Myriad Reflections. Shastri Akella

The Bangle Seller

The narrow lane – silent and solitary, looked on desolately. The mist of dawn flooded its environs, and the rays of the sun, trickling through the tree branches, rendered unto the alley a hallowed glow. Tiny shops, neatly aligned on either side of the lane, were interspersed with street lamps and benign-looking trees. The shutters of the shops were shut, their owners lolling lazily at home. The festive season of Ramzan had concluded amidst great fanfare, and there was little business to be eked out for the next few days. So an uncharacteristic hush – occasionally marred by the odd bark of a dog, filled the spaces of the lane. Suddenly, from this silence, emerged a noise – the clatter of a shop shutter as it was unbolted and heaved into its recess. At the very end of the lane, a small bangle shop now lay splayed open – spick, colorful, and inviting. Ashwak – the septuagenarian owner of the shop, decided that business or naught, he was going to indulge in the ritual that he prided himself on for the last sixty years – that of opening his shop.
Dusting the white cushions that lay skewed the chair, a dark skinned helper boy muttered, “The others opens the shop at half past ten, but Baba insists that he open the shop at seven.” In response, another assistant – wrought in the color of black metal, who was cleaning the glass of the horizontal showcase, complained in a hushed tone, “Why, Ramzan has just passed by, and business will be lean for a while. Yet our Ashwak Miyan insists on religiously opening the shop. Neither does he take a holiday, nor does he let us take some rest.” Ashwak twitched his brows, chortled impatiently, and in the husky voice characteristic of him, said, “You little devils, stop your nonsensical talk, and get along with your work. If I find a single stain on the glass, even Allah cannot save you from my wrath.” Ashwak went back to his prayer beads, and the wrinkles on his temples and the alcoves of his lips coalesced, as he intoned the holy chant.
“Why do you vent your temper on these hapless chaps? I tell you, if they leave in disgust some day, you will have a tough time finding a replacement.” Ashwak placed his beads to a side, peered at the young man who berated him, and said in a sarcastic tone, “Here comes your Nasir miyan, he finally has the time to privilege us with his company.” Nasir waved his hand dismissively and said, “Don’t fuss. There is no necessity for such derisive remarks. Nor is there any point in rebuking Sameer and Ishrat.” Ashwak snapped, “I reprimanded them because they were doing a lousy job of the cleaning.” Nasir retorted, “What is there to clean? The shop is already immaculate. It has been lying vacant for a week; not a single customer has stepped in.” Ashwak suddenly fell silent. His flaxen visage grew dark with worry. He stroked his white beard thoughtfully, his son’s words ringing in his ears. ‘Not a single customer stepped in.’
“Tea time”, announced Gurdeep and brought Ashwak out of his reverie. Gurdeep was a dwarfed young man, who passed off as a boy on account of his stunted growth. His face too, was child like, smooth and hairless. He never made an effort to deny the misconception his image created. When he arrived at the footsteps of the shops clad in a torn, dirty vest with plastic tea cups in his hands and an innocent smile on his brownish face, he created a perfect picture of pity – a kid who was ruthlessly torn away from the innocence of childhood and thrown into the wicked world, to fend for himself at such a tender age. So often, out of sympathy rather than necessity, vendors and their customers would purchase the tea he offered, and Gurpdeep happily resigned to his imagined misfortune that filled his pockets with the delightful music of clanking coins.
Presently, Nasir walked out of the shop, greeted Gurdeep with a slap on his back, and said, “Chotu, four teas.” As Gurdeep collected his money and walked away, leisurely kicking a hapless stone that lay on the road, the four men settled down at the entrance of he shop. Ashwak sipped the tea, and instantly his face grimaced. He complained, “The tea tastes terrible. I am certain he passes off gutter water as tea.” Nasir looked sympathetically at Gurdeep and said, “Come on Abba, it costs a mere two rupees, you certainly don’t expect five star hotel quality. Besides, our simple gesture prevents his little tummy from going to bed empty.” Overhearing the dramatic statement made by Nasir, Gurdeep suppressed a laugh, and walked away with a quickened pace.
