As he slipped out of the shining new Porsche Cayenne, a gust of wind carrying sand hit Aditya Singh straight in the face. As he gently brushed the corner of his eyes to remove the sand, he found himself transposed to his tiny little hamlet in Banswara. He was thirteen years old again, walking beside his father to the weekly haat bazaar in the nearby village. It was difficult for him to keep up on the sand covered pathways with his father’s brisk pace but he did not want it to be seen that he had to run to be at par with his walk. This resulted in his taking hilariously long steps.
A smile crossed his lips.
Of course then he did not see it as funny, it was an assertion of growing up, of declaring to whoever was watching that he was ready to step into the shoes of his father. No one called him Aditya, back then he was just Adi.
In the market he would watch with disdain as his father would spread a rough cot on the side of the dusty road and slowly arrange his things.
While other traders selling all kinds of things, from tit bits to utensils to clothes would be shouting at top of their voices to attract the customers to their wares, his father would make the barest of attempts of doing so. Most of the times unable to sell much during the day, he would, in the evening settle for a barter exchange of his goods with other traders which would invariably be a bad deal as opposed to have been paid in currency by the customers. Also, the only goods left unsold at the end of the day were the ones which were the worst. Even on days when he managed to sell things, he would not fare much better as bargaining was not his cup of tea. While, other traders would relish bargaining and start with four times of the price they actually expected, his father would settle to whatever price the buyer would quote without much haggling. Soon he stopped standing by his father’s side all day and suffer through the monotonous routine. He would roam around in the market and see how other traders would be doing much better business through their social skills although their goods were not any better than his father’s. He realized how inept his father was at trading and the only reason why his family did not starve was because he did this only for six months in the year. In the other half of the year, the family would cultivate wheat in the small tract of land that they owned and after satisfying their subsistence needs, it left them with enough surplus to sell and afford the luxury of his father’s poor trading.
It did not take him long to realize that he could do a much better job as a trader than his father. He was smart and he knew it. Although he had gone to the school for only five years, all his teachers had proclaimed him as a brilliant and exceptionally bright student. He had to leave the studies when his mother fell sick in the agricultural season and his father needed his assistance. Somehow, he never felt like going back to the school after that and instead he took a fancy to the market. As he would show keen interest in the transactions, other traders would teach him the nitty-gritty of their trade. They would pass him on the tricks to lure the customer and extract the maximum out of him depending upon factors like his need and economic status. All these had to be picked up from his appearance and tone.
On one of those days in the market he saw a trader who he had never seen before. He had a rather impressive appearance as compared to the rest who were mostly farmers from villages or from small towns and looked pretty shabby. But this trader was wearing shining deep blue robe over a white shirt and had a rather different turban with a feather tucked into it. He had erected a kind of tent over his goods and was turning over what looked to young Adi like a manuscript. He showed no interest in the customers or the proceedings in the market and even others seemed hesitant to approach him, clearly he was an outsider.
“What do you want?” barked the man with the turban as he curiously approached him.
He told him that he just wanted to know what he sold since he did not see any goods on display. The man in the turban chuckled at the interest shown by the young boy and said, “I do not sell; I buy things, old and rare pieces.”
“I see, and what do you with them?”
“I go to the cities and sell them there.” The man in the turban had probably not talked to anyone all day and decided to play along in this little game of the kid. This is why he took his queries with the sincerity that was reserved only for serious prospective clients.
“What are the kinds of things that you buy?” asked Adi with a little more confidence.
“Mostly old paintings, swords, jewelry and other decorative items; the older the better.”
“And how do you pay?” his tone was now acquiring the assertiveness of a seasoned trader. That he made a good profit out of the trade was clear to Adi from his attire and demeanor.
“With these”, he said, flashing a couple of crisp ten Rupee notes, “and I pay well.”
“Will you be here next week as well?”
“Yes, why do you have something to sell?” the tinge of mockery in his voice suggested that the man was finally bored with this little game with the kid.
“Maybe”, and with this Adi walked off.
