| “Is the People’s Proprietor in ?” I asked hesitantly. |
| “Yes, She’s sitting in the People’s Cafe-au-Lait Corner at the back, on the right. You can’t mistake her. She’s wearing a grey khaddar sari with a hammer-and-sickle border,” the doorman replied helpfully. |
| “Thank you, but will she be free to see me? What I mean to say is that I do not have an appointment and I’ve been told that she meets only those who bring a……” |
| “A letter of introduction? Usually, yes. But since you’re from the press she’ll see you soon enough.” |
| “How did you discover that I was from the press?” The question involuntarily sprang from my surprised mouth. |
| “That’s my job. I guessed from the headlines on your forehead. Get it? ‘head-lines’ ‘press’, yes? Anyway, she’s the one you’ve come to cross-examine, comrade, not me. But if you want a word of advice --- a little pinch of salt might come in handy.” |
| “Salt?” I wondered aloud. |
| “Yes, I said salt, and I’m not saying another word.” |
| “But why salt?” I persevered. |
| “Never mind,” my benefactor muttered,” though if you ever discover the need for it, you’ll find it stacked on the third counter on the left under ‘Siberian Savouries.” |
| Further elucidation seemed superfluous for the kindly doorman had already, in one deft movement, pinned a round, red badge on my lapel and had turned me in the direction of the People’s Café-au-lait Corner. |
| I took a deep breath, strode purposefully to the entrance and had almost entered when a voice, seemingly from a nearby pillar, arrested further progress. |
| “Are you a member?” it enquired. |
| “No,” I repled. Almost as though this monosyllabic admission of my lack of status had exercised it from the pillar, the voice took shape and I could perceive in the shadow of the pillar a young lady, a tray and …. some tickets….yes, these I could distinguish. |
| The discernment cost me two rupees! |
| Everything in the room gave the impression of being glacial – the glistening table-tops, the bluish incandescence of the concealed lighting the shimmer of restive curtains, and even the air itself – cold and crystalline enough to snap off with a sharp movement. |
| I staked glances across table reflecting printed silks, crusty embroideries, disinterred dresses breathing an unwilling reincarnation as kameezes, and at last, along at the for table, almost as if it were the panacea, the antidote to all the surrounding opulence, sat the modest grey khaddar sari of my search. |
| “Welcome, comrade!” This anonymous greeting I caught, as one does a stray bail which happens to bounce one’s way in a park, and tossed it back with, “I’m from the Daily --- and should like to have an interview with you. May I sit down?” |
| She looked up from the little red book in her manicured hands and mouthed the final sentence of her reading. |
| “No photographer? I do wish you had brought one along. I do so like to include the latest press photograph of either my husband or myself in my letters to the children. It’s a way of keeping in touch with each other’s activities, you see.” |
| “I’m sorry. I wish I had known earlier,” I proferred an apology. |
| “Not you fault, comrade. Normally my husband takes care of these little arrangements but he’s busy collecting the rents, it being the first week of the month. Not to worry though. Farid, that’s my younger son, got his picture in the London Daily Express this week. Only the back page though, which is such a shame. So near and yet so….” Her deep-set eyes misted over with maternal disappointment. “Well it doesn’t matter. One must learn to be brave in these things. The work here is sufficient to keep me busy.” |
| “Could you tell me,” I asked her “something about why and how you opened this supermarket.” |
| “People’s Store, please.” |
| "People’s Store? But the sign-board outside reads…….” |
| “Quite possibly,” the lady replied firmly, quenching my contradiction,” but it is intended for, and will always serve the People. Too long have the masses had to submit to the yoke of the avaricious retailer, the monopolistic wholesaler and the materialistic supplier. It was high time, my husband and I felt, that the proletariat was given a chance of being able to buy their basic necessities without the ominous fear that they were being over-charged on each item. ‘The principle of diligence and frugality should be observed in everything’. These are the words of our great leader, have been the guiding principle of the People’s Store. Come, I’ll take you around the store and show you what I mean.” |
| She drained her cup of its contents of fragrant Brazilian coffee in a manner delicate and patrician, and then led me through the tables into the hall of the store. |
| “All my life,” she said as we sauntered past shelves of tinned delicacies, ‘I have felt the urge to do something for my fellow country-men, to assuage their sufferings, to identify their problems with mine and in time to profit by the experience. That is why I have opened this store – for the People.” |
| “A worthy cause indeed, madam.” |
| “Oh! Please don’t say it like that.” She remonstrated, re-aligning a stray tin of Asparagus ‘Tips-au-gratin.’ “It’s not the worthiness of the whole venture. It is the spiritual satisfaction one feels.” |
| “How do the other ladies, who are partners with you in the project feel?” |
| “Of course, it wouldn’t be fair to expect them to understand or appreciate the ideological aspect of our venture, the humanitarian motives which inspire me, but they have confidence in my judgment and are content to receive a handsome return on their investment.” |
| “Quite. But do you expect a fair return on your money? Bearing in mind the inherent errancy of the foodstuffs market in general, that is.” |
| “Fortunately, or should I say thanks to good commercial sense, I decided to sell only imported foods here, as you can see. The return on them is higher. To my way of thinking, anyone who can afford to eat should be able to afford our prices. I mean, anyone who can afford to buy imported foods can afford our prices. How foolish of me to have slipped up like that!I hope you understand what I am trying to say.” |
| “I think so,” I replied. |
| “The People’s Café-au-lait Corner idea came later. To boost business, actually. The idea was originally my son’s.” |
| “Farid’s? The one in the Daily Express? “ I asked. |
| “No. Shahid’s, the elder one. He was the one, you may remember, whose picture appeared in the Saigon newspapers for booing American soldiers on their way to the front. Farid was the one booing outside the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square.” |
| “But has the idea paid off?” |
| “Handsomely. Farid is getting a scholarship of 800 dollars a month to study race relations in Memphis. Eight hundred isn’t really much, not when you have to pay for your own publicity. Shahid has been promised a crash programme in poster printing and after that his own printing press by the French.” |
| "Actually, the idea of opening the café is what I meant.” |
| “Oh! That. Well, with Coca-Cola at Rs. 2.50 per bottle, and straight from the bottle, mind, why shouldn’t it? Thank goodness only the top people are coming. Making people members helped to weed out our visitors. Curious thing, people joined to be different from others, and discovered that those they were trying to avoid were already members!” |
| “There seems to be something perversely magnetic about it all.” |
| “How right you are. ‘Magnetic’ is the word, “the lady enthused. |
| “May I ask you one more question before I leave, madam?” |
| “Certainly.” |
| “Are you selling ideology by any chance as an article in itself, or merely as a wrapper?” |
| She looked me straight in the eye. |
| “We sell food………for thought.” |
| She turned away brusquely and retired to the People’s Café-au-lait Corner. I paused at the door where the doorman stood at the ready. |
| “Goodbye, Comrade,” the doorman whispered. “A souvenir from the management for you. He thrust a cold rectangular packet into my hand. Its label read: 'Imported Red Herrings.' |