Ashwak cast aside the cup that was still brimming with tea. As he got up, dusted his white kurta, and adjusted the cap that sat clumsily on his head, he said, “Who cares for the tea of five star hotels? According to me, no tea equals the taste of Irani chai. Ah! Those were the days when Liyatat and I used to sit in small, stuffy cafes sharing a cup of Irani chai and a plate of tie biscuits.”
Nasir said, “Why do you hold on to the past so much? Wishful thinking is not a businessman’s virtue.” Ashwak threw an angry glance at his son. Nasir’s fair visage showcased ire with clarity – his sharp nose grew red, his greenish eyes were shrunk, and his trimly shaped eyebrows were twitched. Walking towards his seat Ashwak said, “Anyone who’s seen glory at its zenith would not prefer a jaded version. Of course, left to you, you would bundle the old word charm and throw it into the bottom of the sea.” Getting up, Nasir retorted, “All I say is that a businessman must think about the present, rather than about the beauty of something that is no more.” “And pray what is the present?” said Ashwak mockingly, “girls demanding Bunty and Bubbly bangles?” “What is wrong with that?” queried Nasir, “Bangles are merely one of the many mediums girls use to show off that they are in line with the latest trends. She would rather go and tell her friends, ‘look, I’m wearing something similar to what Rani wore in Bunty aur Bubbly’ than say, ‘I’m wearing bangles similar to what the 18th century queens wore’!” Laughing at his own banter, Nasir sank onto a cushion. Ashwak shook his head and said, “Those were the days when women knew so much about bangles. One flaw in the Kundan work, one shade of shimmer less in the gold lace, their sharp eye was quick to notice.” Nasir retorted, “Women in those days had nothing better to do than to dress up and wait on their shohar. They could only think of fighting with their mother-in-law and discussing jewelry with idle neighbors. It is a very different world today. Women are studying, working, taking care of the home, and doing a hundred other things simultaneously. They cannot afford to get into the artistic intricacies of ornaments and dresses.” Ashwak sardonically said, “Maybe, that’s why they don’t dress at all.” Sameer and Ishrat looked on with resigned interest. They had seen this confrontation between father and son occur many times. It was now as much a part of their jargon as the names of the various types of bangles. Sometimes, they would silently mime the remarks of the duo, and congratulate themselves at their accuracy.
Ashwak settled on his chair, and glanced expectantly at the street, hoping a customer would walk up that passage and enter his shop. The lane stared back at him – empty and mocking. Dejected, he aimlessly looked at the gutter that drifted nonchalantly in front of the shop. His mind was flooded with myriad images of the bangle shop he so dearly loved. Images, handpicked from different phases of the past to create a vivid kaleidoscope.
The tiered eyes of Ashwak had seen the bangle shop go through diverse phases. His father - Ejaz had set up the shop with great zeal. Four decades ago, when the final etches of the mahogany display cases were complete, the glasses were polished and fixed in place, and the spotlights were staring out gleefully, the shop was ready to be occupied. In a week’s time, the shop was brimming with life, colorful bangles, and women who viewed their objects of desire with animated marvel. Ashwak gradually picked up the threads of business from his father: How Ejaz engaged his customers in private conversations, as he went about his business. “So Shilpa Bhabhi, has your sister-in-law’s behavior changed at all?” he would query, his eyes overflowing with interest. And the woman in question would respond with a sigh, “Well, the dog’s tail as they say can never be straightened.” She would then proceed to pour out her heart. All the while, Ejaz would be slipping different bangles into her gloated hands, and her whining would be occasionally interjected with comments such as, “Not this yellow, show me that red.” As her fingers pointed to the bangles she greedily eyed, she would go back to a detailed narrative of her grievance, unfalteringly picking up the threads of her conversation from where she had left.
