No sooner had my first wax experiment ended on a not so great note than I decided to give it another serious shot. The never-ending candle party had just begun and I was determined to hunt for candle-making supplies in Hyderabad. We found a place in the old city of Hyderabad where hustle and bustle was the name of the game and where merchants sold variety of raw material vital for arts and crafts. I knew my weekend plan. I yanked the mister out of the Sunday stupor and pushed every ounce of his body to accompany me in my stunt.
After a few hop, skip and jump stops we were amidst the ‘General Bazaar’. It is a narrow alley where you get the most beautiful things in smallest of the local shops, rooted there since several years. This place is Mecca for anyone who wants to shop the best of art supplies and anything desired for stitching and designing fashion. By now, I was in trance and a sudden blow of such stunning shops had utterly distracted me. On the other hand, the mister was unspeakably bored, and started poking me to focus on the wax instead. For the rest of the lane he dragged me by my hand with no further pit stops.
We reached an old dusty shop, with a vintage desk at the entrance where the merchant sat cross-legged. The merchant was grumpy, looked disinterested to welcome his customers, and was quite engrossed in his big fat hisaab tome. Very politely I asked him all the questions relating to the wax, to which he mostly answered in monosyllables. The mister had strictly instructed me to buy 5 kilos wax, finish that up first, and come back again for more. (Now that I remember this, did he think that this was just one of those hormonal creative phases when girls go berserk for a few days before they act normal again? Honey, we need to talk.)
Now came that awkward moment when you want to ask for a discount but you either feel shy, mortified or simply wish someone else did the daunting task for you. At the same time you also wish that the shopkeeper himself offers you a nice discount after you smile back at him with eyes full of hope and a face that reads, ‘ I am so poor that I don’t have money left to go back home.’ He was no shopkeeper; he was a shrewd merchant. He did not care when I promised that I would be a returning customer henceforth. I poked the mister to try his luck, but instead, he shoved cash in my hand and hurriedly walked off the shop to avoid any further drama, for I had embarrassed him enough with the repeated - ‘please bhaiya thoda aur price kam karo’ rant.
I failed, the merchant won.
Followed by a sumptuous lunch in the old city, I swore by the chicken biryani that I would come back with improved convincing skills and get a discount next time. Until then I had my 5 kilos to play with.
Over the next few months, candle making got more and more serious and I needed more and more wax. Still unsure what exactly I plan to do with the candles, the mister reluctantly agreed to go for a 25 Kg bag this time to avoid multiple trips. Whoa! I was excited. This time I walked straight up to shop without getting distracted. Routine – entered the shop, said hello, did not get a hello back! I asked for a 25-kilo bag. Finally, the merchant looked out of his book for the first time and noticed me nonchalantly. He said a couple of things in Telugu and a frail boy came outside with a 25-kilo gunny bag sealed with my Holy Grail product. I asked the merchant to unseal the bag to verify what was I paying for. He smirked, mutely rolled his eyes up to heaven, almost hated me through his glasses, and reluctantly opened the bag. I kept the money ready in my hand and very valiantly asked for my rightfully deserving discount but the merchant refused straight away and said in a stern voice, ‘Nahi hota discount’. All he offered was a free drop of the 25 kg bag up to the car. We agreed. The hot Hyderabadi sun was over our heads and the mister was in no mood to be my handy man and drag the 25-kilo weight through the lane. The boy started loading the gunny bag. I turned to look expecting a motorbike or something, but it was an antique looking bicycle. It was so shaky that the boy could not ride it; he simply held the handle and walked on the side following the bicycle lead. The mister followed the bicycle giving a helping hand at the back as the bag could topple off the carrier any moment. I followed the trail, praying the bag reaches the finish line.
Of course, there were on-lookers who glared at us as if we were a summer parade or folks who distribute flyers whom you dodge on the streets without making an eye contact. If you ask me, all we needed was a music band and a bunch of dancers ahead of the bicycle procession celebrating the arrival of 25-kilo wax to my house. Embarrassed at first, I tried to hide behind my sunglasses, but then to me this was 25 kilos of creative opportunity. I walked with pride, chin-up!
