the bargain
sudha balagopal
A brisk morning wind carried the babble of Indian tongues to Jaya's ears as she waited at the curb. She pulled a silk scarf around her to ward off the slight chill in the air and shifted her weight from one achy foot to the other. Splashes of color caught her eye from either side of the road as the vendors set up their shops.
Across the street a vendor fought the wind to get her heavy tarpaulin over four rickety wooden stilts. The stubborn tent leaned sideways and threatened to collapse.
Then a man appeared, making angry gestures at the woman, “Kitna der karti ho Parvati? Kam wam kuch nai karti…”
Parvati simply looked down at her feet as he yelled at her for her tardiness. Her red cotton sari billowed out in the wind. In a few minutes the stocky man righted the stilts and patted the tarpaulin into place. Jaya's eyes followed him. He muttered to himself before he turned and walked away. After a few yards he pivoted to face Parvati and raise a fist at her. Then he shouted at her one more time before an alley swallowed him.
Meanwhile, Parvati unpacked a trunk and spread some of the contents out in front of her in layers, fanning them out in patterns as if she was a retail expert. Some of her other wares she hung up by hooks inserted on the inside walls of her little store.
Jaya's attention was captured by the glint of an errant ray reflecting off a mirrored wall hanging in the store. That piece would light up her hallway, she decided. Before Jaya had crossed the road to get to the store, Parvati had her little shop all ready to go.
Parvati hailed Jaya when she saw her walking toward her. “Ai, memsaab, hamara bonee karo!” Parvati's voice was loud and coarse, at odds with her rather dainty appearance. “Come, come, lady,” Parvati said.
Jaya paused to arrange her face into an expression of careful disinterest. She was ready to play the game this morning. She loved what she had caught a glimpse of earlier, but there were a few rules. Bargaining 101: Revealing too keen an interest would take away her bargaining edge, she reminded herself.
She examined the mirrored wall hanging again; the reds and greens contrasted joyfully against a black background. Then she pulled her eyes away deliberately.
“Show me, what do you have?” Jaya still feigned disinterest and glanced at her wristwatch as if she was in a great hurry.
As eager Parvati turned around with a swish of her long braid, some flowers from the fresh strand of jasmines entwined in her hair scattered, disseminating their fragrance.
“Oh I have such beautiful carry bags, see? And table cloths, embroidered napkins. Everything is top quality. See this mirror work; have you ever seen anything so intricate? Everything handmade.” Finally Parvati declared. “Best esport qvality.”
“Export?” Jaya queried, her tone skeptical.
“Han. Top quality, these things go to foreign places,” Parvati puffed up her chest in pride.
Parvati sat on an old-fashioned trunk sturdy enough to withstand her weight as she pointed to the items. A mismatched set of glass bangles around her wrists tinkled as her calloused hands moved.
“Lo na! See, this is so pretty,” Parvati flashed a perfect row of pearly whites.
Jaya returned her smile automatically, then picked up a bag and said, “Give me some time. I need to see more. How about this mirrored bag?” She examined the bag's stitching, holding it close to her eyes.
“Lo..lo. Aur bhi dekho…” Parvati stayed on message, see more and buy more stuff.
Ten different mirrored bags in vivid blues, yellows, and purples, tumbled out of an ugly, green plastic container. Jaya wrinkled her nose at the green container; it was unsuited to such beautiful wares.
She lifted her handbag off her shoulder, undid the clasp and dug inside. Now, how many gifts did she need? She fished out an envelope from her bag. Somebody had written on it, “Bon voyage, lucky one.” Jaya pulled out a card from the envelope. Large letters screamed “Don't forget the souvenirs for us in California!” The envelope fluttered in the wind as she counted the signatures on the card.
The wall hanging with the mirrors still beckoned. She glanced at it one more time.
Parvati asked a question. Jaya, still absorbed by the wall hanging, did not reply. Parvati repeated her question. Her almond-shaped, kohl-lined eyes looked directly into Jaya's thoughtful gaze. “Which color do you like?”
Jaya picked up a handmade yellow cloth bag with a peacock motif, “How much for this bag?” Her tone was light. She ran her hand over the motif and the silkiness of the fabric.
