I am sitting at the counter. A customer hands over a book. It is a recently published love story. Full of light banter and no sadness whatsoever. “Nice choice, Subhashbabu” I smile at the 70-something gentleman who has an undying love for romcoms. “As always,” he replies with a grin. I generate an invoice, collect cash, and return the book to him.
He leaves and I am left alone at
the counter. A buzz is setting inside the store. Isn’t it early to get crowded?
I glance at the clock on my desk.
2:50 AM. 10 minutes left.
I glance around in the store.
Most of the people are at the ‘Best-sellers’ section. I stand and walk away
from the counter. I need a break before the rush hour.
I scan my thumb at the door to
the inner room. Should we have an ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ board? Unnecessary
and would only invite unwanted attention. Nobody cares to walk inside
unmarked doors at a bookstore.
But this is not just a
bookstore. Certainly not after 3.
I walk inside the room. Netra is
busy looking at a form from last night’s orders. Weighing the ingredients.
Mixing them in her test-tubes.
“Give yourself a break, Netra. You
up for a coffee?” I ask as I head towards the coffee machine. I know not to go
anywhere near her when she’s working. Once, I had tried to distract her and she
had emptied a beaker right on my shirt while yelling, “Acid!” only to be
followed by a giggle and “It’s only water.” Morbid sense of humour.
“Make it a strong one,” she says
with a smile.
“Too much caffeine isn’t good for you,” I say
as I pick up two cups from the machine – my latte and her dark coffee.
“Caffeine, coffin… too much of
anything isn’t good, right?” she says while sealing a vial and pasting a label
on it.
“Unnecessary,” I say as I keep her
cup on the desk.
I hear a buzz from the front counter.
Ten minutes up already? I rush out of the inner room – my cup of coffee
in one hand and Netra’s OUTWARD tray with neatly stacked vials in it, in the
other.
The counter window has a queue.
As soon as I sit on my chair, I see the familiar face of Farhan. His eyes are
red. He is offering his empty vial through the counter window.
“Empty so soon? You are
overusing, Farhan. We had discussed it. It’s not healthy,” I say, yet not
stopping myself from taking his vial and keeping it in my INWARD basket.
“It’s my school friend. We grew
up together. It’s so difficult-,” he says with a glint in his eyes.
“Friend, father, foe - who cares?”
I cut him off. I have heard these stories before and this isn’t the time to
listen to a repeat customer. “Come tomorrow to collect it. Just don’t get
addicted,” I say as I give him an invoice. He pays immediately and walks away –
a smile on his face, something already brewing in his head for the next time he
uses.
I see a 50-something woman next.
She is hesitant. “I don’t know how this works,” she smiles through the pain on
her face.
“I am sorry for your loss. Take
this form. There are pens at the writing counter near the ‘Spirituality’
section. Write your name, the name of the departed, date of death, favourite
memory. It’s all pretty basic,” I hand over a form to her. She is still
confused.
“You will have to make the
payment now.” I give her an invoice and the lady pays – more question marks on
her forehead. “Drop the filled form in this box,” I keep the box of forms at
the counter, “Collect your vial tomorrow. Take a sip from the vial in the
morning and you’ll get to spend a day with the departed. Please avoid overusing
it. It’s not healthy,” I smile. The lady moves out of the queue while looking
at the box, trying to assimilate everything I had said.
Now, we could have printed it all
on a board. But Netra thought it would be better to have a human with people
skills (me, of course) to talk to people before we take their money.
Throughout the day, and partly
through the night, we sell books at our store. The 3-4 AM hour is reserved for
selling vials.
“Is my vial ready?” It is Subhashbabu
again.
“Sure is,” I hand him the
labelled vial from Netra’s OUTWARD tray, followed by an invoice. He pays me but,
for some reason, is still in the queue.
“Yes, Subhashbabu?” I ask. He is
not easy to get impatient with.
“You talked about my choice
earlier. Sheela is my best choice,” he says proudly. I smile at him adoring how
he kept it in his mind to reply.
“Of course,” I smile at his use
of present tense for someone lost long ago. He begins to move out of the queue.
“I wanted to ask. Why don’t you
sell these vials before 3?” Subhashbabu peeks in again.
It would be better to have a
board at least for this one but Netra is against all forms of written
communication. “Oh, it is just that we are selling books all day. These things
take time to prepare. Besides, we don’t wish to mix the two businesses,” I say,
wondering if he is convinced.
I spend the hour taking customers’
requests either for a refill or a new request to spend a day with another loved
one. I keep nudging them not to overdo it. We don’t know the bad effects of the
vial on a person’s physical health. But we know that being addicted to the
departed could not be too healthy.
The clock on my desk gives out a
little ding. It is 4 AM. I keep the CLOSED slate on the counter. I hear a
collective sigh from the unattended customers. They know better than to
complain about the strict hours.
I stand up and stretch my arms.
It will be a while before the crowd steps out of the store. They deserve some
time to collect their thoughts and emotions.
I scan my thumbprint at the door
of the inner room. Netra is deeply engrossed in a horror book – a shadow of a
house on its cover.
“Do you ever think that these gruesome
books could be the reason for your dark thoughts?” I ask as I stand next to
her.
“Could be. Or, it could be just an
occupational hazard,” she says.
I look at how beautiful she looks
even while reading something so ghastly. That ready wit, those expressive eyes,
those pretty hair – all gone so soon. I can’t take my eyes off her as I raise the
vial to my lips.
