<p>A not too insignificant part of my childhood was spent running to the neighbourhood ‘provision’ store to fetch something or the other. Several of these would be ‘save the day’ runs, which would typically happen when my mother found out, to her dismay, that the needed cooking ingredient had depleted just on the day we were expecting guests. It was more often than not items like cashews or raisins or such munchies that had suffered depletion, having been the objects of pilferage by yours truly. </p>.<p>In addition to these unplanned trips, regular visits to the store happened typically during the first week of the month to deliver a carefully prepared grocery list. After a day or so, the affable Narayana, for that was the grocery hand’s name, would amass the ordered monthly provisions on a rickety bicycle, and come trundling along to our house. ‘Taking delivery’ of the provisions was a process by itself. Mother would read out loud each item from her original list and Narayana would identify and set aside the called item, mentioning its quantity. Items would invariably be wrapped in newspaper and fastened by a string. A gentle squeeze on the packet with his deft hands was all that was needed for him to identify the contents. Though nobody suspected ‘measurement fraud’, my mother’s visage betrayed that look of reassurance when Narayana’s estimated quantity tallied with what she saw on her list. A two rupee ‘bakshis’ at the end of it all saw contentment writ large on Narayana’s face.</p>.<p>Eco-friendliness was practised to the core sans the sloganeering that one finds today. The bicycle meant zero carbon emissions. Newspapers were the primary means of packaging, though plastic had started to rear its head. Recycled gunny bags served to deliver bulk items like rice and to top it all, liquids like cooking oil were delivered in customer supplied steel or brass containers. Rationed kerosene was always fetched in ‘tins’ originally meant for motor lubricants. Talk about reuse!</p>.<p>Call me regressive, conservative, old school or what have you but our business has stayed with the same neighbourhood store for forty plus years. To this day, our ad hoc purchases happen in a jiffy. After exchanging pleasantries, I mention what I want and out goes a shout to the worker, who is hidden in the bowels of the store. The items are retrieved, a quick, back of the envelope calculation sums up the amount due and I am out of the store in no time. I don’t suffer from barcode reader malfunctions, shopping cart collisions or parking problems. I have retained the same modus operandi for my regular monthly provisions too. Certain aspects have “progressed” on that front, though. The delivery is made in a Jeep, not on the humble bicycle.</p>.<p>As for the chit-chat I have with my shopkeeper, there has never been a respite from it. Ever.</p>
<p>A not too insignificant part of my childhood was spent running to the neighbourhood ‘provision’ store to fetch something or the other. Several of these would be ‘save the day’ runs, which would typically happen when my mother found out, to her dismay, that the needed cooking ingredient had depleted just on the day we were expecting guests. It was more often than not items like cashews or raisins or such munchies that had suffered depletion, having been the objects of pilferage by yours truly. </p>.<p>In addition to these unplanned trips, regular visits to the store happened typically during the first week of the month to deliver a carefully prepared grocery list. After a day or so, the affable Narayana, for that was the grocery hand’s name, would amass the ordered monthly provisions on a rickety bicycle, and come trundling along to our house. ‘Taking delivery’ of the provisions was a process by itself. Mother would read out loud each item from her original list and Narayana would identify and set aside the called item, mentioning its quantity. Items would invariably be wrapped in newspaper and fastened by a string. A gentle squeeze on the packet with his deft hands was all that was needed for him to identify the contents. Though nobody suspected ‘measurement fraud’, my mother’s visage betrayed that look of reassurance when Narayana’s estimated quantity tallied with what she saw on her list. A two rupee ‘bakshis’ at the end of it all saw contentment writ large on Narayana’s face.</p>.<p>Eco-friendliness was practised to the core sans the sloganeering that one finds today. The bicycle meant zero carbon emissions. Newspapers were the primary means of packaging, though plastic had started to rear its head. Recycled gunny bags served to deliver bulk items like rice and to top it all, liquids like cooking oil were delivered in customer supplied steel or brass containers. Rationed kerosene was always fetched in ‘tins’ originally meant for motor lubricants. Talk about reuse!</p>.<p>Call me regressive, conservative, old school or what have you but our business has stayed with the same neighbourhood store for forty plus years. To this day, our ad hoc purchases happen in a jiffy. After exchanging pleasantries, I mention what I want and out goes a shout to the worker, who is hidden in the bowels of the store. The items are retrieved, a quick, back of the envelope calculation sums up the amount due and I am out of the store in no time. I don’t suffer from barcode reader malfunctions, shopping cart collisions or parking problems. I have retained the same modus operandi for my regular monthly provisions too. Certain aspects have “progressed” on that front, though. The delivery is made in a Jeep, not on the humble bicycle.</p>.<p>As for the chit-chat I have with my shopkeeper, there has never been a respite from it. Ever.</p>