(fiction) A short on the shopkeeper

07 Aug, 2021

In a small town with its share of hustles and bustles, inhabited a shopkeeper his tiny, cosy shop beside the slope of the street. He was old and he was as carefree when it came to hiding his whites as when it came to selling whatever his shop had to sell. He had no helpers. So whenever he felt like prickling someone as human beings often do due to their inherent restlessness, he had to satisfy himself by scratching his scrawny white beard. Though scrawny, the individual hairs of his beard were thick and bright, like a bunch of intellectual giants seemingly individual yet huddled together for comfort. He also had a twirled up moustache he spent hours shaping, as he could find no young minds apt to pass on his trade onto. One fine morning, as he was idling in his shop, sipping on his hot tea from a tiny glass deftly balanced between his thumb and his index finger, there came stumbling into his shop a weary wannabe pilgrim. The shopkeeper asked in his booming voice,

“Are you here to buy?”

“No”, replied the tired pilgrim in a faint voice, skittling his eyes away.

“Have you anything to sell?”

A fainter no echoed in answer.

“Then why are you here, in this tiny shop?”

“I am a pilgrim. I want to travel to the place of my worship, but I have no money.”

“So a beggar, who dares to call himself a pilgrim before he has even taken the first step! Know that I keep no money here but to pay for my bare necessities. I have nothing to say to your extravagance.”

The beggar looked up at the shopkeeper. Despite his stern appearance, he saw an unknown warmth in his dark, clear eyes. Which led him to make a last appeal,

“Please, I have no one to help me, nothing more to do with this weary life! This is my last straw, please help!”, he pleaded with his folded hands.

The shopkeeper let out a deep sigh through his flared nostrils. “Okay. Journey far and wide, beg from each human you chance upon. Accept whatever you get, be it even derision. Leave no stone unturned and return back by the twilight of the sixth day, with whatever little you get, carefully collected. Then we shall see!”

The pilgrim stood gaping at this answer, accompanied only by the sound of his faint breath. At last when he came to his senses, some question was coming together in his mind when the shopkeeper said “Go! Now!” With a thud on his desk. His tea was not spilt, though it swayed around in his glass. The pilgrim started, one step firm beyond the other, looking at and stamping his walking stick rhythmically at the ground, till he found within himself the courage to beg again for alms. Back in the shop, the keeper’s fingers were drumming in rhythm at his desk, when walked in an old boy, who wanted to learn to sell.

“Young man, now what do you need?”

“I want to learn to sell”

“Well looking at you, one might be bound to think that you already are adept at it, and you are here only to buy”

The young man ignored the subtle mocking tone and said once again.

“But I want to learn to sell, from you.”

“See you any nasty crowd here, clawing at each other to get the goods before they are gone?”

“No, but this shop feels like home, and I can’t sell without feeling at home”, answered the poor old boy, who had been apprenticed to many a loud salesmen, but never found his home.

“This shop is here today, may not be there tomorrow. One does not sell rooted in such delusions. Go away now, before you anger an old man with your naivety.”

The boy turned back and started away from the shop as he wanted a breather to think of how to convince the old man to accept him. He settled down at the steps of the shop, a little away from the entrance.

After a little while, there walked in a middle aged couple into the shop, looking for god-knows-what. The husband wasn’t even mildly pleased at this pit stop but the wife seemed determined to buy something she had only a vague remembrance of. They circled within the tiny shop looking at the various shelves in the dimly lit interior. The shopkeeper, with his chin resting on the thumbs of his folded hands, paid no heed to them and looked away, at the horizon. The boy saw his chance and walked in invigorated, meeting the seeking couple head on in the shop. He said,

“Hello Ma’am, Hello Kind Sir! You have walked into the right place! We sell the finest, The finest! The fine-est…” he said, his hands wildly gesturing, his open arms pointing towards the shelf on his right and his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“The finest what?” Asked the husband abruptly.

He suddenly looked to his right at the shelf, and spotted.

“The finest china cups” he remarked.

“Perfect, and a set has how many cups?” Enquired the wife, remembering her husband’s retirement party where her current favourite set was three cups short of the number of guests.

“Six, Eight or the largest one, twelve.” The boy replied, doing a quick estimation.

“Can I see the one with twelve?” Asked the wife.

He quickly stepped in behind the platform in front of the shelf, opened it and carefully took out the set with twelve. It had an intricate ruddy brown design, and he presented it to the woman.

“How much does this one cost?”

The shopkeeper announced the price aloud. It seemed a tad bit too expensive. She looked at her husband, he seemed far away from the proceedings, his curiosity piqued by some strange artefact. He saw the dissatisfaction in her eyes. She asked him, “Are there any different sets with 12 cups? Perhaps in a different colour?”

“Unfortunately, no. But perhaps I can interest you in this remarkable set with 6 cups?”

“No, six won’t simply do”

“But pray take a look at this intricate blue design!”

Her mind caught on at blue. The cups reflected the delight in her face as she realised that this set would perfectly blend in with her current favourite. The shopkeeper announced the price. Cheaper and much more agreeable. When it was time to pay, she found her husband caressing a small souvenir. As he paid, the price came up to that of the set whose design she disliked even though it had more cups. She asked,

“A flute? You don’t even know how to play it!”

“Then I shall learn!” He retorted.

They scurried out of the shop, each one satisfied with their trinkets.

The boy looked up to the old man.

“Alright! You shall stay. But no cut for you, all money to me and food and accommodation for you. You shall sleep in the shop.”, the old man drew up the agreement.

