The mood is sombre in light of the hacking to death of a young woman in the prime of her life for apparently no reason other than she was who she was. It appears her killer has been found, in circumstances that very clearly point to the fact that there’s something seriously wrong in our society.
On the other hand, there are things happening at the other end of the spectrum as well. Last week, I was introduced to a woman who sells vegetables on the street. Every day around 4 pm or so, she spreads a square of cloth on the pavement opposite Ramakrishna Mission in Mylapore, Chennai, and arranges her vegetables: a few potatoes, some beans, two or three cabbages and pumpkins, a few snake gourds, some beans, and a couple of other things.
My friend always stops to shop here. The woman doesn’t have weighing scales or weights or even stones. You want some beans? She picks up a fair heap and thrusts the packet into your hand. A few potatoes? Right. Some brinjal, if you like. The bill comes to less than half of what anyone would pay in any other shop. Ask her why she charges so little, and she says: “This will do. What do I want more money for.”
I also met a sweets and snacks shop-owner in the same neighbourhood. His samosas and pakoras and jangris and bhajjis are as tasty as the best and he carries on a cheerful conversation with his customers as he serves them, and he will sell you as little as you want. He, too, is happy with what he considers is the right price for his products — which is lower that most other places. “No, the samosas won’t stay,” he tells me when I show interest in buying some to take to the office the next day. “Onion, no? It will spoil.”
Contentment
Last weekend, we went on a family trip to visit a shrine in North Arcot, some 150 km from Chennai. The weather was lovely, and the drive smooth. We found the place without difficulty after driving through lush, green paddy fields. The smell of fresh cowdung greeted us, as did brown-eyed cows grazing contentedly.
After worshipping at the shrine, we went to a lovely Anjaneya temple. It was small and clean; only the priest was around. We talked and discovered he’d been a professor of political science at a university. He’d had a dream about this temple and, following the dream, he packed up his bags and arrived in Arni. “How did you give up everything and come so far away to this small place?” I asked. “”I’m happy. I don’t want anything more,” he replied.
Back at the first priest’s home, his wife was putting the finishing touches to preparing lunch on a coal sigri while the priest and his nephews laid out leaf-plates on the floor and put out glasses of water. We settled down, about eight of us, and the lady of the house served us with a smile, all the while carrying on a friendly banter with her husband and two nephews, who were visiting them for the weekend. We were first-time guests, but felt comfortable despite all the ritual and strictures. There was gentle laughter. What more did we want?
Are customs cast in iron?
The food was simple, piping hot and wholesome. After we had finished, the priest’s wife sat down to eat – at the same leaf-plate her husband had eaten off! This was a new experience for me, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. How could she, I thought. It must be unhygienic, it must be degrading, it’s certainly not acceptable. The incident and all its implications were unsettling; it was worse, actually, because up until then, things had been so easy and pleasant.
But truth to tell, she seemed comfortable with the situation, she certainly didn’t display resentment or embarrassment. Then, who was I to make such a song and dance, right? In her world, perhaps that’s how it’s done, and she’s okay with it. The atmosphere was happy and harmonious. Maybe that’s what really counts. Being comfortable with oneself, being contented. Maybe that’s what’s missing from many of our lives.
Still, I can’t help thinking: Are customs cast in iron? And who made them, anyway?