Our first home in Punjab was a matchbox-sized “quarters” in Jalandhar’s New Baradari. Our well-meaning neighbour, Mrs. Aneja, took me under her wing. “Let’s go to Romi di Hatti; the cloth there is cheap and best.” My jaw dropped at the evident contradiction in her description of Romi’s wares, but I did accompany her to Rainak Bazaar–a catacomb of lanes and bylanes through which you could ride a scooter but not drive a car.
Romi di Hatti housed a treasure trove of cotton, linen, and “export”. The claim “Cheap and Best Hi-fashion” was emblazoned across the front. A well-dressed woman screamed, “Romi, eh kinne da? Panj metre dei mainu, te saaf saaf katna!” (How much is this for? Give me 5 metres but cut precisely).
The owner was a 30-something man in tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt. His flowing hair and a latkana (dangler) ring in one ear added to his rakish personality. But he was courteous to a fault. He addressed every young or middle-aged female as bhenji and every elderly lady who did not dye her hair as mataji.
He had a cult following of sorts. Proof of this was that his shop was always crowded with women trying to grab his attention. The one who caught his eye looked smug and superior and smirked at her competitors, while the rest continued to wait in thinly disguised impatience. Several thaans or stacks of fabric were waiting to be cut, and Romi danced acrobatically in a valiant response to cries of “Oh phirozi ambi wala” or “oh moav dots wala, uttey piya, dekh”–the turquoise paisley or mauve-dotted length that his customers wanted.
On my second visit to Romi di Hatti, I made the mistake of taking my husband along. When you are newly married, you do tend to commit such blunders. My husband took one look at Romi and pronounced him a rascal who enjoyed the attention from women of all ages. “He’s only doing his job, earning a living,” I batted for Romi though I mentally noted I had not seen a single man outside his shop on either of my visits.
Romi seemed distinctly uncomfortable under the baleful glare of my husband of two months. I decided to make the experience less stressful for all of us by making a quick exit and steering the spouse towards another of Jalandhar’s iconic shops, Pahwa’s Milk Badam–pronounced “millak-bdaam”. When you crunch almond halves and drink chilled cardamom-laced milk simultaneously, you tend to forget about the Romeo of Romi di Hatti even if he was Mr. Cheap and Best.
I noticed over the years that many shopkeepers are happier when only women visit their premises. The stereotype that women ask less searching questions, are less analytical and not critical enough, seems to be one they believe in. Hardly anybody calls themselves “Cheap and Best” anymore. If anything, they misuse the words “Exclusive” or “Designer”. “Designer” only means that the garment has a pretty design, “Exclusive” means that the shop has just one in stock. Impeccable logic, wouldn’t you agree?