He spent that night turning over and over in his khat. This was his chance to enter the trade. Other traders knew him well but they would not deal with him as they thought that he was merely a kid. But this outsider would have no such qualms. All he needed was to sell him something; make a decent profit on it and then it would be easy for him to convince his father and other traders also that he was old enough to enter trade. But what was there within the mud walls of his hut that could be of some value to the trader with turban? This question kept him troubled all night.
As the first rays of sun filtered from the creek between the wooden doors, he woke up with the answer. His mother had a heavy golden colored necklace which was certainly the most attractive piece of her jewelry, not that she had many. He remembered asking her if it was pure gold, and she had laughed and said that it was merely sone ka paani (gold plated) and when he kept asking her how much was it worth. “Not more than ten Rupees” she had said distantly. He had seen her wrapping it in a red cloth pouch and putting it in the big wheat container after coming from marriages and religious ceremonies.
The first opportunity that he got of being alone in the hut, he removed the stone slab covering the container and slipped his hand inside. After a bit of groping around in the wheat grains, he found what he was looking for. He did not take the pouch out and let it remain there.
Next Sunday as his father was getting ready, he took out the pouch and tied it in the folds of his dhoti and covered it with the kurta. He felt a slight hesitation in doing this because he knew this was stealing. But what he also knew was that there was no other way. He had to start somewhere and his parents would not let him do anything on his own.
Is it not the case always? The parents have no clue that their children have grown up, that they can do things on their own, maybe even better than what they themselves could do. Many a times it is only when an outsider tells them about their exploits that they realize the capabilities of someone who until then was completely dependent upon them.
After spending an hour and half by his father’s side, he slipped to look for the man with the turban. Yes, he was there. He was talking to someone. Although he was at a distance it was clear that the discussion that the men were having was not a very cordial one. Both of them were raising their fists now and again. Finally, the other man left with a strained face, muttering abuses. This was nothing new in the market though; he had seen the traders as well as the customers lose their temper quite a lot of times. When it came to blows the people around interfered but as long as it was merely a verbal altercation, everyone stood by and enjoyed the abuses being hurled all around. It was almost a regular feature of the market which everyone enjoyed; sometimes he wondered that even the parties involved derived a perverted pleasure out of it.
As he approached the man with the turban, he could see that his was still scarlet from the exertion that the last interaction had involved.
“OH, its you again; what do you want today?” clearly the man was in no mood for humour.
“I have something which you may want to buy”, now that he had come this far he was not going to waver in confidence.
“Really, then show me” the man was regaining his composure.
“Here” he said and untied the top of the packet and took out the necklace.
The man did not evince much interest in it as he took the necklace in his hand. But Adi had spent long enough time in the market to know that seasoned traders do not let their interest drip from their faces.
“It does not look very old” the man remarked as he casually yet carefully turned it over.
“It has been in our family for four generations”. He was not sure of this but then he knew neither was the man in turban and it certainly looked quite old.
“Certainly not gold.” The man clearly did not need his opinion on this one.
“But still quite valuable because of the design and the gems” It had to be, it looked beautiful.
“Maybe, I’ll be able to sell it some foreigner in the city. How much do you want for it?”
“How much can you pay for it?”
(Rule number one: Never tell your reserve price, let the customer value the good first.)
“Not more than twenty Rupees”
“Ha, you think that I am a child and you can fool me, or maybe you are just kidding with me. Please, give me back my necklace.”
(Rule number two: If the customer refuses to let go of the good, he will buy it, you just have to find the maximum price he’ll pay for it.)
“No, no. You tell me how much do you want.”
“Not less than a Hundred Rupees.”
(Rule number three: Start bargaining with five times the minimum price that you would be willing to accept.)
“Come on, now you are asking for too much. How about thirty?”
It took some twenty minutes of bargaining and finally they settled for sixty Rupees. At the end of it both of them acted as if the other had practically robbed him. Although, in his heart Adi was more than content with having made a profit of six times the investment. Now, all he had to do was to look for a place to invest this money.
