Star

by admin

August 29, 2020

795

Written in early April 2020.

I’m tenth in line. The large market store won’t open for another hour and a half. Plenty of time to people watch, from a safe distance of course. Unknown to me, I have been staked out as the most vulnerable in the line. Soon, a group of them emerge from behind the trees on the opposite side of the road. The strategy is quickly planned and then there they are, pint-sized but ruthless, asking for money to buy milk from the booth. They ignore everyone else but treat me to their best entreaties and pleading eyes. I fund two groups and then indicate the end of this morning’s milk bar fund. They melt away, back to their sidewalk homes. These children won’t pester, their dignity is intact. I can see accusations and glares in the eyes of my fellow line stakers – no one wants to be bothered by their conscience this early in the morning. Truth be told, handing out the money is easier than meeting the eyes of these young street children, especially when I think of my well-stocked kitchen.

A bus pulls up and disgorges a line of young people wearing an assortment of face covers and masks. A couple of the girls are clad in hijabs and seem the most confident of them all. These are the employees who have come in to unload the waiting trucks and run the cash counters. Most of them are around my son’s age and I imagine the trepidation with which their mothers send them off each morning in these uncertain times. The city has never seemed as dangerous as it does now, its empty roads bereft of humans, over run by huge rats that venture out even in the light of day.

The shoppers by contrast to the young employee brigade are mostly middle aged, resigned to the long wait. This may be the highlight of our day, checking out the different masks on display or the heads of hair, carefully coiffed to hide the newly emergent greys and kinks. I marvel at the Great Indian Public’s new found respect for personal space. The birds are giving us a free concert and those old trees saved from the Metro onslaught keep us shaded from the morning sun. What more could we need in these days of plentiful time?

There is suddenly a frisson of excitement as the truck doors are opened. Everyone cranes their necks to see what’s on offer today. The young men unloading the large plastic containers and gunny sacks seem to work on automaton. There is a cry to send in the palak, apparently it is important to get the spinach on the shelves before the heavyweight cauliflower and watermelons. One trolley is so weighed down by large sacks of potatoes that it needs three hefty young men, one pulling it up the ramp while the other two push from below. There is a sudden yelp as the trolley jerks forward and onto the foot of the young man pulling it up. He hops to the side, nursing his injured toe. Hardly anyone pays him any mind, they work grimly to get the store stocked before opening time.

The store finally opens its doors, exactly ninety minutes after I joined the queue. The shop manager is kind enough to provide the first ten customers with seating, as we wait for the senior citizens to enter first and complete their shopping. Why are we never so courteous to our weakest members in times of plenty and freedom? The old ones walk in slowly, unsure of their legs, unsteady without the usual helping hands of drivers and househelpers. They clutch at the heavy carts for support, blinking in bewilderment at the rows of aisles. They are the walking wounded, wandering here and there but there is no one in a rush to help them fill their shopping prescription.

Inside, the staff are all the usual faces, faintly recognisable behind their masks and gloves. I look for everyone’s favourite cashier, a man with speech disability. He is the most efficient and cheerful soul in the store, encouraging people to smile and greet him with a polite hand written sign. It is shamefully true that we city dwellers need reminding to greet each other with a smile. This young man never fails to give a wide grin to each customer. But he isn’t around today. I wonder why. Does his disability make it difficult for him to travel? Is he unwell? Or is it just his day off?

Almost as soon as my turn arrives, there is a call for the first ten shoppers to hurry up. The call is insistent, repeated every thirty seconds until guilt and panic set in. The mind goes blank, the shopping list forgotten.

As I fill my cart with useless and unnecessary stuff, I have a fleeting and hysterical moment of empathy with those who survived the Russian Revolution, the empty shelves, the endless queues in Berlin for a loaf of bread, the Blitz wardens’ whistles sounding the all clear after a Luftwaffe raid. The gas masks worn in World Wars One and Two are eerie harbingers of today’s doom. Only, the masks we wear would be no protection against mustard gas. All these can do is protect us from each other.

Is it easier to fight an invisible enemy, without being troubled by love, hate, betrayal, trust? Or to face down other human beings, bent on revenge and retaliation?
As I wait my turn at the cash counter, I think the latter would be  easier to come to terms with. To engage with an enemy that one coud injure, maim, kill – it would give the fight a sense of purpose. This modern day conflict leaves one helpless, always unsure if you are on the winning or losing side. The only sure thing is that we are all going to emerge wounded – there are no conscientious protestors here nor are there any gung-ho warriors.

The cashier clears her throat. I blink, meet her eyes. They are blank,as if to risk a smile might increase the chances of infection.  I must not judge, my face is a mask too. And after all, I am heading home now, laden with the spoils of my morning’s shopping campaign. I pack my bags briskly, accept my change gingerly and leave the market at an appropriate distance from the next shopper girding for battle amongst the stressful aisles.