Lucknow Musings: Munna-ji

His shop was a tiny four feet square with a wall mounted noisy fan for company. His wares- bread - mostly the White maida ones(remember these were the days untouched by the calorie- conscious brown revolution) and trays of eggs balanced precariously on top of each other- dominated the sole counter, which also doubled up as a till. The third ware- packets of milk- were kept outside the shop in blue or red trays- according to the 'tone' of the milk- we used to get Parag milk- blue for toned and the dangerous red for full cream - conveniently- so all one had to do was to walk upto his shop- located just off the crossroads in our neighbourhood- pick up the desired milk packets and bring them to his counter for payment. If we were on time, we'd actually see the big blue and white Parag milk van driving away after depositing fresh trays of milk packets outside the shop. Needless to say, most of the neighbourhood congregated just around the time of the fresh milk delivery- at about four in the afternoon - to exchange gossip over this daily household chore and the delicious samosas of the halwai right next door (he's going to feature in one of the other posts too) with chai.  The anda-bread shop was manned by Munna ji, a God-fearing Muslim with a voice as thick and warm as fresh hot bread itself. He was (is, I hope still) such a contented man selling just these three staples to the entire neighbourhood- yes, Sir- there was no other shop in the vicinity of at least five kilometres who offered the same spread with a liberal sprinkling of gossip- as Munna ji- that never once in my life of twenty one years there, did I see him stock or sell a fourth thing. His shop had a few shelves along the side wall, but these were always empty- dusted well - though the glass doors bore faint yellowing stains- but always empty.  He had a regular register- long exercise book - in which he noted the wares given on credit and at the end of the month- I went with Papa just to see him do it- draw a line across the account and sign his name with a flourish, accompanied by Papa's rather authoritarian scrawl at the bottom.  His shop was adjacent to a clean, small, White washed house, with a green iron gate. It bore the 'Mullick' nameplate but we'd never really seen anyone step out or lounge about the house. This was a good topic of gossip- as well as the trifle goings-on- which progressed in subject just as we grew in life- earlier revolving around the main bread-earner of the house- to where his offspring had been selected to study- and later to the sad fact of houses being sold and people moving out of the city. Though Munna ji always had some nuggets of information- he never added his own bit to it- he was merely a messenger spreading knowledge around. On the other side of his shop, separated by a crisscross bamboo curtain was a halwai shop, from which emanated decidedly mouth-watering aromas all times of the day. A trip to buy 'anda-bread' was never complete without peeking across to see what was being fried. Sometimes Munna-ji even worked on telepathy- keeping aside two packets of milk for us when we were unable to make his shop on time. His shop and he, had no phones of any kind. So he sat there, for a couple of hours morning and evening, satisfyingly talking with his few customers and being enormously contented.  I rue the fact that there's no Munna-ji near where I live. True, there's an Aarey milk centre which drops in a packet of milk in the morning at home- but no gossip, no warm thick voice welcoming us to his shop. Bread - brown bread- is bought at the downstairs grocery store and eggs- farm fresh vitamin enriched ones- from Natures Basket across the road.  We may be eating healthier but we've lost the human touch.