Zainab Sulaiman :
“Why don’t you sign it?” I suggest, squinting at Offspring No 2’s painting closely, thrilled to bits at the progeny’s output; I cannot draw a smiley face without making corrections.
“No mama, I don’t like to put my name. It spoils the look of the painting.” I have so much to learn from these kids, it frightens me.
Anyway, I decide to make copies of the painting – sweet smiling brown and teal totem-like deities, with a few worshipping cave-men below (it’s a copy of a famous painting, Jagannath, the artist informs me) – that I will hand out as cheap and cheerful Christmas gifts.
Henry, the man who supervises my daughter’s beautiful artwork, has asked me to pick up his ‘Boy’ who will guide me to the best Xerox shop in town. Henry’s Boy turns out to be a strapping young man and we are soon headed to the shop in a small gully, packed tight with provision stores and tyre repair shops. As we near it, we pass two blind men singing for alms. The song has the gravitas of a beautiful hymn and it brings tears to my eyes. As I struggle to park – I’m racing against the clock; there are three meetings lined up at work and I’ve got less than an hour to get there – I promise myself that I’ll run in, throw the painting at the Xerox guys, and then run out again and give the blind men something. I double-check to see where they are, and they are still a reassuring couple of meters away.
I’m relieved that the shop looks professional enough. We enter a small waiting room and I come face to face with the biggest fish tank I’ve ever seen. It fills up the room, taking up the entire wall that faces the entrance door, and its inhabitants gambol and frisk the length of the tank, some bobbing to the top to check for possible remnants of fish feed (sorry, there is none), others twisting and turning with an abandon more suited to the ocean. I like fish and we even had our very own Goldy in a fishbowl a few years ago, but some of these guys are the size of my forearm and their broad flat noses give them a distinct Hammer-head shark type appearance, while their black beady eyes eye me rather hungrily. Two distinctly smaller gold fish swim close to the bottom in a listless manner, their hearts just not in it.
Henry’s Boy and I look around for the person in charge and we settle on a harassed young man running between two rooms that lead off from the waiting room. He’s currently in the room on the right with the big machines, and we enter and try to catch his attention. “Colour, ah?” he jerks his head at us. Yes, we say, and I fish out the painting from a makeshift newspaper bag created by stapling together two big sheets of newspaper. It’s a tad too well constructed though and refuses to relinquish its contents without a struggle, and Xerox Man loses patience and rushes off to a fourth room that’s packed with even more machines and more customers.
We wait. And wait. And wait. I ask him a question or two every time he passes by, but he ignores me. Henry’s Boy is more worldly wise and holds his tongue.
A burly young man who looks like he belongs to the neighbourhood goon gang barges in and asks when his banner will be ready. We all look over at it as it slowly emerges from the machine right next to us; it’s an obituary of a middle-aged man with blood-shot eyes standing out against a striking purple background laced with a border of red roses. GS Kumaraswamy was born in March of 1976 (he’s younger than me!) and died on…today.
“He died…now?” I ask rather pointlessly, but I feel the need to say something; the man just stares at me. His phone rings and he answers: “Two? Ok I’ll get two.” Xerox Man and Xerox Boy dutifully nod and say yes, no problem, five minutes, and then go back to doing what ever they were doing before. The man blinks for a minute and then steps out.
I suddenly remember that I wanted to give something to the blind men, and I rush out. They are nowhere to be seen. Instead, a little old lady with a wobbly head slowly totters up the road; her right palm holds two one rupee coins, and I don’t think twice: I whip out the money I’d meant to give the blind men and deposit it into her hand. I am rewarded with a lovely little old-lady smile. I rush back in, happy to have done my good deed for the day.
Nothing’s changed inside. Xerox Man is now mumbling something to Xerox Boy about scanning my painting. The painting is inserted and the scan begins; all is fine for a few moments and then the machine stops: something’s jammed. Xerox man races across, leans over, and switches the machine off, and then, in almost exactly one second, switches it back on again. He instantly goes up in my esteem as I swear by this tried-and-tested technique myself.
The machine’s re-installing itself and so there’s nothing to be done but wait some more. I look around at my fellow customers. Obituary Man is back and, at last, his banners are rolled up and handed over. In the room across us, a young girl discusses her requirements for the very professional architectural drawings she’s having printed – she looks old enough to be in the eight standard – and a mother sits patiently in a chair as her soon-to-be-married daughter leans forward and explains to a yawning computer operator just how she wants her wedding card to be designed. A middle-aged man has not moved from his position on the beat-up sofa since we’ve come in; a sense of stoic calm pervades the room. Everyone’s being served; none are being attended to.
I think back on a visit to a watch shop in Rome a few years ago. I’d bought the watch on our first day there and it had stopped working on the second. There was nothing to be done but go back and sort it out. I’d arrived to find a single individual manning the store; he was behind the cash counter, explaining the dos and don’ts of a watch in the chatty manner that sales people have when they’ve just closed a sale to a lady. There was only one other customer between us. This shouldn’t take long, I waved my friends away; I’ll join you guys in a mo.
