My mother doesn’t trust delivery apps for meat. She believes they source their chicken from inside a pyramid. When I go, she knows she’ll get a chicken that not only died for us, but died in front of us. I’ve been buying chicken since it was Rs 80 per kg. It’s muscle memory now. ‘Bhai, ek kilo.’ He reaches for the pieces already lying on the counter. ‘Nahi bhai. Fresh kato.’
He sighs, opens the cage, pulls one out. For one second, the chicken and I make eye contact. Over the years I’ve developed a Morse code where I blink my eyebrows to say thank you and sorry to the chicken before it goes into that blue drum. Every chicken guy in Hyderabad went through the same training. In short, cut the chicken precisely and don’t show any emotion.
90 percent of this country eats chicken, and he has the look of a man who knows his business is never in danger. Like the liquor shop guy, the medical shop guy and the petrol bunk guy. Too secure to smile. If you’re looking for emotional connection at a meat shop, the chicken guy sometimes throws in a free liver piece if you’re a regular. That’s his version of saying hello. The mutton guy is a different animal. He weighs your order like a jeweller weighs gold, because mutton is damn expensive now. It’s Rs 1,000 per kg, so I always buy half kg. For him, that’s like going to IKEA and buying a comb.
This guy is just rude. He looks at you like you’re not giving him any business at all. His main business comes from restaurants buying in bulk, so he looks at my half kg as charity. Every time I walk in, he looks up and says, ‘God, why?’ Then he cuts it like a techie logging in on a Monday morning.
And the mutton shop has its own week off. Thursday and Friday, there’s scarcity. Saturday and Sunday, there’s abundance. The rest of the days, there’s attitude. But if you want to make friends, meet the guys who sell fish. Vegans say fish are friends, but if you ask me, fish sellers are the friendliest. He smiles. He calls me sir. He asks about my family. Not because he cares. Because fish expires like water vapour at noon. His competition isn’t another fish shop. It’s time. That’s why fish guys are always super nice, and that’s exactly why I trust them less and always check them first. The trick is the gills. Red gills, fresh fish. I’ve done this for years. I’m an expert.
So one day I lift a gill, examine it carefully like a scientist, and give my verdict. ‘Boss, gill not that red. Maybe not fresh.’ He looks at me. “Sir, fish is alive. No need to check gills.” My friends keep telling me to save time and buy online. Same quality, they say. But meat is the only thing I still buy from a store, partly because I can’t convince my mom. And then one day I realised everything else in my life gets ordered online. Groceries, clothes, food, everything. The meat shops are the only interaction I have apart from friends and colleagues. So to continue that interaction, I go.
Sandesh
@msgfromsandesh
(This comedian is here to tell funny stories about Hyderabad)
(The writer’s views are his own)