He spent the entire day looking for some things he could buy to invest his new found finances. When till evening he could not find anything interesting, he decided to come back again on next Sunday to continue his search. As he was walking back with his father, he noticed that the man in the turban was loading his tent and goods on a cart; from the conversation that he was having with his servants it was clear that he was moving to another village. He avoided looking at the man, lest he may say something which would reveal to his father what he had been up to. His father was leaving that night for a close relative’s marriage at a distant place. The visit would take him ten days and although, he won’t let Adi sell the goods on his own in the market, he could certainly come here on his own. This was all the better for him as he would have plenty of time and would be able to haggle with the traders without the fear of his father looking over his shoulder.
He had decided that he would not break the news that he had sold the necklace till he had invested a part of the money in some other transaction; that would mean at least till next Sunday.
As it turned out, he did not have to wait that long. Soon after his father had left, his mother discovered that the necklace was missing. She was taking out some wheat for grinding it in the chakki, when she looked to feel the packet as a habit. When she found it to be missing, her first reaction was that she must have kept it somewhere else but as she failed to find it anywhere, it turned into disbelief and horror. Thefts were almost unheard of in their little hamlet and that one had happened to them, instead of anyone else was a really dreadful thought. As an afterthought she started asking Adi about it. Now, he knew that there was no point in hiding it, since anyways sooner or later he would himself have told them and it was not something to be ashamed of.
“I have sold it.”
“What?” his mother reacted as if he had spoken in a foreign language.
“Yes, I have sold it. But do not worry. I got sixty Rupees for it.” he took out the money.
“Sixty... It was not worth less than seven hundred. Pure gold…..” his mother’s voice trailed into silence. She did not shout or hit him but staggered and sank to the ground.
“But you said…..” he suddenly felt he had been hit on the head with a plank.
What happened after that was mostly hazy in his memory. That was the last night he spent in the village, before the sun rose, he was in Murea village, catching a train to the city.
As the durban executed a quick salute to the man emerging out of the glass doors of the building, Aditya Singh was brought out of his trance. He put his white cap back on and held the back door of the car open.
A smile crossed his lips.
Of course then he did not see it as funny, it was an assertion of growing up, of declaring to whoever was watching that he was ready to step into the shoes of his father. No one called him Aditya, back then he was just Adi.
In the market he would watch with disdain as his father would spread a rough cot on the side of the dusty road and slowly arrange his things.
While other traders selling all kinds of things, from tit bits to utensils to clothes would be shouting at top of their voices to attract the customers to their wares, his father would make the barest of attempts of doing so. Most of the times unable to sell much during the day, he would, in the evening settle for a barter exchange of his goods with other traders which would invariably be a bad deal as opposed to have been paid in currency by the customers. Also, the only goods left unsold at the end of the day were the ones which were the worst. Even on days when he managed to sell things, he would not fare much better as bargaining was not his cup of tea. While, other traders would relish bargaining and start with four times of the price they actually expected, his father would settle to whatever price the buyer would quote without much haggling. Soon he stopped standing by his father’s side all day and suffer through the monotonous routine. He would roam around in the market and see how other traders would be doing much better business through their social skills although their goods were not any better than his father’s. He realized how inept his father was at trading and the only reason why his family did not starve was because he did this only for six months in the year. In the other half of the year, the family would cultivate wheat in the small tract of land that they owned and after satisfying their subsistence needs, it left them with enough surplus to sell and afford the luxury of his father’s poor trading.
It did not take him long to realize that he could do a much better job as a trader than his father. He was smart and he knew it. Although he had gone to the school for only five years, all his teachers had proclaimed him as a brilliant and exceptionally bright student. He had to leave the studies when his mother fell sick in the agricultural season and his father needed his assistance. Somehow, he never felt like going back to the school after that and instead he took a fancy to the market. As he would show keen interest in the transactions, other traders would teach him the nitty-gritty of their trade. They would pass him on the tricks to lure the customer and extract the maximum out of him depending upon factors like his need and economic status. All these had to be picked up from his appearance and tone.
On one of those days in the market he saw a trader who he had never seen before. He had a rather impressive appearance as compared to the rest who were mostly farmers from villages or from small towns and looked pretty shabby. But this trader was wearing shining deep blue robe over a white shirt and had a rather different turban with a feather tucked into it. He had erected a kind of tent over his goods and was turning over what looked to young Adi like a manuscript. He showed no interest in the customers or the proceedings in the market and even others seemed hesitant to approach him, clearly he was an outsider.
