It was a shop that we grew up with -- and one that saw us grow. As children in boarding school, items bought from Krishnaji's store were like living symbols from home.
Krishnaji always spoke to us with a smile. Our everlasting memory of him was behind the counter of his family-run shop. It was the most successful 'general' store in town. A swarm of people were always jostling for foot space on the two long steps that they had to climb to reach the shop counter.
In the evenings, the crowd spilled onto the pavement with returning office goers and school teachers stopping by to buy provisions on the way home. People shouting out what they wanted, shouldering each other out, stretching their arms, inching closer to catch Krishnaji's attention.
From biscuits to Cadbury's to dal to papad to undies to socks to jhadoos to mosquito coils to almost everything that a household could ever need -- the Tata General Store had it all.
In the two-roomed shop, lined with shelves and boxes on the floor, buckets and jholas hanging from the ceiling that shoppers had to duck under -- it had order in the disorder.
Krishnaji on the right end, and his elder brother who everyone called Guptaji on the left brought order in the chaotic din of the shoppers' demands.
Later on, their younger brother Manoj was brought on to the shop floor to assist them, but the reins of the shop rested on the able shoulders of the two older brothers.
They knew almost all their customers by name. They knew their professions. They knew their children and their elderly parents. They knew where you lived. They knew the special occasions when families needed certain items. They willingly exchanged what you did not want.
In the India of the 1980s and 1990s, they would order what was not available from Calcutta or Patna and did their best ensure that you got what you needed.
Years before online shopping took over our lives, you could send them a list of essentials and they would have it all ready in a used cardboard carton, usually a biscuit box, by the time you arrived.
They would also willingly send empty cartons home whenever we needed some storage boxes.
Like for many townspeople it was the shop our family had and continues to patronise over three generations.
Loyal customers had their own favourite shop corner.
Ours was the Krishnaji corner. We went to the shop with our mother whom Krishnaji called 'Didi', always respectfully making place for her in the crowd of customers when she came to shop.
In between attending to us, he would ask about 'sir' -- referring to my father (who came to shop very rarely) and about my aged grandfather -- and the rest of the family, including uncles and aunts who had married and long gone to set up their homes in other states.
Krishnaji would give us a chocolate from the glass jar. He would congratulate us when we passed our board exams and knew almost the entire list of articles that my brother and I would require to be packed before we returned to boarding school after the holidays.
Every time we used a bottle of Vaseline or Boroline or ate a Bourbon biscuit or condensed milk in the hostel dormitory, Krishnaji and Tata General Store was a part of our home memory.
As children, when home was a 12-14 hour train journey away and inland letters were the only connect items bought from Krishnaji's store were like living symbols from home.
They reminded you of the sights and smells of home -- and of the streets that led home with Tata General Store lying enroute. The items brought from the store could fill you with warmth and transport you to that moment when you stood under mummy's sari pallu as Krishnaji packed those things that our parents then packed into the school trunk.
It was a shop that we grew up with and one that saw us grow. We never spoke much to Krishnaji, but his kind smile and genial attitude made him a part of our lives.
When we were away, he enquired about us. When we returned, he would ask, 'bacche aa gaye (have the kids arrived?)'
We finished school, college, picked up jobs and went on our way, but each time my brother and me returned home, we looked out for Krishnaji on the right corner of the Tata General Store.
When my grandfather passed, Krishnaji came for the funeral. In small towns where you have lived for generations, such are the bonds that people build.
A few years ago, Krishnaji stopped coming to the shop compelled by old age. The next generation had now taken over from Guptaji senior (who had passed) and Krishnaji.
My family still buys daily requirements from the shop -- the only difference being that mummy now WhatsApps the list or makes a phone call, and his son Prashant sends the articles home.
The shop is still one of the main ones in town.
Two days ago, on the daily evening video call with my brother and me, mummy told us that Krishnaji had passed away.
It was as if we had lost a part of our childhood. A part of our warmest home memories was no more.
Rest in Peace, Krishnaji. We will miss you in your right corner.
Feature Presentation: Aslam Hunani/Rediff
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