I should have realised I was in trouble when the salesman pulled out the instructions manual and began to pore over it like a love letter. This was followed by a detailed discussion of the merits of the various wrapping paper on offer – the watch was a gift – and I took a deep breath and told myself to calm down. This was Rome. I was on holiday; life was wonderful. I turned my attention to the lady in front of me: she was holding a big handbag and looked like she was on her way home after finishing a long day’s work; but, since she wasn’t doing anything interesting, I went back to glaring at the salesman and the customer.
Then, at last, over a dozen farewells and handshakes and probable vows of brotherhood – they’d spend almost half an hour by now – the lady in front of me moved up, and I held my breath. Please God, let it not be more of the same. “Grazie, grazie,” she nodded her head, smiled and then turned and walked away. Less than a minute. And she’d waited half an hour for that. Stupid? Or plain senile? I couldn’t tell. With us, you’re a buddhu if you can’t beat the system. After all, in our India, we all are first in line.
Xerox man returns and I choose a matte paper and he pushes off to the waiting room to try and align the scanned picture to the length of the roll. We follow. It’s at this point that I come face to face with Little Old Lady whom I had met outside; she’s now brandishing an Aadhar Card in her left hand as she totters inside and instructs Xerox Boy to make two copies; the two Rs 1 coins still safely ensconced in her hand, ready to be doled out once the job is done; my money is nowhere to be seen.
But there’s no time to ponder this new development as Xerox Man has suddenly sprung into action and crops, cuts and chops the image to fit the roll – the deities’ heads are, however, no longer visible. “Will cost more if I do big size,” he explains; apparently he’s only trying to save my money. I tell him it’s ok, masterpieces can’t be fiddled with. And now, things thaw a bit. I joke about how I’ve never seen such big fish. He smiles sheepishly.
And with that, finally I am done. I give the fish tank one last look. The big guys are still doing pultis all over the tank but the poor gold fish have sunk right to the bottom, much like some of the customers hanging around the shop. At last, with five minutes to spare for my meeting, I charge out of the shop and into the car, clutching onto three very polished and smart versions of the painting. They lack the grubbiness of the original, and, of course, they have none of the crayon marks, the scribbles, the blotches that the artists’ small hands have left at the back of the painting. But they will do.
“Why don’t you sign it?” I suggest, squinting at Offspring No 2’s painting closely, thrilled to bits at the progeny’s output; I cannot draw a smiley face without making corrections.
“No mama, I don’t like to put my name. It spoils the look of the painting.” I have so much to learn from these kids, it frightens me.
Anyway, I decide to make copies of the painting – sweet smiling brown and teal totem-like deities, with a few worshipping cave-men below (it’s a copy of a famous painting, Jagannath, the artist informs me) – that I will hand out as cheap and cheerful Christmas gifts.
Henry, the man who supervises my daughter’s beautiful artwork, has asked me to pick up his ‘Boy’ who will guide me to the best Xerox shop in town. Henry’s Boy turns out to be a strapping young man and we are soon headed to the shop in a small gully, packed tight with provision stores and tyre repair shops. As we near it, we pass two blind men singing for alms. The song has the gravitas of a beautiful hymn and it brings tears to my eyes. As I struggle to park – I’m racing against the clock; there are three meetings lined up at work and I’ve got less than an hour to get there – I promise myself that I’ll run in, throw the painting at the Xerox guys, and then run out again and give the blind men something. I double-check to see where they are, and they are still a reassuring couple of meters away.
I’m relieved that the shop looks professional enough. We enter a small waiting room and I come face to face with the biggest fish tank I’ve ever seen. It fills up the room, taking up the entire wall that faces the entrance door, and its inhabitants gambol and frisk the length of the tank, some bobbing to the top to check for possible remnants of fish feed (sorry, there is none), others twisting and turning with an abandon more suited to the ocean. I like fish and we even had our very own Goldy in a fishbowl a few years ago, but some of these guys are the size of my forearm and their broad flat noses give them a distinct Hammer-head shark type appearance, while their black beady eyes eye me rather hungrily. Two distinctly smaller gold fish swim close to the bottom in a listless manner, their hearts just not in it.
Henry’s Boy and I look around for the person in charge and we settle on a harassed young man running between two rooms that lead off from the waiting room. He’s currently in the room on the right with the big machines, and we enter and try to catch his attention. “Colour, ah?” he jerks his head at us. Yes, we say, and I fish out the painting from a makeshift newspaper bag created by stapling together two big sheets of newspaper. It’s a tad too well constructed though and refuses to relinquish its contents without a struggle, and Xerox Man loses patience and rushes off to a fourth room that’s packed with even more machines and more customers.
