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Sylvia Khan

I would like to be a simple seller of things that strangers will buy

There's something elegant about the simplicity of trade. I've quite decided this is what I want to be; I want to be a shopkeeper, a seller of things that strangers desire. I am sure of this, and disregard the fact that my family, never terribly supportive, have poured scorn on the thought.

"Mama, you'll never make in the real world," they say. I wonder briefly about the world I inhabit. An unreal place? A figment of someone's imagination? I needn't have bothered. Explanations are at hand.

"Mama, in your world, you have all of us to take care of the basics, to deal with people who don't speak your language and who wouldn't be able to understand a person like you." That's me! The laboratory specimen.

"You would never be able to manage tradespeople, who would gyp you for a few rupees." No, this is me, the aging ingenue.

"And anyway, why on earth would you want to suddenly become a tradesperson, in your dotage?" A fair question, though cruel in its insinuation that I should avoid self-actualization and outspokenness -- was the word 'dotage' really necessary, I wonder.

I could think of a hundred reasons why I would want to set up shop, literally.

I think it's the simplest and, perhaps, most basic form the human interaction, if one rises above the more fundamental human urges. Two strangers meet at a convenient point -- the shop. They then enter into a brief contract based on mutual benefit, the contract automatically being void on the achievement of the goal. Their goals are different, but interdependent -- one has something to sell, and would like some money in return, the other wants that same something, and has money to offer in exchange. Perfect.

A system that has been perfected over the millennia, through custom, and is so simple and so widely accepted that it requires no document to define it.

Often, the formalities of the sale are even more pleasant. The buyer and seller may exchange a few words -- nice weather, lovely dress, good to see you again, and have reached the next plane of the un-relationship, a sort of feel-good level. Then there are the physical trappings -- the ambience of the shop, the sort of people who sell and the kind of person the shop attracts.

And, best of all, people enter the shop, finish their business and leave -- that surely is the most attractive part of being a simple shop-keeper. The transient person, the short, uninvolved, pleasant conversation.

Should I try to explain my finer, inner feelings to my frighteningly urbane and border-line callous family? Do I owe it to them? Do I owe it to myself to protect those finer inner feelings from being trampled? I try a brief 'here's why'.

"Good heavens, Mama's looking for a one nighter with strangers," one of my sons deduces, with a lack of sensitivity that even I, the worn stone, find appalling.

"Ma you can retail jeans and boots, that'll put you in touch with vast quantities of 15-year-old boys," another beams, pleased to have been of service.

"But what will Papa do then?" they wonder, all heart for the lonely father. "We can introduce him to some babes, then Papa and Mama can double date!!!" They double over with the hilarity of the situation. Sex in the over-the-hill years, romance for parents -- all concepts that don't exist, except between the pages of the more lurid joke books.

"Hey, Papa, are you listening to your wife's plans?" they ask their father, expecting further merriment. "Very nice, darling," he says."Enjoy yourself! Just don't change the channel." Friday Night Boxing has our revered provider in its brutal grip, silly of us to have bothered.

I am actually quite relieved. The conversation will now end, and I will be allowed my middle class dreams in peace. Sadly, the idea had my usually lazy lot wide awake and looking for fun.

"So Mama, tell us more about your turning to trade for fulfillment. What kind of store are you going to open? Are you really going to become one of those painted housewives who flog salwaars when their husbands are at work? It doesn't seem you somehow." I suppose I owed my daughter something for the thought that a raddled housewife selling salwaars didn't really seem to be me.

Another had some more advice, "Ma, you could open a kirana (grains and dry foodstuff) store, that way we'd never have to pay for chocolate. Besides, Patel obviously makes a load of cash -- it's a good idea."

My son, the poet.

I often wonder at the strange ways of my offspring. I know their gene pool. I'm just shocked that there seems to be absolutely no romance in their little city souls.

"Of course, I'm not going to become your neighbourhood Patel!" I snap at them, "I am going to make my childhood dream come true. Did I tell you that my dearest childhood friend and I planned to set up a book and record store when we were older? Well, I'm older now, and that's what I'm going to do."

"A book store, how uncool! Mama, what a bore! Sell something more interesting!"

"Like what?" I shot back. "Clothes-bags-shoes?" my tone conveying my well documented contempt for the genre.

"Sure, you can have a boutique!" says my 16-year-old daughter, with shining eyes. "I'll help you, Mama. I'll drop out of school and design for you and I can help you with the sales. Hey, what a great idea!" For her. maybe, but it was my shop and it would certainly stock what I wanted it to. It was the last oasis of control, for me.

I strive to please, and there were other options. I try them.

"The other thing I'm interested in is the home, and keeping it beautiful. So perhaps I could have a shop filled with lovely things for the home."

"Don't be silly, Mama, what will you call it? Tea Cosy Heaven? Really Ma, I'm beginning to despair of you ever joining the human race."

"But that's exactly what I'm trying to avoid, can't you see? I don't want to be a part of your kind of crowd. I want to do what pleases me," There's a certain lack of dignity in a grown woman wailing. I learn that now.

"But that's all you do all day," they protest. "Please yourself. You cook, you play house, you read, you don't even watch TV. What on earth can you want over all that?"

I understand. The concept is too simple for their complex minds. Never mind, I'm their mother. I can explain, "I want a shop, I would like to be a simple seller of things that strangers will buy."

Montage: Sumit Patel