Confessions of a dishonest shopowner

Vishal Kumar 

I am a dishonest man. When I refer to my dishonesty, it is not some Indian politician’s devious design to woo voters. I indulge in dishonesty, but with a difference. Unlike our politicians, I am by profession a shopkeeper who deals in women’s clothes. These small acts of dishonesty I indulge in are only for my survival. Some may use the euphemism ‘intelligence’ for my self-confessed dishonesty. 

Convincing a woman to buy a particular dress is nothing short of wooing a voter who has no strong affiliation with any particular party. I have to skilfully observe the moods of my customers and accordingly play the trump card. Unlike men, women are very choosy buyers and hard to please. My shop is one of the biggest in town and stockpiled with a melange of colourful dresses, but my finicky customers still often ask me, ‘Bhai saheb, naya maal kab aayega?’ (when will new stock arrive). 

This is the most irksome sentence I have to hear a dozen times a day. But well-versed with the tricks of my trade, I do not cut to the quick. I pretend to be a paragon of patience, though inside I burn with fury. After all, decency is what every woman demands of a shopkeeper. I am well-schooled in professed decency. I have grown an oily tongue, doling out sugar-coated words like behenji, didi, bhabiji. Designating someone as ‘aunty’ is not favourable in our business, so, I carefully eschew the honorific. Now, comes the tale of my dishonesty: ‘Didi, I have especially brought this particular dress for you… khaas from Kashmir.” It is a popular cliche I exploit almost every time, but in a novel style. The consequent shimmer in the eyes of the potential buyer gives me the signal that I have successfully hit the nail on the head. Most of the times, the deal is successful. But if this ploy fails, I have another arrow in my quiver. ‘Didi, you leave this dress. I have got a very special article for a close friend’s wife. But I will put her on hold… Chhotu, get that blue dress for didi,’ I say manipulatively to one of the employees. 

My Chhotu is no more Chhotu. He, too, has mastered the skills of business. I have no friend whose wife has bespoken for the dress. But didi/bhabhi is delighted over my offer. I am also familiar with the Achilles heel of most women. While displaying a vast variety of dresses, I use my Brahmastra many a time; it hardly misses its mark. Whenever an elderly lady comes with her young daughter even for window shopping, I ask with pretended innocence: ‘Bhabhiji, is she your younger sister?’ ‘No, no, bhai saheb, she is my daughter,’ aunty smilingly clarifies. ‘But you look just like her elder sister,’ I say with a foxy grin. 

This is how, all day long, I indulge in small lies to make my both ends meet. I often wonder if it makes me a completely dishonest person.