In the initial phases, Ashwak kept himself busy with the logistics – his pencil busily scribbling the inventory details onto dog-eared papers, and his focused gaze studying their quality with great absorption. If a customer were to arrive when Ejaz was taking in his afternoon siesta, he would offer to show them the bangles. The women would eye him suspiciously, unwilling to trust their delicate hands in his young, wavering ones. Somehow, they found comfort and confidence in the wizened, shaking hand of an old man. So Ashwak would sheepishly wake up his father, who willingly effaced all traces of sleep from his eyes and offered himself to customer service. Ashwak would look on, admiringly. How easily Ejaz went about his work. Indulging in blithe talk, so effortlessly slipping bangles in and out of women’s hands; as if he were born to handle their delicate hands and beautify them thereafter with bangles in the colors of fuchsia, claret, auburn, and mauve. He would think dreamily, “One day, I will be as capable a bangle seller as Abba Jaan.”
Business was brisk for many years, with customers walking up the lane that adjoined the chudi bazaar of Charminar, to buy bangles from Ejaz’s shop.
Time is a paradoxical witness: its passage plays a vital role in the evanescence of an ever-changing world, and yet it views these changes with marked indifference. The same spectator, that witnessed the nikaah of Ashwak, also saw the shop blossom into a full bloom, where loyal customers felt at home in its warm, familiar environs, and where it became a delightful cocoon for the workers and Ashwak alike – a place where they bickered, laughed, cried, and shared their world. The passage of time etched the wrinkles of age onto Ashwak’s face with unerring clarity, and the women were now more than happy to thrust their hands in his palms.
The incessant ticking of the clock also brought about another change with its deceptively simple stride. Many more shops sprung to life around the previously sleepy cul-de-sac. Run by aggressive businessmen to whom bangles were no art, but a medium of setting the cash register ringing, they filled up their showcases with bangles whose designs reflected the dictums of Bollywood. Under their aegis, the fine art that bangle were, relegated themselves to being relics – hollow reflections of the glorious past. Bangles, embellished with antique designs and intricate patters, and created with days of effort, slowly disappeared from the showcases.
Shopping malls too began sprouting to life. Seated in the plush, air-conditioned precincts of the mall, dainty saleswomen muttered in English, while customer sipped away on Coke whilst making their purchases. “The way their lips obnoxiously round up and curve as they mouth utter nonsense”, thought Ashwak, with considerable disgust. “What do they know of customer service? When we meet a customer, they become acquaintances for life, and we become familiar with ten generations on either side. We know every tear and every smile that shapes their life, while they conveniently forget a customer soon after the sale is made. It is sad that the delicate art of bangles has been thrown into their juvenile hands. To them, bangles and money are synonyms.” He closed his eyes in repugnance, trying to shut out the image of a bangle transforming into a hundred Rupee note.
A sudden, loud clap brought him out of his revere. Ashwak opened his eyes and blinked, his vision trying to adjust to the sudden brightness of midday. In the glare that filled the streets outside, he saw a eunuch peering at him. Cussing under his breath, Ashwak pulled out a two-rupee and shoved into the hands of the eunuch. The hijra pulled back Ashwak’s hands, pressed the two-rupee note into his palms and said in a guttural tone, “Who wants your charity? I’m here to buy bangles.” He entered the shop confidently, plunked onto a cushion, and shoved his hand into the face of Ashwak, demanding his attention and bangles. Ashwak looked at the soiled, frayed sari that clung itself to the hijra, got up in aversion and walked away, griping. “What bad times have befallen us! We have to sell our exquisite artistic creations to hijras!” As the eunuch frowned and looked at Ashwak, Nasir quickly stepped behind the counter, opened the showcase, and began taking out a collection of glass bangles. “Don’t mind the words of Abba Jaan”, he said looking apologetically at his customer, “his ideologies are rather antiquated. You know how it works.” The eunuch was greatly pleased – someone actually apologized to him. He broke into a smile and browsed through the bangles with gusto.
The languor of the afternoon consumed everyone in its embrace. Ishrat and Sameer slept blissfully in the room behind the shop, where bangles were stocked to the brim.
