Ghachar Ghochar

by Vivek Shanbhag

We’re in the spice trade – owners of a firm called Sona Masala. It’s a simple enough business: order spices in bulk from Kerala, parcel them into small plastic packets in our warehouse, and sell these to the grocers of the city. Chikkappa started the business, now our source of sustenance, and as a result he’s regarded above everyone else at home. His meals, his preferences, his conveniences, are of supreme importance to us all. The harder he toils, the better it is for us. He’s unmarried, and we fuss over him such that he’s bound to wonder what additional comfort marriage can bring at his age. He receives all the domestic privileges accorded to the earning male of the family. The first sound in the morning indicating he’s awake, and tea is made. When it’s sensed that he’s finished bathing, the dosa pan goes on the stove. He can fling his clothes in the bathroom or in a corner of his bedroom or anywhere at all in the house, and they’ll materialize washed and ironed in his room. Sometimes, on the pretext of work, he spends the night in his room at the warehouse. We’re careful not to ask him anything about it. Once, only a couple of weeks ago, there was a commotion when a woman came up to the house. Chikkappa was at home, but he didn’t step out. And why should he, when we’re here to fight on his behalf?

On that day I became convinced that it is the words of women that deeply wound other women.

As long as the house ran on Appa’s income his finances were known to us all. If we wanted new clothes, we knew exactly how much he could spare and what cuts would have to be made elsewhere. The result was that we simply did not desire what we couldn’t afford. When you have no choice, you have no discontent either.