“Only seventy,” Parvati's smile dazzled. Jaya stared at Parvati: her figure was slim, the eyes almond-shaped, the smile brilliant.
Seventy rupees. Jaya frowned. That was no bargain. The price had to be brought down. If she could get it for about forty five that would be about one American dollar per bag. Not a bad deal at all.
“That is too much,” Jaya shook her head at Parvati.
“Arre memsaab…” Parvati's sigh was loud and deliberate. “Look I am not here to cheat you. Believe me, I am quoting the market price.”
Jaya pretended to write on her piece of paper. Six bags at perhaps fifty rupees that would be three hundred rupees, with no tax. And then the wall hanging, if she could get it for about five hundred that would be eight hundred rupees all together. Less than twenty dollars.
“You are making a fool of me, I think.”
“Atcha,” Parvati's expression was now somber, “Memsaab, only for you, for you alone, I will give you each bag for sixty five rupees. But you have to buy at least three.” Then, without hesitation, Parvati added. “That is only 195 rupees.”
“Sixty five!” Jaya was indignant. “I don't want it.”
Parvati pleaded, “Tell me how much you want to pay? I really want to make a sale this morning.”
Jaya looked at the sky, as if she was searching for an answer from above.
“Come on, come on, memsaab,” Parvati continued, “Why think so much about a couple of mirror work bags?”
“How about forty rupees?”
“Forty?” Parvati was affronted. She put her hand on her hips and leaned forward earnestly. “Memsaab, what are you saying? How can I sell it to you for forty rupees? Where is seventy and where is forty? It is not possible.”
Jaya interrupted her. “Ok thanks then, I think I can find it elsewhere.” She smiled slightly at Parvati, as if to say goodbye, and began an old, practiced ritual. Jaya left the store, her footsteps heavy with purpose and certainty. Immediately, she was assailed by shouts from neighboring vendors.
“Memsaab, come here, come here. All esport kvality…”
Parvati jumped up from her trunk and ran behind Jaya with her entreaties, “Memsaab, aao. Let me give you a better price.”
Jaya suppressed a smile that wanted to escape. She knew Parvati would not want to lose a customer. Jaya slowed her steps a little, turned around, stood for a second as if in thought, and then went back into Parvati's little store.
Jaya assumed a tough stance now, standing straight, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder. “Last price, forty five. I don't have time to waste, you know. I have to meet someone at nine thirty.”
“Memsaab,” Parvati shook her head sadly. Her beautiful face fell. “You don't understand. Hamara marad marega.”
Jaya shook her head and wondered if she had heard right. Had Parvati just said, “My man will beat me?”
But Parvati continued with an apparent change of heart, “Last price fifty rupees.”
“If you give it to me for forty five your man will beat you?” Jaya asked, her tone incredulous.
“Yes. He expects me to meet my goal for the day. I am already losing money if I sell it to you for fifty. Don't do this to me…I don't want to lose this sale. Come on, give me fifty. Buy my whole stock for fifty each.”
Jaya changed the subject. She was not going to tell Parvati fifty rupees per bag was fine with her.
“How about that wall hanging? How much for that?”
Parvati pounced on the wall hanging and yanked it off the hook.
“Beautiful, isn't it? Made by poor ladies in the village. Mahila Udyog. A small business by women. Widows. They have children too…”
Jaya interrupted, “So, how much for this?”
“One minute,” Parvati said. She turned the forty eight by thirty-six inch tapestry over to look for the price. “Eight hundred rupees.”
“Eight hundred?” Jaya cried in astonishment. Her hand flew to her chest.
“But if you buy the bags for fifty rupees each, I can reduce this wall hanging to seven hundred rupees. Just for you…please don't tell anyone else otherwise my man will get very angry.”
Seven hundred. They had a long way to go to reduce it to five hundred rupees.
“Everything together I will give you eight hundred rupees.”
“Memsaab, please, please understand. I am already losing money. I will lose everything,” she said as her eyes flashed and her expressive hands waved over the bags.
“What do you want me to pay you?”
“One thousand total. Seven hundred for the wall hanging and three hundred for the six bags.”
“Well. I will give you nine hundred.”
