“This city is not the same every day”. Hariharanandan said to himself. “New buildings mushroom almost every week; existing ones take new expressions by changing the signboards and adding decorations, and the skyscrapers add storeys to reach the stars. Even those pretty salesgirls are never the same. They use heavy make-up to manipulate different looks each day”.
Once he had asked a shopkeeper friend of his about the low wages the salesgirls were paid. A local daily had their plight highlighted in its city column and while flickering through the news he came across it. Everything was interesting and the only dull part was their salary. The friend told him that it was not part of any capitalist strategy to increase the profit or to exploit hapless women.
“They are given huge make-up allowances”.
“Make-up allowances?!”
Hariharanandan could not help frowning in astonishment. “Yes Hari”, the friend continued. “The city doesn’t like to see the same face every day. And with most of them the make-up allowances are more than double what their take home salaries are.”
They were walking down the road to the City Park and a group of girls in uniform were passing by, with the name of the largest textile shop in the city printed on the uniform. Before they had coffee at the cafe near the park, the friend had told him more about salesgirls. He was surprised to hear that the large branded shops had different groups of them for each day and that only the smarmiest of them managed to work seven days a week, in seven different shops.
He had been waiting for a long time, at the zebra crossing right in front of the newly opened shopping mall, at the South End Circle in the City. Aged seventy, long back he had lost the courage and the gymnastic movements to cross a road with heavy traffic. Two signal posts stood majestically at the zebra crossing with signboards exhibiting brand names. But they weren’t opening and closing their eyes to help the pedestrians to cross the road and the men behind the wheels were not caring a fig for the fine white lines on the tar. They sped away as if they were being chased by enemies.
Youngsters were crossing the traffic with dancing movements and he tried to follow them in vain. It was like somebody who never learned the art of swimming, trying to cross a flooded channel. Venturing nervously into the water and then the very next moment pulling back, in fear of getting washed away.
“When you are old you have to wait a bit longer for your turn”, he thought.
(To be continued)
Copyright By: Sankar Sukumaran
