It is night.
Almost 10 PM.
The day starts at night here, may be sometimes, depends. Not for everyone I guess.
He picks up the numerous plastic covers from the street and clears the patch right in front of his shop. There are some paper pamphlets as well, some regarding discounts, some regarding new shops being inaugurated in the newly constructed small shopping arcades in Chauta. He jumbles them up in a ball by squeezing his fist and starts rubbing that ball on the contours of his shop. The rust colored wall of the shop and the grey tiles do not show any color changes after this. May be they do. The night is blurring the subtle differences. Shops should be such, differences that are not visible, at least to people who want to see. Like me, perhaps.
He throws that paper ball back on the ground. But somewhere else. I could not figure out. I think he did it purposely. But not keeping me in mind, because I am not visible to him. Perhaps he assumes he is visible, or his actions are visible to everyone. His trousers are torn from the edges because he never wears his rough Bata shoes nicely. His feet are half inside and half pressing the wrinkled canvas shoes from the arches. The trousers linger and touch the road. I have never seen him tie the laces of his shoes. Shoes that are always kept outside his shop, right below a small notice board written in Gujarati that says, "Keep your shoes outside".
He kick starts his gearless scooter and swings the accelerator. I know his house, it is right next to Limda Chowk, not too far away, about 300 meters, I guess. I cannot follow him now because I do not have a vehicle. Moreover, he will be freaked out. He will think I know about his stamp paper illegal business.That he gets black money through that. Unless he has a commodity, he does not like being followed. I have tried that, trust me. And even if they have a commodity, it is likely they would want to know that you know they have it. Like the stamp paper of the year 1932. I know he has it. But he knows that I don't want it. Rather, I would never need it (according to him). So please don't expect me to follow him and tell you that he did not go to his house directly. That he took a left turn instead of right to go buy Pau Bhaji for dinner at his house. No, I did not hear the heated conversation between him and his wife, when she shouted that he has nothing to do, sitting all day, selling nothing, or making meager amounts every day. That she told him she would not cook, as she would be wrapping laces all day to get some money. And that she is doing the actual work, something that is so manual. So she deserves food. At least cooked food.
Anyway, I don't know anything about that. At least pretend so.
So I am not going to take you to Limda Chowk where he stays, or where his joint family of 34 members stay. And not going to tell you that the house does not have divisions.
Ah, may be I can tell you about this one. Well, the houses in this area, or even the inner city area of Surat, are mostly Gala type houses (not all). These are narrow houses that stretch long, mostly like 10 feet to let us say 30 feet. The ground floors are such so as to accommodate Zari/powerloom machines. And there are no divisions. Dinners are cooked right next. Children sleep right next. Right next to these machines. The sounds blur many sounds. But there are no divisions. Sleep anywhere. Eat anywhere and Work anywhere. If there is no privacy, then I don't feel uncomfortable telling you about that. So that is why I told you. No more prying from now.
We are still outside his house. I can only tell you, there are noises. There are noises of the pressure cooker whistles to the machine work going on. And there are noises of silent envy of those who had to use the pressure cooker and those who would be eating the Pav Bhaji. During the day, it was other way round. Those who rolled laces on their tired thighs were envious of those who sat outside doing nothing. Joint family has their own subsets. Living together has different conceptions.
Noises and no noises. And may be they have slept amidst this.
Morning! It is 6 AM. and we wake up with the long footsteps on the distanced wooden staircases. The house wakes up. The only two toilets, receive a queue. But the preferences are first who will go out during the day. He gets it. And he rushes from toilets to tea to the torn trousers. And amidst all this, three chimes of small bells close to a common altar place in the house. It is so swift, I cannot even understand when. Was it after the tea? Or may be after shower. Don't know, I am sleepy during mornings.
He rushes. He doesn't, but I look at my watch. It is 8:30 AM. He doesn't need a watch, may be. He places his tiffin close to his feet on the vehicle. As if the feet clasp the circular boxes and hold them tight. Again the swirl on the accelerator, with a kick start and I run too. In this sleepy mode. Oh come on. We can now stalk him. Light has so much of trust. Light brings customers who know only about the visible. We can be one of them, Don't worry.