Ashwak sat at the doorstep and let the sun wash over his aged being, as his despondent gaze surfed through the bangles stacked in his showcase.
“Such exquisite creations of beauty, that took so long to be created. From a lifeless piece of glass or stone, they were transformed into vivid creations that played myriad roles in the drama of life. They embellish the beauty of the bride as she departs to her beloved’s home. Their music, gentle and gurgling, often silence the verbal war that took place between spouses. The wife brandishes her hand feverishly, and a peeved husband would listen to the lilting music created by the bangles. Clasped onto her hand, they would gently clank into each other, and in the companionship of their music, his ire would melt. He would lovingly pull his wife into his lap, and play with her bangles whilst saying, “Come on now, don’t bicker. I’ll take you to a movie tonight, ok? After that, we shall go and buy you some nice colorful bangles.” In response, the wife would smile, and tuck a strand of hair behind her ears, her bangles creating the same beatific music, further luring the husband into its grip. Why, there was a time when an offering unto the Gods was considered incomplete without their colorful presence. But today they lie in my store, tired, disappointed and forlorn.” As his old eyed brimmed with tears of sadness, and echoed the pain of a vanished past, he coughed gently, and held his chest, trying to suppress a pain that had suddenly surfaced. Nasir, who lazed on a cushion, rushed to his father, and held him by the shoulder with firm hands. Ashwak took some recourse in the warm embrace of his son, and placed his weary head on Nasir’s shoulder. In a feeble voice he said, “Perhaps it is Allah’s desire that I retire. The times have changed Nasir, and my stubborn heart is unwilling to accept a future where bangles are treated as just another commodity. But you are still young. The warmth of your blood will easily take changes its stride. Bas, I have decided, I have spent enough time in the fickle vagaries of the world. I will look for a nice, homely girl for you, and after your nikaah, retreat to Mecca.” Nasir caressed the shoulder of his father and said in a soothing tone, “I am still a fledgling Abba, and need your guidance. You cannot leave me alone. Besides, it’s not so difficult to accept change, it’s more of a mental fixation. I mean, what was wrong with selling bangles to a hijra? Times are strained, and any customer who brings in business is welcome. As such, who buys bangles now-a-days? The foreigners prefer the comfort of the malls, not realizing that to feel the heartbeat of India, they have to saunter in her galis. As for the Indians, they purchase bangles only during marriages or festive seasons. Gone are the days when acquiring bangles was an important ritual which women indulged in on a regular basis. Why, the bangle sellers who used to eke out a living, going from one home to the other, with their bangle rack on their shoulders, have almost vanished. Yes, times are changing, and we ought to change with them, not abandon what we love. And I know how dearly you love these bangles.” Finding some comfort in the words of Nasir, Ashwak thought with paternal fondness, “The little boy who could not as much as walk without holding onto my hand, is today teaching me the ways of the world. Ah! The tricks played by time.” As father and son shared a rare moment of togetherness, the bangles watched on, bright and smiling.
