in three days. Come back then.’ And Ramchand had.
He couldn’t even feign illness because Mahajan knew where each of the shop assistants lived, and had a nasty habit of sending someone to check up on them when any of them took the day off claiming to be ill.
And anyway, Ramchand had often thought gloomily, even if he did manage to get leave, what would he do? Where would he go?
So he went to the shop, day after day after day. But today would be different. Ramchand felt like dancing. He couldn’t control himself any longer and burst into song. It was just a hum first, then his voice broke out clearly, and soon he was trilling at the top of his voice:
Yeh dil na hota bechara
Kadam na hote awara
Jo khubsoorat koi apna
Humsafar hota
His voice reached a crescendo as he danced around in his room in his old white vest and pyjamas, immune to the cold.
The landlord yelled from the courtyard, ‘Ramchand, be quiet!’
Ramchand pretended not to hear. He started again, his voice shriller and higher than ever.
‘Yeh dil na hotaaaa…’
‘Ramchand!’ screamed the landlord.
‘
Kadam na hote awara
…’
Ramchand ran across the room and jumped over the low stool in exuberance. He landed with a thud on the other side.
‘He will break the roof,’ wailed Sudha, the landlord’s wife.
‘
Raaaamchand!
’ the landlord bellowed, his thin frame shaking in anger.
Ramchand quietened down. He switched songs. He bowedcharmingly at his reflection in the flecky mirror, tilted his head to one side and sang softly.
‘
Tum bin jaoon kahan
,’ he hummed softly to his own reflection.
And then a new madness seized Ramchand while he was shaving. He suddenly, and with great resolve in his eyes, lathered his upper lip.
And then he shaved off his moustache!
Thin and wispy, but a moustache nevertheless!
He splashed water over his face and looked into the mirror. He looked so different! Very few Bombay film stars had moustaches. Well, Anil Kapoor did, but then, he was Anil Kapoor. Ramchand studied his new face in the mirror. It wasn’t bad, he thought, but his clean-shaven look would have suited him better if his name had been Vishaal or Amit or Rahul, instead of Ramchand. But despite this, he secretly felt very pleased.
Then Ramchand took a bath with the red Lifebuoy bar, scrubbing himself thoroughly and washing the lemon juice off his feet. Then he towelled his thin body dry, put on fresh underwear and a washed vest, and got dressed in his new clothes. He proudly tucked his new white shirt into the waistband of his black trousers. Usually, he either wore a kurta over his trousers or old shirts that he never tucked in. He put on an old but clean sweater, combed his hair neatly and peered into the mirror. He was looking neat and tidy, and his face somehow seemed more resolute without his moustache, and, like it or not, clothes did make a difference.
He wasn’t looking shabby at all. He was looking quite respectable. He did not remember ever looking so good.
5
‘There you are,’ Gokul said, packing the last sari into a huge bundle. ‘Take good care of them. They are very expensive. And be very polite to the Kapoors.’
Ramchand nodded.
Hari came up behind him and put an arm affectionately around his shoulder, ‘You could pass off as the hero of a superhit film. Waah, what a change.’
Ramchand blushed. Then he hoisted the bundle of saris on his shoulder and went down to where Gokul’s bicycle was parked. He put the bundle on the carrier of the bicycle and secured it firmly with rope. He threw a leg over the bicycle, settled himself on the seat, and pedalled off exuberantly, freedom breathing through each Lifebuoy-scrubbed pore of his body.
The sun shone down gently on him, with pleasant warmth. Ramchand meandered through a crowd of bicycles, vegetable carts and pedestrians, and made his way out of the old city. Just at the edge of the bazaar, he stopped at the noisy Anand Juice Shop. He parked the bicycle, but did not
He couldn’t even feign illness because Mahajan knew where each of the shop assistants lived, and had a nasty habit of sending someone to check up on them when any of them took the day off claiming to be ill.
And anyway, Ramchand had often thought gloomily, even if he did manage to get leave, what would he do? Where would he go?
So he went to the shop, day after day after day. But today would be different. Ramchand felt like dancing. He couldn’t control himself any longer and burst into song. It was just a hum first, then his voice broke out clearly, and soon he was trilling at the top of his voice:
Yeh dil na hota bechara
Kadam na hote awara
Jo khubsoorat koi apna
Humsafar hota
His voice reached a crescendo as he danced around in his room in his old white vest and pyjamas, immune to the cold.
The landlord yelled from the courtyard, ‘Ramchand, be quiet!’
Ramchand pretended not to hear. He started again, his voice shriller and higher than ever.
‘Yeh dil na hotaaaa…’
‘Ramchand!’ screamed the landlord.
‘
Kadam na hote awara
…’
Ramchand ran across the room and jumped over the low stool in exuberance. He landed with a thud on the other side.
‘He will break the roof,’ wailed Sudha, the landlord’s wife.
‘
Raaaamchand!
’ the landlord bellowed, his thin frame shaking in anger.
Ramchand quietened down. He switched songs. He bowedcharmingly at his reflection in the flecky mirror, tilted his head to one side and sang softly.
‘
Tum bin jaoon kahan
,’ he hummed softly to his own reflection.
And then a new madness seized Ramchand while he was shaving. He suddenly, and with great resolve in his eyes, lathered his upper lip.
And then he shaved off his moustache!
Thin and wispy, but a moustache nevertheless!
He splashed water over his face and looked into the mirror. He looked so different! Very few Bombay film stars had moustaches. Well, Anil Kapoor did, but then, he was Anil Kapoor. Ramchand studied his new face in the mirror. It wasn’t bad, he thought, but his clean-shaven look would have suited him better if his name had been Vishaal or Amit or Rahul, instead of Ramchand. But despite this, he secretly felt very pleased.
Then Ramchand took a bath with the red Lifebuoy bar, scrubbing himself thoroughly and washing the lemon juice off his feet. Then he towelled his thin body dry, put on fresh underwear and a washed vest, and got dressed in his new clothes. He proudly tucked his new white shirt into the waistband of his black trousers. Usually, he either wore a kurta over his trousers or old shirts that he never tucked in. He put on an old but clean sweater, combed his hair neatly and peered into the mirror. He was looking neat and tidy, and his face somehow seemed more resolute without his moustache, and, like it or not, clothes did make a difference.
He wasn’t looking shabby at all. He was looking quite respectable. He did not remember ever looking so good.
5
‘There you are,’ Gokul said, packing the last sari into a huge bundle. ‘Take good care of them. They are very expensive. And be very polite to the Kapoors.’
Ramchand nodded.
Hari came up behind him and put an arm affectionately around his shoulder, ‘You could pass off as the hero of a superhit film. Waah, what a change.’
Ramchand blushed. Then he hoisted the bundle of saris on his shoulder and went down to where Gokul’s bicycle was parked. He put the bundle on the carrier of the bicycle and secured it firmly with rope. He threw a leg over the bicycle, settled himself on the seat, and pedalled off exuberantly, freedom breathing through each Lifebuoy-scrubbed pore of his body.
The sun shone down gently on him, with pleasant warmth. Ramchand meandered through a crowd of bicycles, vegetable carts and pedestrians, and made his way out of the old city. Just at the edge of the bazaar, he stopped at the noisy Anand Juice Shop. He parked the bicycle, but did not
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