his tired head resting on the thick Oxford Dictionary. The next day was Sunday. Ramchand woke up resolute, and didn’t let his mind wander at all. After a bath and a breakfast of banana and tea, he settled down to work. He stayed in all day, labouring at his new books. He took a short break in the afternoon to cook khichdi. It was so tasteless that he could only swallow it with lots of mango pickle. Then he went back to the books. By evening he found he could decipher the words at least, even if he had to struggle with their meaning. With a little practice the old forgotten skill was coming back to him, at least partially.

But even after he had got the meaning clear, and had managed to read a whole letter, he remained confused. He had opened the
Complete Letter Writer
randomly, and had begun to read a ‘Letter Inviting a Girlfriend to Take Part in a Motor Tour’, under the heading of ‘Invitations and Their Replies’. Blushing a little at the word ‘girlfriend’, Ramchand had begun:

The Grey Towers
,

Littlebourne
,

Kent

1 July, 19—

Dear Peggy,

Will you come and join us in a motor tour? George is frightfully proud of a new car he has just bought and we want to have a really jolly tour through Wales. If you can come – and we are tremendously set on your joining us – there will be you, and George and myself, and my brother Frank. We ought to make a nice little party. We thought of starting from here about the first of next month. George thinks of mapping the tour beforehand; but of course it can be changed if anybody had any suggestions to make. Will you say which day you can come?

Yours with love
,

Phyllis

What was that about a girlfriend then, thought Ramchand. He understood little of it, but the last line at least was clear.
Will you say which day you can come?
Yes, he understood that. It had taken him almost the whole day to read this one letter. Then Ramchand took a deep breath and started to read the next letter, which was a reply to the previous one:

Middle Cloisters
,

Canterbury

3rd July, 19—

Dear Phyllis,

How jolly! And how good of you to ask me to join you! I shall love it above all things! But do tell George to manage to get the Clerk of Weather in a good temper! Tell me what clothes I shall want, and about how long you propose to be on tour.

I should love to see Caernarvon and Bettws-y-Coed; but there are so many lovely places in Wales that I shall be quite happy to fit in with your plans. I suppose you will go to Tintern and Chepstow and Raglan. If I come to you on the 28th, will that suit you?

Yours, quite jumpy with joy
,

Peggy

Ramchand was completely baffled by now. The second letter had taken him three hours. It was dark outside now and the muscles in his neck ached.

It had taken him almost all of Sunday to read the two letters and now that he had managed to read them, he could not make head or tail of them. From what he could gather, Phyllis, Peggy, George and Frank were names of people, however unlikely sounding they might be. Yes, ‘Dear Peggy’ must mean that Peggy was a person. But what was a motor tour? He knew what a motor was, and he knew what a tour was, but what was all this? He tried to concentrate. He must not give up so soon. Then he took another break, made himself a strong cup of tea, and drank it squatting on the floor near the stove. Then he went back to the mystifying letters and underlined Caernarvon, Tintern, Chepstow and Raglan. They were the difficult words that he had tried to look up in the
dictionary but hadn’t found. Bettws-y-Coed he left out, certain that it was a printing mistake.

After he had figured out the phrase, ‘yours, quite jumpy with joy’, he found it very funny.

Ramchand still didn’t really understand the gist of the letters, but he was tired now. So he went for a long brisk walk, then came back and got to work again. He kept to the letter-writing book, keeping the essay book for future use. He felt he would just get confused if he began on everything all at once. All the words and the phrases that he did not understand, or anything that he wanted to remember, he put down carefully in his new notebook with his new pen.

‘Hmmm… la la la la a… hmmm, oh ho o o o.’

This was Ramchand going to work on Monday morning. Life was on its tracks, as it should be. He looked better, felt better, he had spent the weekend trying to learn. He hadn’t wasted time loitering outside cinema halls or just lying on his bed, feeling depressed about nothing. He had exercised and got some fresh air on that long walk of his.

This was true strength of character. This was how life should be lived. The world was big, very big. You could do anything.

Today he was supposed to take another batch of saris to the Kapoor House, though the shop could ill-afford the absence of any of its workers. This was the auspicious time of the year for marriages, and the shop was doing such brisk business that no one had a moment of leisure, not even Hari.

However, the Kapoors could not be treated lightly, and so Ramchand went off whistling on Gokul’s bicycle once again, with more saris for the Kapoor bride. This time he was dressed in old clothes, he couldn’t afford something new for each visit to the Kapoor House, but he had still tried to look neat and smart.

Once again he loitered near bookstalls. He sat drinking chai at a tea stall for almost half an hour, watching people go by. He skipped the mossambi juice though. New clothes, books, pen, ink, notebook and what not. He had to be careful with money for a while now.

He finally arrived at the Kapoor House. Again he was asked to wait in the carpeted room. Raghu came in and told him
he’d have to wait for a while, the elder memsahib was with a visiting jeweller and the younger memsahib was on the phone. Ramchand nodded and started daydreaming. Raghu left, leaving the connecting door open.

Ramchand never meant to eavesdrop, but she was speaking loud enough for him to hear. Maybe she thought he couldn’t understand English. Well, he couldn’t understand it very well, that was true, but he could follow bits and pieces of her conversation.

