A few weeks ago, a friend of mine turned up for our weekly football game with a broken arm and no protective cast. Now, you may be wondering why he thought he could play a contact sport with a fractured appendage, but that is because you do not know him [as intimately as we do]. I do not wish to malign this friend in public, but he has the enthusiasm -and the self-preservation instincts - of a toddler who has just discovered that licking the floor is the apogee of self-expression.
We should, by rights, have sent him home but that would have left one of the teams a player short. So, as people who care deeply for his well-being, we did the next best thing: we went in search of a shop selling crepe bandages because as we all know, once you cloak an injury it ceases to exist.
A brightly lit shop attracted our attention and in our haste to procure the bandage, I did not notice the shop’s name. But the moment I’d crossed its threshold and stepped into its glaring white belly, I knew I’d made a mistake. The peach-coloured uniforms; the neatly arranged shelves of cosmetics; the stacks of chocolates and energy bars. My fists clenched and my lips pursed of their own accord, as grim realization washed over me. There was no denying it. I was standing inside a Noble Plus outlet and my year-old vow to boycott that chain of stores, now lay shattered on its tiled, faux-marble floor.
Three years ago, when my wife and I moved into our current house, we’d noted with approval the presence of many grocery stores in our new para (neighbourhood). In this age of online shopping and q-commerce, there is a particular comfort in knowing that you can still buy your daily provisions from the local kirana shop; perhaps exchange a few words with their proprietors. But the crown jewel amongst the commercial establishments around us - in my eyes, at least - was the Noble Plus outlet next to our building.
As a popular retail chain, a Noble Plus outlet lies somewhere on the spectrum between a drab pharmacy store, where you can buy prescription drugs, and a full-fledged supermarket where you can let your consumerist instincts run free. If you’ve lived in Mumbai, you are likely to have seen, maybe even visited, one of these outlets that are scattered across the city.
In those early months of settling into a new house and a new locality, I never missed an opportunity to frequent the adjoining Noble Plus. From deodorants to Digene1, Ibuprofen to Icebreakers, they stocked it all. I would walk into the store with a list of three or four items, and the certain knowledge that I would be walking out basking in the joy that comes from buying numerous unplanned - and gorgeously packaged - products.
In time, I began to think of the place as my Noble Plus; cherishing the bond we had forged, the relationship we had nurtured where I gave them my money and they gave me shiny things I did not need.
It was a blissful coupling and nothing could come between us. Or so I thought.
The memory of that fateful day is still fresh in my mind, its edges razor-sharp. It was a wet and windy July morning. Regular readers of this newsletter would know I’ve proselytized in the past about monsoons being the best time to run in Mumbai; but that day was different.
Out on a morning run, my friends and I had been enjoying the cool breeze and a mild drizzle, when suddenly, the weather turned. Within moments, the world darkened to an ominous shade of grey, as we were drenched by the ocean spray and buffeted by a roaring gale. In a desperate bid to seek refuge from the needles of water raining upon us, we huddled into an auto rickshaw and decided to head home.
As luck would have it, none of us had any cash on us and our rickshaw-driving saviour had a jovial disregard for digital payments. I could have gone home, retrieved the money and come back down to pay him, but I was cold, miserable, and loath to make the effort. An obvious solution presented itself. I could ask my beloved Noble Plus to pay the rickshaw fare on my behalf. I would, of course, offer to repay them at the earliest instance - perhaps once I’d had some soup and was fit to face the world once again. They would laugh and wave their hands, assuring me that I should not worry about this pittance of a fare and that this was the least they could do for a valued patron, nay, a family member.
Warmed by the prospect of this happy exchange, I walked into the Noble Plus outlet and, with a cheery smile, asked if they could front me the princely sum of Rupees Thirty-Five.
A man who had swiped my debit card on innumerable occasions fixed me with a gimlet eye. We do not lend money, he said, his brows furrowed.
The wattage of my smile dimmed just a trifle. Perhaps you did not recognize me, I explained, leaning on the counter and presenting my visage for closer inspection. I just need to pay the rickshaw fare, I added, pointing towards the rickshaw parked outside and hoping that would apprise him of my predicament.
We cannot give you money. We do not just hand our money to people, he declared, and then turned to look at his log book while I stood there gaping at him.
Life is cruel. You expect to be hurt by people, to be attacked by those who envy you. You learn to live with this truth and you arm yourself against the assaults of your enemies. But the deepest cuts, the most painful blows, are always delivered by the ones whom you hold dear; the ones from whom you have purchased countless tubes of toothpaste and untold strips of D-Cold. It is their unexpected betrayal that brings you to your knees.
And when you, eventually, gather the broken pieces of yourself - and your heart that once dared to love - what choice is left to you but to steel yourself? To forget the past. To weave a new future. And to vow never to return to the ones who hurt you.
Until someone decides to turn up for a football game with a broken arm.
No self-respecting Bengali is ever short of Digene. (Or Gelusil.)