An invitation to a party , that cannot be refused . A rigorous two hours to be spent in forced laughter , silly party games and mind -numbing conversations about jewellery and pets . They call it interaction . It is said to enrich the personality .
Anyway , I am here to depict the shop . Let me not digress .
This shop is one of the few shops in the small sleepy village / town that claims to be a "gift " shop .
It has a tin roof lean to , in addition to a concrete wall with painted letters , faded over time , self -declaring oneself to be in possession of male and female lingerie , ( does anything called "male lingerie " exist , I wonder ) in addition to crockery , cutlery , toys and "gifts " .
There are perforated plastic baskets with heaps of mismatched cups , some baskets are filled with plastic toys and there is stack of cricket bats with the paint peeling off , revealing their wooden interiors , bunched up , and leaning against the door . A few male and female mannequin busts , sitting upright in the dirt , wear , on their sun baked and paint peeling heads , a variety of fading caps and hats .
The door is festooned with a blingy "toran " of last year's Deepavali , the shiny bits having been robbed by the elements , so now we have few strands of white plastic pathetically waving in the warm breeze that hisses beneath the lean-to . The roof rattles when I open the door .
A wave of airconditioned air , cooled to 18 degrees blasts into my face like an arctic breeze . Instant teleportation, to the frigid climes . An elderly lady , with a woollen scarf around her face , in the month of scorching June , sits behind the counter .
She takes one look at me and yells "POOOJA" .
I was about to shake my head and tell her that my name was not pooja , when a faint voice answered her from the un air conditioned depths of the store . The answer sounded like "ai mai ", though I cannot be too sure .
A sheer wall of transparent shower curtains, now grimy with repeated human touches , separates the old lady and a longish glass counter from the rest of the shop , which extends , lengthwise , into the oblivion .
The shelves behind the lady , were sleek and glitzy , quite unlike the shabbiness of the lean-to products. Deodorants and perfumes , talcum and face washes , anti ageing products ( expensive , packaged lies ) line the shelves .
The old lady follows my gaze , the shouts in panic again "POOOOJAAAA" .
Pooja , apparently , has gone in with another client into the warm sweaty bowels , and is very reluctant to come to the arctic areas . Only a murmur of voices reveals her distant location .
The walls on the opposite side have disappeared beneath the profusion of higgledy piggledy stacked plastic trays , the jockey pyjamas and t shirts stacked and pushed into the crevasses so hastily that the outer half remain slightly open , like barnacle shells on a ship's hull. There are kid's clothings , kitchen aprons . and boxes of ceramic crockery .
I have espied a perfume , and I ask the elderly lady about it . She gets up , Fetches for me in six slow , creaky steps , a stretch that could be traversed in a single step .
Yet , the courage needs applauding .
I compliment her , and she smiles , revealing her age in the same breath .
"Sixty two " , she beams , and her muffler loosens .
In a flash , she loses her composure and shouts , softer this time "Pooooojaaaa"
Upon being asked the price of the perfume , she turns it in her knobbly , arthritic hand , then squints , fails to read and bellows , once again, almost pleading "Poooojjaaa" . The near apoplexy must have been audible to the hitherto invisible Pooja , for I can hear her scurrying through the narrow passageway in between the barnacled walls , the floor strewn with merchandise . She is picking her way through , gingerly .
Clad in a salwaar kameez . a frazzled Pooja makes her appearance , snatches the perfume bottle from my hand , ignores the old lady's lamentations of " kab se bula rahi hoon " , and barks 350 rupees at me , before disappearing into the nether ends again .
"But , I need a gift too . " I protest meekly , joining the old lady who calls out "Pooja " for the nth time , while wrapping her muffler back again .
Pooja , pokes her hassled face and asks me to follow her into the hallowed unseen .
There is a large table in the centre of a tiny room , laden with boxes of motorcars , plastic tennis , badminton , cricket bats , variously sized batman , Spiderman , avengers etc piled into a mountain .
A tiny fan whirred overhead , creaking dolefully .
Something whined at my feet , then I realized I was about to step on a little boy of about three ,, clutching an orange plastic cricket bat to his heart .
I almost backed into another loaded shelf , standing upright, behind my back , groaningly laden with crystal and glass items ( the famous "gift items ') . I turned my attention to this shelf and left the" bat man " writhing on the floor , while his Mom , a severe looking young lady argued and bargained with the boy and Pooja in turns .
While rummaging this stand alone , and precarious shelf , for a suitable gift item , I heard the mother trying to convince the boy to buy a masked batman which was apparently less likely to give the boy ( and I suspect others around him too ) a black eye , where as the boy and Pooja both were in the camp cricket bat and ball .
The poor Mom capitulated after a little while . A defeat in which , I suspect the heat played a major role . Sweating profusely , the trio emerged with a sigh into the frigid airs of the front desk for billing .
The boy flashing an evil grin as he relishes the future prospect of whacking all the people around him into submission .
Pooja , in her attempts to tidy up the place , was again , interrupted by several" Pooja " shouts , of varying tenor .
I realized the old woman had been joined by her shorts wearing stubbled male offspring , the missing owner of the shop , who , displaying true genetic likeness , believed in shouting for Pooja from the counter , instead of lending her a hand .
With remarkable adroitness , Pooja packs everything , collects money ,and sees us out .
I can't help but remark to the shorts wearing male , who believes in giving patronising grins to all.
"You are short on staff here . "
"Oh no . He replies brazenly . " We have Pooja here ."
Then he lowers his voice "But , she is a bit slow ."
He smiles an evil grin ,echoed by the old lady , her muffler ends quivering, almost like the boy clutching his new found weapon .
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