She ran her hand through the pile of sarees, counting them as she went. It was a ritual with her- sitting in that corner where the piles of sarees lay, counting them. The numbers rarely changed. She looked at her own saree. A bright green one she had bought at the fair some years ago. She had parted with a hundred rupees, but it had served her well. She sighed deeply, thinking of how many years it had been since she went to the fair.
There was no money for all those luxuries now. Maybe she would go again when her husband started the job in town. If he did. He was stubborn, she sulked silently. The loom he was stuck to, angered her. All it did to them was keep them tied to the village. No one had bought the sarees in months now. And her husband would not let her take one either. She could do with a new saree, but he never saw it that way.
Her husband trudged to Udupi every Tuesday with a bundle of sarees and usually came back with the same bundle. Yet, he would not listen. He would not let go. His father and grandfather would never forgive him, he would say. How does their forgiveness matter when they are dead? She would argue. Dead people do not provide food, she had shouted more than once.
She sat near the door; her legs stretched. They would look so nice if she wore silver anklets, she thought for possibly the hundredth time. She held back the tears that threatened to spill out. It was not her husband’s fault. He wove beautiful sarees but what could he do if no one wanted to buy? She saw her husband taking rapid strides towards the house. The last time he did that, it was not good news.
It was then that she saw his empty hands. Robbery!! She nearly fainted! Someone had robbed that bundle of sarees!! He shushed her as she began to speak. Women! Only if they spoke less! he thought. He had no time for her loose talk now. He gathered all the bundles lying and rushed out. If the rumours he heard were true, he would be a fool to let go of this opportunity. He had to get to town before it was too late.
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30 sarees. His entire stock. He wiped the sweat off his brow as the stranger checked each saree. Shetty sat silently, his face showing equal parts of excitement and nervousness. He had to trust Shetty- he had never let him down before. The stranger- some said he came from Bangalore- nodded and wrote in a big book. It was his neighbour’s turn next. And then another’s.
By the time the stranger was done, they had no more information than they had at the start. All they knew was that he was checking the sarees, keeping some aside and discarding others. He would write in his book every few minutes. Was he buying all these sarees? Was he an Inspector? Would he shut their looms? What about the discarded sarees? No one seemed to know for sure.
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The stranger nodded and Shetty looked relieved. Shetty called out to them, one by one, by name. And as they stood at his desk, Shetty counted out the money and handed it. He hurried outside without counting. His mother had always said that the demons watched when you counted money and plotted to steal it. He went to his favourite corner near the temple opposite and counted the money. And counted again. He went running back to Shetty. There must have been a mistake. He was sure of it. Shetty counted the money patiently and handed it back. It was correct. 500/- for each saree. He was a rich man!
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He ran all the way to the pawnbroker at the end of the road. He had to get his wife’s anklets back. And her earrings. Before that stranger came back saying he made a mistake. He would buy some flowers for her and maybe some of that gulab jamun they had long ago. Maybe if he kept a little aside, they could go to the fair also. He kept his cloth bag close to him on the way home. It meant more than the world to him.
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She could not wait to hear her husband’s story today. Dinner could wait. A group of women, her husband said, they were buying these sarees. The stranger took 100 sarees with him. 500/- a saree he had paid! He had heard his neighbour say that the stranger would probably sell it for thrice that amount to those women! Who pays so much for a saree? she wondered. How rich they must all be!! How does it matter to us? her husband retorted when she asked.
He had an early day tomorrow. The looms had to be worked, even more than before. The stranger was going to come back for more, he had heard. And he wanted to be ready.
She ran her hand on the floor where the sarees used to be. She spread out her mat and fell asleep dreaming of the sarees that used to be.
