Sai Krupa Stores

November 25, 2015.

Sai Krupa Stores on Yogi Nagar Road is a pie constant. Most children, mothers and fathers, make daily trips to buy Garden Farsan, Brittania and Modern bread, Amul Butter-Tasty Butter, other eats and over the last two days Maggie. In the packaged food category, me guess Maggie has pushed Amul to second place; just a guess; no statistics on me retired hand. For years, a Mangalore family kept the show with the lady obliging every client; no better sales woman has me seen; to every demand, she had the same rapture, ' Milega, milega, sab milega, do minites'; rarely upturned; for her tardy husband, she had no time; with Yogi Nagar having no time for living, 'time nahin hai', he counted and recounted change, sometimes losing clients; with the lady, clients came back. Yogi Nagar was hers. She was indispensable, mornings, with her fresh tephlas and idlis. Her old husband, an edgy type, unlocked the shop at 6.30 a.m. to shut down at about 10 in the night. It was a family show. The show shut one day. Lady told clients: 'Mumbai chhod rahe hain (Leaving Bangalore); Mangaluru ja rahen hain (going to Mangalore).' Sai Krupa Stores got leased to a Gujjubhai; zing is gone; clients dont rush the shop. Nothing to do with the Gujjubahi; is a pleasant fellow; tries to please but there is no 'milega, milega, sab milega' in him; stocks not the latest eats ads on TV channels, in particular kids channels. Perhaps, the first Gujjubhai refusing risks. 'How was Deepavali?,' me asked. With a twisted face he mourned of people not having funds while eat prices upped along. 'Salary hikes do not match price rises,', Gujjubhai said and for me Gujjubhais are the best economists; they know cash flow; they know daily sales should be higher than stock purchases; any slack, they grit their teeth. 'Dhanda nahin hai,' concluded Gujjubhai like an edit writer signing off day's edit in a newspaper office. Walk down Chandavarkar Lane in Borivili (W); Rama, Dakhi and me walked for dresses. Chiyu, last week, protested over me shabbiness of a three-quarter bottoms plus a jibba. 'Ajoba, ye jara purana hai (Ajoba, they look old), she complained. Me decided to buy readymade pants; never has that happened as there was always a tailor on Yogi Nagar Road; he shut shop as van Heusen, Peter England, Allen Solly trimmed styles. Chandavarkar Lane, houses brand names; Indian Terrain to Bata to ICICI. Dakhi insisted on pure cottons or cotton-linens; me went for two pants costing Rs.5,000; me was the lone shopper; the day's bakra; 'dhanda nahin hai, saheb,' moaned the young attendant; shops stewed empty. Length alterations had to be made as the pants could fit Ishant Sharma. The attender promised deliveries by evening as van Heusen was open 365 days of the year; no holidays. At Bata, a lady attender is temporary after massaging feet, selling footwear for four years (her version). ICICI Bank has crowds to pull out cash and is open from 9 a.m. to something around 8 in the evening. Perhaps, there are no labour laws to be violated. When Dakhi steps out shopping, she insists on buying dresses or a dress;she shines; the family in November heat trekked to Hakoba, with season-end discounts; there again no crowds, only crows on the rain trees. If retail shops are not vending, economy is still. Yes, no foot taps on Chandavarkar Street. Streets are sooth-sayers.