He takes water from Surat General Hospital, like three bottles, of one liter each. And throws one liter on the patch outside his shop. Surat is known for its dust. And the way the city covers everything with dust. Pushes his half worn shoes outside his shop, close to the edges.
He does a cleaning of the contours of his shop with a cloth patch tied on a thick wooden grip. And sits peacefully near small photographs of god placed close to his money keeping area. He lights incense sticks, rolls the fragrance all over. I can locate each movement, so carefully done. Opens a small box of yellowish-orange sandalwood paste and make a U on his temple. Everyone around is almost busy making different symbols, in their own shops. A choreographed morning it seems!
He sits, looks outside.
And to every passerby, he simply says, "Bolo" (Say), hardly anyone responds. I had asked him earlier, why do you keep saying that! He had told me, bole tena bor vechaay (The one who speaks, gets his berries sold). So if I ask everyone, perhaps someone would come. My job is to speak. and to keep Speaking.
Negotiations have strange terrain. Or speeches and the sounds.
It is almost 1 PM. An old man walks by, stops. Looks at the stacks and asks for a towel. He shows him seventeen towels, throws all of them on ground for better visibility. The old man picks up one and asks for its price. He tells him two prices. - "This is for 100, but for you, I will make it 80" The old man is not impressed with 'for you'. I think the old man wants to test this, and so he's asked it for 50. He refuses. There's no haggling. And nothing happens. The old man walks away without buying anything. He stacks the towels back. Cursing. Not the old man. But cursing the old man's community. I don't know how he knows that the old man is a Ghanchi. Last time, I remember, he simply refused to show anything to a middle aged muscular man. When I had asked him why, he'd told me, "I do not want to even engage with Khandesis. They will ravage this shop if something does not work out." Even today, he couldn't explain it to me, or I couldn't understand how he figured our that the other man was a Khandesi. Finding out who belongs where is a strange exercise, I guess. At least I am not good at it when I have only bodies to observe for that test.
Almost 2 PM.
He takes a long and thin towel. Places it like a veil. I can see the tiffin box disappearing. I think he is eating. Once he had told me, one should never eat under the sky or in public spaces just like that. Eating should be veiled. So we don't know what he is eating. After fifteen minutes, the veil is removed and he washes his hands right outside his shop. And we see him seated again. But now, with his legs stretched.
Oh, I think he's half asleep. Waking up whenever he hears footsteps. I think he likes afternoon naps. Who doesn't! But he wakes up, and again says, "Bolo" to the crowd outside.
5 PM.
Shiraz, the tea seller comes to his shop. There are other 3 people inside as well. Not to buy or sell, I guess. Or to buy or sell something I don't know about. Or may be we shouldn't know about. He buys 2 cups of tea. And takes out other two small plastic cups and divides the tea among all four of them. He throws the cups on the road after everyone has had theirs. The road looks littered. And the packets, tea cups are crunched under the feet of so many people. And again, so many pamphlets. He looks at one of them and laughs, hysterically. Like a crazy man. "50000 Rs and you own a shop! Hah! 50000, look at the times! anyone. anyone can become a shopkeeper. There were times people never bought commercial places outside bazaars like these. They would spit at the thought of the textile market. Should we sell where the pigs eat rotten stuff? Where there is a dirty moat? Where there are prostitutes and pimps? No way. We will earn just enough to survive but never stoop so low." He laughs hysterically again and there is a lament in the roar. There is a pity in the eyes of rusted walls. He keeps that pamphlet safely in a box. And says, "It was 1980's that people had ethics. Where to buy. Where to sell. Now, everything is a market. Everywhere is a market."
The evening passes by. Again a call from his wife, I am guessing.. The conversation looks intimate, yet interrogative. The long nail on his last finger is scratching the sticker of the wooden case for money. And his eyes are scratching the unsold stacks of towels and lungis.
And again, the left turn before the day ends. Or when the day starts.
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