We live in a strange country. Like no other.
The other day I spent close to three hours in a medical shop. Have I ever before disclosed here on this blog that I love shops? Apart from them being pretty much my office space most days of the week, you get to know so much about a city, a town, the people that live in it by standing around in a shop. It is full of things that people buy, take into their lives. More insightful is to see how they buy.
I urge you to spent ten minutes the next time you go visit a shop, just standing around inconspicuously, observing folks as they come in with their kith or kin, browse, ask for things - at times very specifically, sometimes leaving the decision-making to the shopkeeper, haggle, occasionally socialize, leave.
And let me know how it was. It fascinates me.
So anyway, I was in this medical store. Never mind why. Run by a patriarch and his two younglings. Handing out relief to patients and relations with the flourish of a doctor. Two instances which stuck -
A man walked in - I can only guess at his profession - blue-collar for sure, in his thirties, rough and stubbled, he said - Aurat ko cold aur fever hai.
The shopkeeper - Aurat ki umar kya hai?
Our man - Aurat hai.
The shopkeeper - Haan, aurat hai toh theek hai, lekin badi aurat hai ki chhoti?
The man - Abhi aurat hai meri. Humse thode naa badi hogi.
The shopkeeper - Haan haan, aapse kaise badi hogi. Yeh lo.
The man - Theek hai. Waise fever se zyada cold hai.
The second one is more telling. A woman hesitatingly sidled in, looking like a frightened deer caught in the headlights with a bear at the wheel. She spotted me and called me to her - half-beseechingly, half-shamefacedly. I went - this happens sometimes, people think I am part of the staff - she hissed into my ear - Ek mahina das din ho gaya.
I was at sea. I asked her - Kya matlab?
She whispered - Ek mahina das din, nahi hua.
It dawned on me. And simultaneously also on the shopkeeper. He came to our part of the shop and gently prodded her for a bit, before she told him the same thing, poised to jump into the nearest pothole all the while. He handed out the remedy, with the practiced ease of a gynecologist. Told her how and when to take it and what to do further if it did not bring about the desired results.
Such instances make me suddenly aware of the length, breadth and depth of this country and how little we know of it. About how much we take for granted, which some people can only have substitutes for. The chemists. Part-shopkeeper, part-doctor - handing out ointment minus lozenges to the great unwashed. And probably making a more honest living out of it.
6 comments:
Mind blowing. While real life is stranger than fiction, a lucky few actually know what that means !
Amazing how lives and professions overlap into one giant kaleidoscope.Introspective :)
Good one. Highly introspective.
My dad runs a pharmacy. And in my younger days, I have spent good many vacations sitting there :)
Just loved how you have made your point. When I travel in trains, flights (or now Metro), I very keenly observe people around me... and it's fun :D
And to think these resident "doctors" pay up thousands in haftas coz they dont have a D. Pharm or a B. Pharm. guy/gal employed.... or have someone who signs in the register and takes a monthly cut.
I have a chemist friend who catered to a clientele working mostly in the sabzi mandi... And he sure was a talented seller of stuff that goes in and comes out from different places in the human body :)
His tales sure were something. And the trust he had built with those guys... to this day he is called a Dr by some of those folks though its been > 3 years since he sold medicines.
@Kandarp - I know, love this aspect of my job :)
@Sweta - There is so much scope for introspection in this country :D
@Abhay - I didnt know you had a blog, a much neglected one at that. You should write more.
@Yogesh - Yes, it is!!
@Dhiren - Is your friend a gujju? :)
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