Sweet Change.

         

“Mode, chillar, chhutta, call loose change by any name, like the rose (quoted Shakespeare here for effect),” I said, “there’s a shortage of it.”

          I wasn’t sure Sri Husband had heard me, so I repeated it. “Mode, chillar… roses… shortage…” 

He’s challenged when it comes to comprehending simple things that I say. Or he hears only the last part of the sentence.

“Whattt?” he shouted. “What shortage? Which roses? What does that mean?”

“Don’t yell,” I barked right back. Then I tried to explain to him in an even tone: “It’s like the toffees you get at the payment counters.”

“Whattt?” he bellowed again. “Can you clarify what you’re talking about or is that too much of an effort for you?”

“You know, when you buy shoes and chappals, the price says so many rupees and ninety-nine paise?”

Silence, then an agreeable nod and a slow “o-ka-y, continue”.

“The shoe-shop-people never give you one paisa back, right?”

         Another slow ‘ye-es’ followed by ‘I don’t think one paisa coins are in  circulation any longer’.

          My turn: “What happens to so many thousands of one paisas then? Are they accounted for?”

          He, cautiously, as if treading on unsafe ground: “What does that have to do with roses and toffees?”

          I took that as encouragement and talked on: “When I pay money for a bus-ride, if the money is eight or nine rupees and I pay ten, I don’t get back any money.”

He: “You should ask for it.”

Me: “Waste of breath. I get the answer ‘mode na, change na’. Actually, if the conductor has some, he avoids passengers he owes.”

(An aside-- I think ‘conductor’ is an inappropriate name to give a guy who handles cash, high-pitched deafening whistles, ropes on banging doors and is an expert on stuffing humans in dilapidated rattling tin-on-wheels such that a famous idiom could read ‘sardines stuffed like humans in a private bus in Goa’).

 Sri Husband, with a hint of carefully controlled irritation: “I’m asking you again. What does that have to do with roses and toffees?”

Me: “Forget the roses, I was trying to be literary.”

He: “So what about the toffees, then?”

Me: “When I go shopping for groceries, even in malls, no one gives me any mode/chillar/chutta when I pay the bill. Instead, they give me toffees.”

Ah, he remarked, mumbling under his breath that he had now figured out why there were so many transparent plastic-paper wrapped sticky sweets in my purse.

Oh, I muttered right back, immediately, correctly guessing whose prying hands regularly mixed up the contents of my purse.

Thus neutralized, our conversation became saner.

“Where do government minted coins go?”

“In the bowls of beggars and the coffers of temples/ churches/ mosques, now that pay-phones are practically extinct.”

“What do beggars and priests do with those coins?”

“Maybe give them back to the government? The Railways have solved the problem by no longer having fractions of rupees in pricing their tickets, the Postal Department can hand over stamps if they don’t have change. So maybe the government hoards them in oversized piggy banks somewhere?”

“In the meanwhile, how do we tackle the problem? Every time we pay a bill, we can’t keep rounding off prices or accepting sweets.”

“We can buy in wholesale and keep at home…” that was me.

“… roses and toffees?” that was Sri Husband not allowing me to complete my sentence.

Me, exasperated: “Forget the roses, that was only for literary effect.”

“Buy toffees then?”

“Yes, and use them like cash. I mean, if shops can give customers sweets, then they should accept the same from us when we want to buy something, right? Why, we could buy large amounts of toffees and barter them to tip the gas-delivery chap, maybe even pay medical bills with them. We could exchange them for pao, for fish, for getting punctures repaired. We could use sweets to buy cars and airlines tickets. We should invest in them before someone else gets the same idea.”

“By (pun intended) the truckload?”

“Yes.”

“What kind would you buy? The boiled variety, the brown chocolaty ones, the coffee/ strawberry flavoured types or those that will soothe sore throats? Would brands matter?”

Me, now kind of carried away: “I’d like the white-and-red mock cigarettes. A sweet is a sweet is a sweet. After all, a rose by any name…”

No idea what I said wrong, but Sri Husband’s pursed his lips and has been quiet since then.

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in