Govind

Govindbhai takes matters and the plastic sheeting covering his precious refrigerator into his own hands after his young assistant and a customer who reminds him of his own daughter teach him to care for more than just his possessions.

“Chai!”

Govindbhai reached for the hot, steaming glass thrust at him. He liked this new boy, Syed, who brought chai to his shop every morning. Magan, the tea shop owner, was lucky to have found such a hard-worker.

“When are you going to remove the plastic cover from your fridge?” Syed asked cheekily, his eyes fixed on the gleaming fridge still wrapped in its original plastic sheet.

“What is it to you? The plastic keeps my fridge looking like brand new.”

“Yes, but it is choking the condenser, which is the heart of the fridge.”

“So now you are an engineer! Who told you that?”

“Parmar sir. He says plastic covers keep the outside looking new and good but inside things go bad because they can’t breathe.”

“Go now! Finish your work and go to school. Let me drink my chai in peace before my first customer comes.” Govindbhai closed his eyes, took a sip, and let the chai fill him with its sweet warmth.

“Two packets Parle G, please.”

Govindbhai reached for the biscuit packets from the shelf behind him, put them in a black plastic bag, twirled the bag to twist the opening shut, and handed the bag without looking up.

“No plastic bag.”

“It is OK. I am not charging for plastic bag.”

“I don’t want a plastic bag. It will block the gutter and dirty the talao for many years.”

Govindbhai looked up at the intense, liquid brown eyes with their flecks of gold. The girl in front of him was about the same age as his Sarla. Only Sarla was safely married but the fire in her eyes was gone after the birth of his first grandson.

He untwirled the bag, handed over the two biscuit packets, and took the money without a word.

“Thank you!” 

Rain started falling gently as she skipped away.

Govindbhai stared at the plastic bag in his hand and at the plastic sheet on the sparkling new fridge. He finished his chai, put aside the glass, and got up slowly. He removed the Pepsi display, the Bisleri bottles, his precious price list with the Laxmi photo on its side, the “Cold Drinks” sign his grandson had made in school, the calendar, and the light box sign that he had still not connected. Then he pulled away the plastic.

“I will be back in five minutes only,” he called out to Qasimbhai in the shop across.

He opened his umbrella, bundled the plastic under his arm, and did not stop walking until he reached the wall near the temple.

The cow looked up at him with her large brown eyes as he came near. She shook her head, splattering him with raindrops. He started talking to her softly, took the plastic from under his arm, spread it on her back, patted her gently, and tied it down around her neck. He made sure it was tied not too tight.

His fridge was going to be OK, like brand new, for a long time inside the shop. He would dust it and keep it clean. No more putting things on top of it. The plastic would keep some rain from falling on the cow. It would not block a gutter or dirty a talao.