We wait. And wait. And wait. I ask him a question or two every time he passes by, but he ignores me. Henry’s Boy is more worldly wise and holds his tongue.
A burly young man who looks like he belongs to the neighbourhood goon gang barges in and asks when his banner will be ready. We all look over at it as it slowly emerges from the machine right next to us; it’s an obituary of a middle-aged man with blood-shot eyes standing out against a striking purple background laced with a border of red roses. GS Kumaraswamy was born in March of 1976 (he’s younger than me!) and died on…today.
“He died…now?” I ask rather pointlessly, but I feel the need to say something; the man just stares at me. His phone rings and he answers: “Two? Ok I’ll get two.” Xerox Man and Xerox Boy dutifully nod and say yes, no problem, five minutes, and then go back to doing what ever they were doing before. The man blinks for a minute and then steps out.
I suddenly remember that I wanted to give something to the blind men, and I rush out. They are nowhere to be seen. Instead, a little old lady with a wobbly head slowly totters up the road; her right palm holds two one rupee coins, and I don’t think twice: I whip out the money I’d meant to give the blind men and deposit it into her hand. I am rewarded with a lovely little old-lady smile. I rush back in, happy to have done my good deed for the day.
Nothing’s changed inside. Xerox Man is now mumbling something to Xerox Boy about scanning my painting. The painting is inserted and the scan begins; all is fine for a few moments and then the machine stops: something’s jammed. Xerox man races across, leans over, and switches the machine off, and then, in almost exactly one second, switches it back on again. He instantly goes up in my esteem as I swear by this tried-and-tested technique myself.
The machine’s re-installing itself and so there’s nothing to be done but wait some more. I look around at my fellow customers. Obituary Man is back and, at last, his banners are rolled up and handed over. In the room across us, a young girl discusses her requirements for the very professional architectural drawings she’s having printed – she looks old enough to be in the eight standard – and a mother sits patiently in a chair as her soon-to-be-married daughter leans forward and explains to a yawning computer operator just how she wants her wedding card to be designed. A middle-aged man has not moved from his position on the beat-up sofa since we’ve come in; a sense of stoic calm pervades the room. Everyone’s being served; none are being attended to.
I think back on a visit to a watch shop in Rome a few years ago. I’d bought the watch on our first day there and it had stopped working on the second. There was nothing to be done but go back and sort it out. I’d arrived to find a single individual manning the store; he was behind the cash counter, explaining the dos and don’ts of a watch in the chatty manner that sales people have when they’ve just closed a sale to a lady. There was only one other customer between us. This shouldn’t take long, I waved my friends away; I’ll join you guys in a mo.
I should have realised I was in trouble when the salesman pulled out the instructions manual and began to pore over it like a love letter. This was followed by a detailed discussion of the merits of the various wrapping paper on offer – the watch was a gift – and I took a deep breath and told myself to calm down. This was Rome. I was on holiday; life was wonderful. I turned my attention to the lady in front of me: she was holding a big handbag and looked like she was on her way home after finishing a long day’s work; but, since she wasn’t doing anything interesting, I went back to glaring at the salesman and the customer.
Then, at last, over a dozen farewells and handshakes and probable vows of brotherhood – they’d spend almost half an hour by now – the lady in front of me moved up, and I held my breath. Please God, let it not be more of the same. “Grazie, grazie,” she nodded her head, smiled and then turned and walked away. Less than a minute. And she’d waited half an hour for that. Stupid? Or plain senile? I couldn’t tell. With us, you’re a buddhu if you can’t beat the system. After all, in our India, we all are first in line.
Xerox man returns and I choose a matte paper and he pushes off to the waiting room to try and align the scanned picture to the length of the roll. We follow. It’s at this point that I come face to face with Little Old Lady whom I had met outside; she’s now brandishing an Aadhar Card in her left hand as she totters inside and instructs Xerox Boy to make two copies; the two Rs 1 coins still safely ensconced in her hand, ready to be doled out once the job is done; my money is nowhere to be seen.
But there’s no time to ponder this new development as Xerox Man has suddenly sprung into action and crops, cuts and chops the image to fit the roll – the deities’ heads are, however, no longer visible. “Will cost more if I do big size,” he explains; apparently he’s only trying to save my money. I tell him it’s ok, masterpieces can’t be fiddled with. And now, things thaw a bit. I joke about how I’ve never seen such big fish. He smiles sheepishly.
And with that, finally I am done. I give the fish tank one last look. The big guys are still doing pultis all over the tank but the poor gold fish have sunk right to the bottom, much like some of the customers hanging around the shop. At last, with five minutes to spare for my meeting, I charge out of the shop and into the car, clutching onto three very polished and smart versions of the painting. They lack the grubbiness of the original, and, of course, they have none of the crayon marks, the scribbles, the blotches that the artists’ small hands have left at the back of the painting. But they will do.
