It all started with the dhobi, the ironing man, who has a booming business under the shade of a sprawling tree, which four times in a year becomes a flowering one, blooming with sun-kissed yellow blossoms shaped like bluebells. However, I, daresay, he has ever bothered to notice the flowers, though they have a way of carpeting themselves on the ground even at the behest of a brief breeze—he being so busy overseeing the ironing of the heaps of clothes collected from the neighbourhood. The rest of the presswallahs were, long ago, forced to shut shop by employing the services of some local goons. He stands at under 5 ft 2’’ tall, and yet is a giant in his trade. It is a family firm—involving uncharacteristically, given his macho approach, all the women of the clan—biwi, betis, bahus, bhabis…I could go on about him—his full head of hair, his grouchy face, his crabbiness, his working his orphan nephew Amit to the bones, so much so, that it seems that he has developed a hyperactivity disorder… One matter, before one dips this pen into ink for an uninterrupted flow—I am always one for asking a person his/her name before proceeding to “business”, whether a shopkeeper or table-attendant; we all do need a sense of identity, instead of trying to catch someone’s attention by crowing or tu-whooing, “Hello, Hello, Hello.” However, once again back to the dhobi. I do not know his name. I guess, as I speak, it simply did not occur to me that this Don of sorts, had one.
Coming back, though, to how it all took off. The presswallah—as opposed to ones in the media—refuses to take the small, paper-thin one-rupee coins. These coins only would be sent his way if one had, in the hurry-scurry of the morning, to get one’s crumpled salwaar or puckered pants straightened out. And since one assumes that it is rather early in the morning , the first wear, that makes its way into his open-air shop has to be paid there “n” then. Else, they say, the rest of the day would be doomed to be a lean one. “Maiden Lot” requires immediate payment—both changing hands simultaneously. In Hindi, it is called, Bauni. So to fulfil this Bauni criteria one sends across 4 one rupee coins which are returned back “hanged” on the hanger, carrying a pair of further wilted pants. (Send him a 5 rupee coin, and be ready to part with that one rupee that should accompany the ironed wear not to be ever adjusted in the 20-odd clothes shouldered his way five times a week! This only about keeping a clean ledger, howsoever, small.)
| R |
eason for rejection of coins: nobody accepts them, not legitimate money, minted quite possibly from our bordering close as knee-to-knee dushman desh. When, umpteen times, the maid failed, the driver came back to play the sadistic messenger of a squelching mouthful of how these puny, light-weight coins would be flung in a nearby fungus-streamed open-drain , the happening hub of mosquitoes lurking to inflict the many passersby with dengue, to have the final say/sting on our “Swachh Bharat” drive, an indignant me strided down to inform him that the coins were valid money issued by the Reserve Bank of India, and if he continued with this rejection spree he would have to face the ire of the Courts. Flush-faced I said so, but how can one begin to get through to a self-righteous man, in possession with fewer brain cells than a clam?! That fuming morning, many Mondays ago, I rested my case. It was the month of June, that I know, because the pressure to maximise the day, to finish off pending work, accumulated over the last year, had reached a point where one either took the bull by the horns or had to hire a therapist, when Komal breezed into my life. A whiff from a perfumery, this youngest work-associate of mine! And then the year hadn’t quite ended because there was not the usual hogwash talk of New Year Resolutions when Komal, known for her punctuality, marched in, piqued to the brim. To chop a rambling story: a heated argument ensued between her and the auto-driver because he would not accept a 10 rupee coin.
Not one to budge, she told him that he either took the licit coin or should take a hike. The autowallah fumed away with the said coin. The presswallah guzzled up most of the allotted space so have no choice, but to lace up my skates, and whisk through this Kissa Sikkai Ka. In Bombay, always forget that it’s been Mumbai for donkey years, the employees of BEST on pay-day have to take home rupees four hundred in ten rupee coin denomination. Reason: surplus coins have to be dispersed. Then, it does make for an interesting tale, even if I think there is a possibility of it, for a good part, being concocted: a grandmum, many times over, informs a captive audience that there was a bank in Goa, with a retroverted canopy. No architectural coup. The elephantine weight of the trunk loads of 10 rupee coins making the ceiling an upturned awning! How about the local grocer, who with a mouth descending into a downward stretchable grimace, treats the coins as if he was accepting alms, reserved for beggars.
It goes without saying, that these coins, if have to be carted around in quantum sums, are burdensome but to treat them as if they are outlawed chips?! Have we not, after all become turtles on skates—lugging a near-house in one’s bag—phones, chargers, I-pads, power banks, so a pouch of coins shan’t break the bank!