The darkness of dusk unfurled over the lane, overpowering the last traces of the ochre-colored sun. The bangle shop shimmered with passion under the effulgent caress of the lights. The mirrors on the walls of the shop and the colorful bangles winked in the brilliance of the light. Time hung as flaccidly across the moonlit lane as it had during the heat of the day. Ashwak pined for the hustle of the footsteps that would herald elation. He broke into a smile, when his deepest desire fructified. Aneri, one of his oldest customers, entered the shop and sat comfortably on a cushion. Without being told to, Sameer rushed to fetch a cup of coffee, while, Ishrat switched on the fan. “What a long time it’s been since you gave us the pleasure of service Aneri behn”, said Ashwak, his face flickering with delight. Aneri was a corpulent Gujarati woman with a happy face. Her saccharine smile often overshadowed the wrinkles that begun appearing on her brownish visage. A lady with a penchant for talking, she gave a loud, cackling laughter and said, “I went to Vaddodara, it was my aunt’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, you know.” Gasping, she placed her hand on her chin and nodded her head as she said, “Can you believe that Ashwak Bhay? The couple has spent fifty years of their life together and is still going strong.” Nodding his head with interest, Ashwak took out a bundle of bangles with mirror work on them. The mirrors on the ornament glimmered in the luminescence of the lamps like seething embers. Aneri clasped the bangles and said, “Wah Ashwak Bhay! These bangles are exquisite! I did not find a single shop in the whole of Vaddodara with such fine mirror work.” Gleaming with pride, Ashwak looked at Nasir and said, “Now what do you have to say, son? Do you still feel that the world lacks people who cannot discern master craftsmanship from a hopeless piece of work that claims to be a bangle? Look at how well our Aneri behn has distinguished a good bangle from an inferior one, just as how wheat is separated from chaff.” Aneri broke into another peel of laughter, beaming in the euphonies Ashwak showered her with. Defending his stance, Nasir retorted, “I was speaking of the people of this generation.” Twitching her brows and looking visibly upset, Aneri said, “What are you are trying to suggest? That I am an oldie?” Quickly correcting himself, Nasir settled beside Aneri and said, “Oh no Aneri behn! Do I have the gall to call a young beauty like you an oldie?” As Aneri lowered her gaze coyly, Nasir explained, “What I meant was that only people of the good old days, and people whose heart still exudes with the beauty of those day, can appreciate the true beauty of a bangle and consider as art worth respecting. That is why I tell Abba, that he too should move with the changing times and create bangles that are more fashionable and cheaper to make. But he never compromises. He still believes in the old way of working, where bangles are made of the finest quality material, and each laborer is treated like an artisan who is working at his masterpiece.” Her expression turning suddenly serious, Aneri said, “That’s not true at all. Agreed that today’s generation have different priorities and don’t care too much for bangles, but there are still many people who consider bangles to be true form of art – something that needs to be treasured, rather than something that is used as an ornament and then discarded. Aficionados of bangles, if you may call them that! Such people are sure to appreciate Ashwak Bhay’s artistry as opposed to the puerile creations of many others. And Ashwak should cater only to them. Remember Nasir, those who have seen sincere beauty, can never settle for a sham, even if it is a matter of convenience.” Nasir suddenly became thoughtful, and Aneri gave a satisfied smile. Paying for her bangles, she left the shop, letting father and son ruminate in silence.
To Ashwak, the shop seemed to have suddenly turned brighter. The bangles sparkled with greater delight, as if rejoicing in the ray of hope Aneri’s words had left in their heart. As Ashwak noticed the austere golden glow that filled his shop, his face was lit up with a smile. Almost immediately, his ears were flooded with the music of mirth. He peeped out of the shop, and found four young girls walking up the alley. The street lamps emanating a bright yellow, lit up their face, and highlighted the look of disapproval in their eyes as they looked at the bangles in the other shops. They were just a heartbeat from the store, and he overheard their conversation as they munched popcorn. “Based on what the NIFT folks said, I expected to find superb craftsmanship. But all the bangles up to now have been such a disappointing fare. Anyways, let’s finish up with our snack and go that last store.” Ashwak looked proudly at his regal collection, much like how a father looks at his children who are about to win great accolades in the trials of the world. As he took out a kundan bangle and caressed it lovingly, Aneri’s words reverberated in his mind. ‘The aficionados of bangles’. Tears moistened his eyes as he thought, “There is still hope for these bangles; they will not die the death of an unknown entity, uncared for and neglected.” Just as his heart leapt with joy at this thought, a sudden seething pain replaced the euphoria. He sank to his seat, sweating profusely. His trembling hands could no longer hold on to the bangle, and it slipped and fell into the gutter. A reed that was stuck in the gutter tried to clasp onto the bangle, but it was no match for the gushing waters of the gutter, that ruthlessly carried the bangle away. The delicate work of art was soon lost in an endless mass of muck and filth.