Hell of a bargain! ONE

As you walk into the dusty but wide lanes of Mumbai city’s southern tail, you will come across an array of stalls with a colourful display of junk accessories, bags, shoes, sunglasses, clothes, antique artefacts, all the junk you could possibly buy. 

 A stall owner, a stocky little man who will successfully manage to grasp your wandering attention will swear his life on the price of a semi transparent, chicken kurta, probably with a defect. “Only one thousand Eendian rupees! You get nowhere other madam, only in my shop. Come all way from Lucknow”, he will declare in broken English. His beady little eyes will quickly travel to an Indian college kid clad in dirty denims and Oshos (or what we call chattai chappal) and tell her in an undertone that for her its only for Rs. 300 but that’s only because of her nationality or perhaps because “aap bhi bambai ke hai isliye” (because you are from Bombay). His ever searching eyes and cocky ears will be on the lookout for an accent or a pink skinned firang (foreigner), probably burnt from the blazing afternoon sun, almost on the verge of hyperventilating for want of a cold beer or probably a soda at a renowned Iranian cafe. 

When you wander into such a place in India’s very own Big Apple, you, my dear, have set foot into a place that has been penned Colaba Causeway. And it is on a bright and particularly warm Saturday afternoon, where our story begins.

The summer heat was minutes away from giving me a stroke and yet my best friend continued her shopping spree. Break ups can make women go crazy sometimes and Amu seemed to want to shop till she dropped (literally). Why was I stuck doing this with her when I could be relaxing with a nice travel book? Good question! I am, and I am saying this with a lot of pride, a bargain goddess! My friends from high school and college remember me as that reporter girl who can haggle with every shopkeeper even if shes not the one buying! 

Personally, I dislike shopping from these little stalls unless its accessories because nothing seems to last for more than two weeks. Moreover I don’t EVER want to find myself in a situation where the dress which I might have purchased from a dingy little stall has a tear in it; with my luck, the tear will be at a significant spot and will probably go down in my 'most embarrassing moments' list. 

Amu, it seemed, wanted to buy every blessed shop in the causeway that afternoon. As her best friend, it was my duty or moral obligation as she called it, to get her the best bargain. Every time I showed signs of whining, she would miraculously produce those shiny droplets of salt water (NO SIR! I WILL NOT CALL THEM TEARS) and make me feel guilty while simultaneously upping my energy levels to bargain for yet another piece of junk which, by the way, she would (I could swear a kidney on this) toss in less than a week!

Feeling rather annoyed with my best friend's ex boyfriend, I started arguing over a sling bag no one in their right mind would like because that bag ugged in the ugly. The stall keeper, a teenage boy with pimples on his face, got agitated after four to five minutes of arguing over the price of that ugly bag and in a rather irate voice told me that I was just wasting his time. Imagine that! I wondered if the guy was even interested in selling that junk. Equally irritated, I told him I write for a newspaper and I wont write good things about him in my paper. His eyes widened for a bit but then he just scoffed and told me his final price.

I wanted to throw the bag onto that acne covered face but my best friend’s puppy dog eyes were in imminent danger of leaking, so I battled on. And finally, I purchased that ugly, ugly piece of junk for fifty bucks. I know, I know, I AM good! Grumbling, the boy started to pack the bag. 

For a moment there, I thought I saw him glance fearfully towards the street behind us. He hesitated and then he handed the bag to me and in an undertone, said, "Here you go, keep it safe." I looked at him bewildered, his desi accent was gone, he had spoken those words in a highly polished manner. 

"I -, what?", I asked, now thoroughly confused. 

Things got ugly just as the boy pressed the bag in my hand. It all happened in a matter of seconds. A car screeched to a halt right outside the stall. The boy attempted to run but didn't even manage to turn around in time. 

With perfect aim, the person in the car pulled the trigger and the next thing I knew, the boy fell to the ground, dead. Amu screamed as the man made a move for the second time. This time the gun pointed towards us. People heard the gun shot and then the sound of the car speeding away.