Her husky voice was unusual and attractive to Ramchand’s ears. ‘Honestly, sweetheart, I am not like the rest of the girls in Amritsar,’ she was saying. ‘I find them so
stagnant
sometimes, so content with the petty little lives they have made for themselves. I can’t imagine being like that. I like to read, I like to explore new things, I like to take every day of life as a new experience. Now, look at me at this very moment. I have a stupid sari-wala and a greedy jeweller waiting for me, and still I am thinking of these other things. I think life is an adventure. And when you explore life, you also explore yourself. As you know,’ she went on, ‘my father is so wealthy that I never really need to work. Despite that, I made sure I finished my Masters in English Literature.
And
I have been topping my class. I am a creative person. My mind just can’t be still, and it can’t be content with all these things. Of course I like wearing good clothes, jewellery, living well and in comfort, because, after all, look at the family I belong to. But that is not
all
, it is not the end of the road for me. It is a means to an end, it is not the end itself.’

Here there was a pause in the conversation. She seemed to be listening to the person on the other end of the line.

Then she said triumphantly, ‘Exactly! That is
exactly
how I feel too! What about my soul? What about my creativity? In fact,’ she added, ‘yesterday I wrote another poem. One of the poems in which I find that I can express the true meaning of
life. And do you know when I wrote it? While a man who had brought over crystal bangles for me to see was waiting outside. I felt the urge and I knew that bangles could wait, but I needed to get the creative process going.’

There was a pause. Then Ramchand heard her voice again.

‘In fact, I am even thinking of writing a novel. Someone had recently come from Delhi to a conference at the university and she said that I definitely have talent. And our own Mrs Sachdeva here, you know, has been very encouraging.’

Here she paused, and appeared to be listening to a reply.

‘Well, I am glad you are supportive. When my father heard that I was in love with you, an army officer, he wasn’t pleased. He always used to tell his friends, “When my daughter gets married, the whole city will watch.” But, well, I convinced him. I am not one of those girls who’ll just marry a rich man and go to kitty parties. Besides, I don’t really need any more money.’

There was another pause, a longer one this time.

Then she said, ‘Bye, poochie, have to rush now. I love you so much. I can’t
believe
we are finally getting married. Just can’t wait for us to be together.’

There was a click, and then silence after this.

Ramchand sat quietly, still trying to take in the conversation. Out of whatever he had understood, one thing was clear. She had called him a stupid sari-wala.

Ramchand reflected on this for a moment. But maybe that was just pre-wedding nerves, he thought charitably. And it must be especially difficult for someone like her, a person who sounded so different and sensitive. Ramchand felt torn up in two inside. He did not know whether to be annoyed with her for speaking of him insultingly or feel pleased that she was trying to find herself. ‘To express the true meaning of life,’ seemed impressive, though he wasn’t sure what ‘express’ meant.

Then she walked in and he glanced at her warily. She didn’t even look at him. Her mother followed her in and they were soon engrossed in choosing more saris, working their way through the huge bundle as avidly and quickly as they had done the day before.

*

Charged by Rina’s converstion about writing and about ‘expressing’, Ramchand resolved to start on the
Radiant Essays
the same evening. This book, unlike the
Complete Letter Writer
, had been written by an Indian woman (Shalini, MA English, B.Ed.), especially for Secondary, Senior Secondary, C.B.S.E., Undergraduate students and Competitive Examinations. And Ramchand was delighted to find that though it was called an essay book, at the end it also had a few letters.

Ramchand began to read an essay for schoolchildren called ‘An Indian Beggar’.

A beggar is a common sight in our country. You can find him outside a place of worship, at a bus stop, in the market, in the street, etc.

There are hundreds of varieties of beggars in India. Some are blind beggars. As they are unable to see or work so they start begging. Such types of beggars do deserve our pity. Also there are beggars who are cripples or lepers. They are unable to earn their livelihood. At the same time, there are beggars, young and stout, but have opted begging as their profession. Then there are beggars who look like sadhus, but actually they are not. Most of such type of beggars are drunkards, sinners and thieves.

This tired Ramchand out. He began to revise the paragraph slowly. He read the complete paragraph without halting even once. It filled him with immense pride. He had read a whole paragraph in
English
, and understood everything too. The
language was much easier than that of the
Complete Letter Writer
, and he was pleased. However, the paragraph had also made him uneasy.

He didn’t think that he would like Shalini (MA English, B.Ed) much if he met her. That night in bed, before putting on his blue woollen night socks with holes in the toes, Ramchand looked up ‘express’ in the dictionary. It had about ten different meanings, apart from an outbreak of
express trains
and
express ways
.

It took Ramchand about half an hour to figure what Rina had meant. ‘Reveal, betoken, put (thought) into words’.

And then he spotted ‘express oneself’. It meant ‘to say what one means’.

This made it all clear to Ramchand.

He knew how difficult
that
was.

A few days passed. Ramchand was told that he needn’t go to the Kapoors for a while now. If they needed more saris, he’d be told. He was distracted most of the time in the shop and spent his spare time reading the essay book. After the Phyllis-Peggy-motor tour confusion, he had become a little wary of the letter-writing book. Yet he assiduously, though suspiciously, went through it, making notes in his notebook and looking up meanings in the dictionary.

He had hit upon a new idea, and he thought it was the most brilliant idea he had ever had. If he started at the beginning of the dictionary, and learnt the meanings of each and every word, working his way from A to Z, one day he would know all English, completely and irrevocably. The thought was so mind boggling that it took his breath away. He wondered if scholars had ever thought of that. It would take a long time, of course, but nothing was impossible.