“What do you want?” barked the man with the turban as he curiously approached him.
He told him that he just wanted to know what he sold since he did not see any goods on display. The man in the turban chuckled at the interest shown by the young boy and said, “I do not sell; I buy things, old and rare pieces.”
“I see, and what do you with them?”
“I go to the cities and sell them there.” The man in the turban had probably not talked to anyone all day and decided to play along in this little game of the kid. This is why he took his queries with the sincerity that was reserved only for serious prospective clients.
“What are the kinds of things that you buy?” asked Adi with a little more confidence.
“Mostly old paintings, swords, jewelry and other decorative items; the older the better.”
“And how do you pay?” his tone was now acquiring the assertiveness of a seasoned trader. That he made a good profit out of the trade was clear to Adi from his attire and demeanor.
“With these”, he said, flashing a couple of crisp ten Rupee notes, “and I pay well.”
“Will you be here next week as well?”
“Yes, why do you have something to sell?” the tinge of mockery in his voice suggested that the man was finally bored with this little game with the kid.
“Maybe”, and with this Adi walked off.
He spent that night turning over and over in his khat. This was his chance to enter the trade. Other traders knew him well but they would not deal with him as they thought that he was merely a kid. But this outsider would have no such qualms. All he needed was to sell him something; make a decent profit on it and then it would be easy for him to convince his father and other traders also that he was old enough to enter trade. But what was there within the mud walls of his hut that could be of some value to the trader with turban? This question kept him troubled all night.
As the first rays of sun filtered from the creek between the wooden doors, he woke up with the answer. His mother had a heavy golden colored necklace which was certainly the most attractive piece of her jewelry, not that she had many. He remembered asking her if it was pure gold, and she had laughed and said that it was merely sone ka paani (gold plated) and when he kept asking her how much was it worth. “Not more than ten Rupees” she had said distantly. He had seen her wrapping it in a red cloth pouch and putting it in the big wheat container after coming from marriages and religious ceremonies.
The first opportunity that he got of being alone in the hut, he removed the stone slab covering the container and slipped his hand inside. After a bit of groping around in the wheat grains, he found what he was looking for. He did not take the pouch out and let it remain there.
Next Sunday as his father was getting ready, he took out the pouch and tied it in the folds of his dhoti and covered it with the kurta. He felt a slight hesitation in doing this because he knew this was stealing. But what he also knew was that there was no other way. He had to start somewhere and his parents would not let him do anything on his own.
Is it not the case always? The parents have no clue that their children have grown up, that they can do things on their own, maybe even better than what they themselves could do. Many a times it is only when an outsider tells them about their exploits that they realize the capabilities of someone who until then was completely dependent upon them.
After spending an hour and half by his father’s side, he slipped to look for the man with the turban. Yes, he was there. He was talking to someone. Although he was at a distance it was clear that the discussion that the men were having was not a very cordial one. Both of them were raising their fists now and again. Finally, the other man left with a strained face, muttering abuses. This was nothing new in the market though; he had seen the traders as well as the customers lose their temper quite a lot of times. When it came to blows the people around interfered but as long as it was merely a verbal altercation, everyone stood by and enjoyed the abuses being hurled all around. It was almost a regular feature of the market which everyone enjoyed; sometimes he wondered that even the parties involved derived a perverted pleasure out of it.
As he approached the man with the turban, he could see that his was still scarlet from the exertion that the last interaction had involved.
“OH, its you again; what do you want today?” clearly the man was in no mood for humour.
“I have something which you may want to buy”, now that he had come this far he was not going to waver in confidence.
“Really, then show me” the man was regaining his composure.
“Here” he said and untied the top of the packet and took out the necklace.
The man did not evince much interest in it as he took the necklace in his hand. But Adi had spent long enough time in the market to know that seasoned traders do not let their interest drip from their faces.
“It does not look very old” the man remarked as he casually yet carefully turned it over.