As we made our way home, I couldn’t help but think about the grouchy merchant who refused to cut me some slack…who gave me no discount!
To be continued…
After a few hop, skip and jump stops we were amidst the ‘General Bazaar’. It is a narrow alley where you get the most beautiful things in smallest of the local shops, rooted there since several years. This place is Mecca for anyone who wants to shop the best of art supplies and anything desired for stitching and designing fashion. By now, I was in trance and a sudden blow of such stunning shops had utterly distracted me. On the other hand, the mister was unspeakably bored, and started poking me to focus on the wax instead. For the rest of the lane he dragged me by my hand with no further pit stops.
We reached an old dusty shop, with a vintage desk at the entrance where the merchant sat cross-legged. The merchant was grumpy, looked disinterested to welcome his customers, and was quite engrossed in his big fat hisaab tome. Very politely I asked him all the questions relating to the wax, to which he mostly answered in monosyllables. The mister had strictly instructed me to buy 5 kilos wax, finish that up first, and come back again for more. (Now that I remember this, did he think that this was just one of those hormonal creative phases when girls go berserk for a few days before they act normal again? Honey, we need to talk.)
Now came that awkward moment when you want to ask for a discount but you either feel shy, mortified or simply wish someone else did the daunting task for you. At the same time you also wish that the shopkeeper himself offers you a nice discount after you smile back at him with eyes full of hope and a face that reads, ‘ I am so poor that I don’t have money left to go back home.’ He was no shopkeeper; he was a shrewd merchant. He did not care when I promised that I would be a returning customer henceforth. I poked the mister to try his luck, but instead, he shoved cash in my hand and hurriedly walked off the shop to avoid any further drama, for I had embarrassed him enough with the repeated - ‘please bhaiya thoda aur price kam karo’ rant.
I failed, the merchant won.
Followed by a sumptuous lunch in the old city, I swore by the chicken biryani that I would come back with improved convincing skills and get a discount next time. Until then I had my 5 kilos to play with.
Over the next few months, candle making got more and more serious and I needed more and more wax. Still unsure what exactly I plan to do with the candles, the mister reluctantly agreed to go for a 25 Kg bag this time to avoid multiple trips. Whoa! I was excited. This time I walked straight up to shop without getting distracted. Routine – entered the shop, said hello, did not get a hello back! I asked for a 25-kilo bag. Finally, the merchant looked out of his book for the first time and noticed me nonchalantly. He said a couple of things in Telugu and a frail boy came outside with a 25-kilo gunny bag sealed with my Holy Grail product. I asked the merchant to unseal the bag to verify what was I paying for. He smirked, mutely rolled his eyes up to heaven, almost hated me through his glasses, and reluctantly opened the bag. I kept the money ready in my hand and very valiantly asked for my rightfully deserving discount but the merchant refused straight away and said in a stern voice, ‘Nahi hota discount’. All he offered was a free drop of the 25 kg bag up to the car. We agreed. The hot Hyderabadi sun was over our heads and the mister was in no mood to be my handy man and drag the 25-kilo weight through the lane. The boy started loading the gunny bag. I turned to look expecting a motorbike or something, but it was an antique looking bicycle. It was so shaky that the boy could not ride it; he simply held the handle and walked on the side following the bicycle lead. The mister followed the bicycle giving a helping hand at the back as the bag could topple off the carrier any moment. I followed the trail, praying the bag reaches the finish line.
Of course, there were on-lookers who glared at us as if we were a summer parade or folks who distribute flyers whom you dodge on the streets without making an eye contact. If you ask me, all we needed was a music band and a bunch of dancers ahead of the bicycle procession celebrating the arrival of 25-kilo wax to my house. Embarrassed at first, I tried to hide behind my sunglasses, but then to me this was 25 kilos of creative opportunity. I walked with pride, chin-up!
As we made our way home, I couldn’t help but think about the grouchy merchant who refused to cut me some slack…who gave me no discount!
To be continued…