Home Away From Home

One late afternoon, we heard the front gate of our home rattle. I peeked out of the window to see a smart young man dressed in dazzling white Kurta Pyjama and a cap carrying an outsized white bundle. The moment he sighted me, he immediately broke into the “Salaam, Namaste” mode and wondered whether I wanted to see his embroidered dress materials and saris from Kashmir.

 Usually, I say a firm NO to salesmen. Yet, that day, I called him in because I had company at home. I made it very clear to him that I would pick up something “if and only if” it appealed to me. He agreed happily and stepped in.

A mat was rolled out for him to display his goods. He dipped his hand into the cloth bundle with the élan of a conjurer and fished out samples of the most exotic hand embroidery on synthetics and silks. Soon we chose a couple of his wares and then the ritual of haggling began. His lofty figures were cut to size by our collective bargaining. Once the deal was struck, I offered him a cup of tea.

He casually asked if any of us had been to Kashmir over the beverage. When we shook our heads in the negative, he asked us about what we knew about Kashmir. His seemingly harmless question made us uncomfortable. After a little thought, we told him that we had not seen the “Heaven on Earth” beyond the movies and were aware of the strife in the valley only through the media. I am not sure whether he noticed our stiffening body language which wanted him to disappear, but he parted on a cheerful note and welcomed us to his native place.

We reviewed our bargain and though satisfied, we promised ourselves never ever to entertain salesmen in the future.

Six months later, one afternoon, Ahmed rattled my gate. Even as I tried to send him away, he beckoned me to step out and handed over a little bag of walnuts with effusive courtesy. He told me that he had changed his line of business because cautious people did not let him in and suspected him of dubious deeds. He had felt the warmth of being in a home away from home when he sipped chai at our place, and I was told to accept the nuts as a gift from a brother.

His words disturbed me, inadvertent thoughts of Tagore’s Cabuliwallah surged forth and they seemed to speak in one voice. It took a precious lot of time to relieve me from the polyphony.