“It has been in our family for four generations”. He was not sure of this but then he knew neither was the man in turban and it certainly looked quite old.
“Certainly not gold.” The man clearly did not need his opinion on this one.
“But still quite valuable because of the design and the gems” It had to be, it looked beautiful.
“Maybe, I’ll be able to sell it some foreigner in the city. How much do you want for it?”
“How much can you pay for it?”
(Rule number one: Never tell your reserve price, let the customer value the good first.)
“Not more than twenty Rupees”
“Ha, you think that I am a child and you can fool me, or maybe you are just kidding with me. Please, give me back my necklace.”
(Rule number two: If the customer refuses to let go of the good, he will buy it, you just have to find the maximum price he’ll pay for it.)
“No, no. You tell me how much do you want.”
“Not less than a Hundred Rupees.”
(Rule number three: Start bargaining with five times the minimum price that you would be willing to accept.)
“Come on, now you are asking for too much. How about thirty?”
It took some twenty minutes of bargaining and finally they settled for sixty Rupees. At the end of it both of them acted as if the other had practically robbed him. Although, in his heart Adi was more than content with having made a profit of six times the investment. Now, all he had to do was to look for a place to invest this money.
He spent the entire day looking for some things he could buy to invest his new found finances. When till evening he could not find anything interesting, he decided to come back again on next Sunday to continue his search. As he was walking back with his father, he noticed that the man in the turban was loading his tent and goods on a cart; from the conversation that he was having with his servants it was clear that he was moving to another village. He avoided looking at the man, lest he may say something which would reveal to his father what he had been up to. His father was leaving that night for a close relative’s marriage at a distant place. The visit would take him ten days and although, he won’t let Adi sell the goods on his own in the market, he could certainly come here on his own. This was all the better for him as he would have plenty of time and would be able to haggle with the traders without the fear of his father looking over his shoulder.
He had decided that he would not break the news that he had sold the necklace till he had invested a part of the money in some other transaction; that would mean at least till next Sunday.
As it turned out, he did not have to wait that long. Soon after his father had left, his mother discovered that the necklace was missing. She was taking out some wheat for grinding it in the chakki, when she looked to feel the packet as a habit. When she found it to be missing, her first reaction was that she must have kept it somewhere else but as she failed to find it anywhere, it turned into disbelief and horror. Thefts were almost unheard of in their little hamlet and that one had happened to them, instead of anyone else was a really dreadful thought. As an afterthought she started asking Adi about it. Now, he knew that there was no point in hiding it, since anyways sooner or later he would himself have told them and it was not something to be ashamed of.
“I have sold it.”
“What?” his mother reacted as if he had spoken in a foreign language.
“Yes, I have sold it. But do not worry. I got sixty Rupees for it.” he took out the money.
“Sixty... It was not worth less than seven hundred. Pure gold…..” his mother’s voice trailed into silence. She did not shout or hit him but staggered and sank to the ground.
“But you said…..” he suddenly felt he had been hit on the head with a plank.
What happened after that was mostly hazy in his memory. That was the last night he spent in the village, before the sun rose, he was in Murea village, catching a train to the city.
As the durban executed a quick salute to the man emerging out of the glass doors of the building, Aditya Singh was brought out of his trance. He put his white cap back on and held the back door of the car open.
4 comments:
Left me feeling a little down in the end. a sad end, unfortunate twist to a tale.
You re an amazing storyteller.
The last lines...
The man coming out of the glass doors returned his mock salute, put on his own white 'p3ac3' cap and said "No, damn you. I am driving the Porche today".
Bahut mast likha hai yaar. I had forgotten.
one does not see wats coming, (the last para )... leaves one cold, and makes the story gruesomely real.
bloody good.
"Is it not the case always? The parents have no clue that their children have grown up, that they can do things on their own, maybe even better than what they themselves could do. Many a times it is only when an outsider tells them about their exploits that they realize the capabilities of someone who until then was completely dependent upon them."
favuorite lines for me.
the question mark there i don't like please, it does not fit into the narration style somehow, i don't know if i can express myself well on that, but it just puts a nice point across too simply.... am not being a prick, seriosly.
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