Abhijit,
I am now a retired bank officer and I hope my savings has helped you more than given you a chance to complain about. When I intended to begin this letter, I thought to address it as 'Dear Son', as in grammar books model pieces demonstrate. I refrained. That is pretty indirect and impersonal as I have never indulged in those excesses. You have probably housed a grudge that I am not your 'Daddy' with whom you played cricket and discussed football goals and had heart-to-body conversations with. Like with my father, I believe, I too moulded up in the manner of traditional fathers. This is my first deviation. I hope it does not embarrass you too much.
You have gifted us quite a hefty amount this festive season. Perhaps, it outdoes the cumulative amount of what you were given till the last to last year. Thank you Abhijit. More than the amount, the gesture is genuinely generous (I may not be able to spend it all what with my calculative nature). Your Ma, on the other hand, insisted I take her to buy the 'medical-shoe' which costs 'the bonus of all our three servants put together'. Since it is your money, I could not convince her otherwise. I took her to Bata, for the Hush Puppies Body Shoe. She selected a model which comforted her senses and soul more than her sole, and thank you once again. The smile on Ma's face, coupled with the pride 'My son's gift' was precious and rare (I did not tell her that).
While we spent a considerable amount of time at the store ('We must not rush into such a decision, it is quite an amount we have come to spend after all,' Ma had warned), I overheard a conversation between two girls who were trying on various shoes. 'I want heels!', 'Ma-Baba must not know of the price!', 'The colour is not feminine!', 'This is like putting my feet on a loaf of bread!'. Women can really come up with a range of adjectives and phrases of precision in order to articulate their praise, or condemnation. Ma was busy too, 'I want the navy blue shade'. As the cornucopia carried on I noticed how one of the price-tags slipped off a pair of shoe that the girls were trying. They had already selected two pieces. The salesmen were really egging them for more. And you would know from the look of them they were not the kind to just come and go. They meant to buy. The price-tag was picked up by one of the salesman and returned at the cash counter to notify the computer generated bar-code, or something to do with the digital noting down of the piece. This was where I slipped back to my past, and what I never shared with anyone, I wish to tell you today. You must be bored of the length of the letter, but don't worry, the main matter itself won't take too long.
Abhijit, as Ma has told you many times, I began my career as a Bata salesman even as I was only fifteen. There were no issues of 'child labour' in those days and I got the job on the grounds of wanting to learn English from the Manager-Babu at the store. I guess he could not shudder away the pride of bringing up a native in his way. After the whole day of being on my feet and at everyone's feet, I used to return home to your Thakma and her wholesome dinner of boiled rice and potatoes. Dal would come once a week, and eggs, once a month. I remember the approaching festive season of that year. I helped the sales soar. People liked my childlike enthusiasm and youthful zest. It was contagious, not persistent. Such heavy words have remained with me from Manager-Babu, who at his lunch, would go on to describe me. As the festivities drew closer, my wish to bring home a pair of slippers for Thakma increased. But I could not afford one. And then one day, like yesterday, one of the customers, while trying on various pairs, accidentally tore off the price tag. In the rush, I immediately took it back and pushed the pair into by tattered school bag. How many times would you have someone do that to a slipper of the same size that Thakma would fit into?
There was no software billing those days, but manual stock taking. The pair of course made its mark under 'Missing and/or Misplaced'. That night after dinner, I gave Thakma the slipper. An overriding lack of display of affection runs deep in your bloodline, Anupam. As the slipper fitted her perfectly, quite unforgettable with the simultaneous glow in her face, she took a second to realise how that could have possibly been hers. She opened the one on her left and gave me a solid thrash with it. 'Do not do this ever again!' she had said. And wore it back.
I had a very good sleep that night, once I did. My petty theft was never caught and in the next two years I became the Assistant Manager of the store. It was Manager-Babu who insisted I pursue something more intensive with my persuasion skills and suggested banking. I did quite well even though I took sometime to understand accounts. Thakma wore a lot of comfortable shoes thereafter.
Anupam, I never had anyone to share this story of theft with. Your Ma would never understand and other people would focus more on the growth from Bata to Bank. I considered myself very smart night to have outsmarted Manager-Babu. Yesterday, the return of the price-tag to the cash-counter brought back this piece of memory and this wish to tell it to someone. Surprisingly, I thought of you. Thank you for reading and thank you for the gift.
PS - I bought a black Pringle t-shirt with the money you sent. There is of course more. I will buy a Teacher's 50 with it.
PS 1 - I hope Malini is well. Ma likes her. I always did.
When you return from your vacation in Hampi, I hope this soleful letter (persuasion is a lot about using language) finds you in the best of mood!
Stay well,
Baba.
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