From down the street, the sounds of a vague disturbance drifted into Parvati's stall. The tarpaulin covering Parvati's store flapped loudly in the wind. Still, the noise of the commotion intruded. Parvati abandoned her customer for a second and peeked out. A frown appeared on her unlined brow making the round bindi on her forehead quiver. She could see the vendors were packing up in hurry. A police siren sounded.
“Memsaab,” Parvati tone was desperate now. “Give me the money, here take this.”
Quick as lightning she wrapped the wall hanging and the six colorful bags in old newspaper. She tied the package with string and handed it to Jaya.
“Please, please give me at least nine hundred and fifty rupees.”
Jaya gave Parvati nine one hundred rupee notes and picked up her package. Nine hundred rupees. Not nine hundred and fifty.
In five minutes, all the vendors had left and the street looked deserted. The vendors “vanished” as if a magic wand had been waved.
Jaya clutched her package close to her chest as she walked the short distance back to her hotel.
The doorman opened the heavy doors for her and said, “Good morning memsaab, I see you got your shopping done before the police got there. The nearby residents must have complained again. But don't worry, these illegal vendors will be back when the hullabaloo dies down.” He snorted and then under his breath muttered, “They will be back, the pests.”
Jaya tore the package open in her room and slapped a palm to her forehead when she realized she had only five bags. Parvati, the little cheat, had used the confusion and the police vehicle situation to take advantage of her. The vendors may not return for days, and by then, perhaps, she would have left the country. However, only two days later Jaya noticed early morning activity in the street again. The vendors were back. Her eyes scanned the street for Parvati's little stall. It was missing.
She walked up and down the street, looking into each store. She was owed one more bag.
Vendors called out to her, touting their wares.
“Memsaab, kya lenge?”
“Where is Parvati?” Jaya finally asked a scruffy, cigarette-smoking vendor. His stall happened to be next to Parvati's erstwhile one.
“Parvati? She is not well.” He was more interested in selling to Jaya. “See I have better things. Let me show you.”
“No no, I don't want anything. She is sick, you say? What happened to her?”
“Kuch naya nahi…”
“What do you mean by ‘nothing new’?” Jaya persisted.
“Oh, her man hit her hard that day.” The vendor ground his cigarette out, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and continued, “Come buy something from me. See these esport qvality tops or skirts?”
He continued to talk. Jaya did not answer; she only stared at him for a minute. Then she spun on her heel and sped away as if a rabid dog was nipping at her ankles. The startled, scruffy vendor refused to give up; he jogged behind her to match her long-legged stride. “Why say no to essport qvality, top fashion, memsaab?”
She did not hear him. She had heard enough of what he had to say. Had the beautiful vendor Parvati, with the quick mathematic ability and innate sense for the art of retail been beaten for not meeting her goal? Jaya's stomach churned as she remembered how she had given Parvati only nine one hundred rupee notes at the end.
Her high heels clattered on the stony surface of the sidewalk. She was running now, the vendor left far behind, bent double and holding his arms about his waist. Jaya did not wait for the elevator in the lobby of her hotel; she climbed the three flights to her room.
She burst into her room and pulled them all out, the five colorful bags with their unique motifs and the mirror work wall hanging. She proceeded to spread them out on the big bed in the center of the room. Her breathing returned to normal as she admired the intricacy of the embroidery on the wall hanging one more time. Hadn't Parvati said something about widows, with children? Jaya looked closely at the kaleidoscopic morphing of triangles and rectangles arranged in vivid green and red against the black silk. She marveled at each of the five colorful bags, pausing to study the complex motif on each one—the elephant, the lotus, the lamp, the peacock and the conch.
Slowly she laid the bags down and walked over to the other end of the room. Twisting the shiny brass handle of the heavy teak door, she stepped out onto the balcony. and leaned over the carved railing to look down into the busy street. This wasn't right. Returning to the room, she scooped it all up in her arms: the five vividly hued bags and the wall hanging that she had so coveted. Then, stepping out once again, she threw them all, one by one, off the third floor balcony. She watched them drift slowly down.
about the author
Sudha Balagopal was born and raised in India and has
lived in the United States for over twenty years. She
has a Master's degree in Journalism and Communications
from the University of Florida. As a freelance writer,
she has been published both in the United States and
in India. She lives in Arizona with her husband and
children where she has been managing their software
business for the last ten years.
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