‘Murders’ on the monetary front

BORN in the 1940s, we, the children of the Partition, are a peculiarly privileged generation. From those poverty-ridden times when each penny mattered to the present day when people squander money as if there is no tomorrow, we have seen it all. The travails of people who lost everything and crossed the Radcliff Line in tatters cannot be imagined by later generations.

In the 1950s, most of the middle-class families lived from hand to mouth and went about their chores on foot. A bicycle used to be a luxury. We studied in ramshackle buildings of municipal schools or even attended classes under a banyan tree, sitting on jute mats. Passing the matriculation exams used to be an achievement — as if one had made it to the IIT. Getting a clerk’s job was a big feat. It was even better if one landed a job in a bank or a post office or as a patwari.

Walking to and from school daily wore out the shoes quickly. Not many could afford shoes of the two major brands of that time, Bata and Carona. Whenever I needed a new pair, I would accompany my father to the shoemaker, who would ask me to step upon a cardboard sheet and take an impression of my foot size. He hand-crafted the shoes, which used to pinch for a few days, reddening the heels. Nonetheless, we were privileged to flaunt the new pair, while many of our classmates came to the school barefoot.

Now, whenever my son takes me to a store selling branded shoes, the image of my father telling the shoemaker to charge a little less floats before my eyes. After haggling, the price used to be settled around Rs 5 per pair. After paying Rs 8,000-10,000 for a pair for my son, I feel as if ‘murder’ has been committed.

In those difficult times, people who had come from the same place/region in Pakistan and settled into sundry professions helped each other. My father had a soft corner for a particular barber, a shoemaker, a grocer and a general merchant. We called each one of them Chachaji.

The barber used to sit under a huge peepal tree in the main square. He had hung a broken mirror on its trunk. He also acted as a ‘surgeon’ for small boils, pimples and corns. He never used anaesthesia while performing small surgeries. A haircut was priced at one anna (1/16th of a rupee).

The other day, my son jumped with joy as he had got a package from a well-known salon discounted from Rs 18,000 to

Rs 12,000, in which he could have 12 haircuts, each one priced at Rs 1,000. It felt like ‘murder’ all over again.

While we had to plead for days to get a new pair of shoes or a haircut done, my son doesn’t ask me for cash. He happily picks up my debit card. And I feel the pain of one ‘murder’ after another, though I see no blood. I guess the old man must be turning in his grave, noticing the waywardness of his grandson and the conspiracy of silence by his son.

Musings