“Hmm, no money, that upsets you boy? A tithe for the teacher, I call it!”, he added.

“But tithe means just a tenth” mumbled the boy to himself.

“Money is not even one tenth of what you shall gain” said the old man, his sharp eye catching the soft comment.

The boy didn’t say anything. He proceeded to settle down in one corner of the shop with his belongings as if in acceptance of the terms. Days passed by. He opened the shop at dawn from within and found the old man waiting diligently outside. As he settled in, the boy got him tea from a nearby shop. Slowly curious travellers stumbled in and out of the shop. Some bought, some didn’t. The ones who seemed happy with what they found always led the sale themselves. The boy was a mere guide looking for cues. The boy caught on to this rhythm under the old man. An hour or so past night fall, the old man and the boy dined together within the shop and the old man left for the outskirts of the city, wherever he spent the rest of the night. The boy could never find it within himself to ask, and the old man never talked of a home or family. So he silently went about closing the shop and winding down, curled up with an old book he had among his possessions. At last, he blew out the candle and went to sleep.

One full moon night, the boy could no longer contain his curiosity. He was still reluctant to ask the old man, so he decided to follow him quietly, a few paces behind him. To do this, he first pretended to go about closing the shop as the old man went away. Just as he was about to go out of his sight, the boy finished up closing the shop from outside and stuffed the key in his pockets. Then he hurried after him at first then slowed down to stay away by a few paces. They left town gradually and came to the cold sandy outskirts under the silvery light of that night. Just as about the old man neared a small hillock a cat suddenly pounced at the boy’s leg and scratched at him all over making aggressive noises. Slowly telling off the cat, trying to quiet it down, he end up offering the leftover from dinner in his pockets that he had packed for his nighttime adventure. The cat distracted, the boy looked around for the old man. No sign of him. But in the moonlight, he felt a sudden, irresistible urge to climb the hillock. So up the hill he went. Nearing the peak, he saw a silvery silhouette just downslope on the other side. A statue in the middle of nowhere, with a ramrod straight back facing away from him. He moved towards the strange figure. What was in front of him was so lifelike, and gave him an eerie knot in the tummy. As he moved closer and caught a glimpse of the visage, he was startled. The old man! Yet so strangely serene, youthful and almost blissful. Yet something was totally off about him. He was as motionless as a candle flame in a windless room. The boy plucked a long blade of grass from near his feet and slowly and most patiently placed it beneath the old man’s nostrils. The only motion in the blade was due to his trembling hands. It was so silent and he felt detached from his own breath and other sounds of the night peculiarly observing them as if for the first time. He came to the strong conclusion that the old man wasn’t breathing. Was he dead? The boy slowly reached out and touched the old man’s left foot placed gently on his right thigh. It was warm, and the wind started howling and rustling the old man’s silver strands. This was the last straw! The boy felt that the old man might open his eyes any moment now and fell backwards trembling. He was petrified at the thought of incurring the strange old man’s wrath and yearned for the comforts of his shop. He hurried with all the might that he had left in him, towards the town. Somewhere along the way, it started drizzling. As he reached the entrance of the shop and started fumbling for his keys, the rain was unleashed in her full fury pouring down on the sonorous roofs of the small town shops. Drenched, hungry and scared out of his wits, he searched for anything edible he could find. He curled up within his blankets and muttered some old prayer after he finished munching on his nighttime snack. Cold, tired and still a bit hungry, drifted off into comforting sleep. The next morning, we jumped up from his slumber, eager to catch a sight of the illuminating sun. He opened the shutter and there he was, the old man! Yet seeing him like this, back to his usual self, the boy felt no fear. The incidents of the previous night seemed to him like a faint nightmare. The routine took over, and he brought the old man his tea. Halfway through it, the old man gestured to the boy to come close. The boy went ahead putting on a brave face. The old man offered him the rest of his tea, and smiled cooly at him. The boy drank it reluctantly but he was relieved. The rest of the day was as usual, with a few customers streaming in and out, some buying, some not. The boy didn’t seem to be concerned a lot with who bought and who didn’t but was gently observing and assisting the ones who had come looking to meet a need, fulfil a want or the ones who could never leave satisfied. Slowly, midday swirled gently into twilight and in came a strange visitor. A pilgrim. Seeing him, the old man instructed the boy to go get dinner early. As the boy left, he could hear the clinking of coins and opening of drawers. By the time he returned the pilgrim was gone. They both sat down and finished their dinner, as the aroma of good food had really teased the boy’s appetite quite early. After dinner, the old man went back to his desk and called the boy. He opened a drawer which was almost empty. He handed a few coins to the boy and instructed him to buy a unique little sweet from the shop a little far away. The boy figured he had still a while before it was the usual time the old man left, and he went trotting along to get the sweet. He returned in quite a jolly mood, delighted with the old man’s change and break in routine. As he peered into the shop, nearing the entrance, he could see the old man resting in his chair, his head drooping and swayed to the left. He tried to wake up the old man, by shaking his hands placed on the armrest. He felt shocked by the sharp cold skin of the old man. He wasn’t breathing now either. The boy rushed to gather anyone he knew, to check on the old man and the sweet slipped out of his hands in the hurry. This time he was surely dead! The boy returned, finding only the sweetshop owner, who seemed to be an old friend. As they marched, concerned, into the shop, they were greeted by a sudden emptiness. There was no sign of the old man. Only a small note, left on his desk, held in place by the sweet the boy bought, which read: “My time has come, take care of the shop young man!”.