Upwardly mobile vendors

Shaku was the fisherwoman who brought home fresh seafood for us in Mumbai. Her mother did the same at my mom’s place nearby for many decades, and her grandmother was my mother-in-law’s vendor. Between them they covered the maximum number of regular fish-eaters thereabouts. They ‘divided’ the customers and quarelled if one ventured into the other’s territory. Boundaries were not geographical, so the same building was sometimes visited by more than one fish-seller. In Goa, in our village, the sellers are male; they come on scooters, early in the morning, in a hurry, for seafood is highly perishable.
Shaku used to come at 8 am, before I left for work. Often, I’d rush off whilst she was still there. She sliced, cleaned, packed and put in the freezer what I’d bought, then went her way, shutting the door behind her. Her reputation for honesty was unblemished. Her business depended on it.
 In the few minutes of encounter when I was combing my hair, strapping on the watch, feeding the dog, pocketing keys, putting out the garbage, switching off fans, she pitched her sales talk at me. She told me with studied casualness who had bought what in the neighbourhood and who was likely to buy what else. The price, always higher than the market, depended on competing egos.
Fisherwomen are masters of customer psychology. Watch them pitch their sales talk; they badger you till you are irritated and give in to their bullying. They are never rude to a customer, nor kind. They balance their self-respect and arm-twisting tricks beautifully. And they have a sense of timing.
Here, I am compelled to buy fish at my doorstep for as less as ten rupees, for the cat mainly, and because that’s where I can say hello to my otherwise invisible neighbours. In Mumbai, it was through Shaku that I learnt who’d migrated to the US, who had sold their flat, who was hospitalized, who dead. There is no such equivalent in the modern ‘housing colonies’ of Goa. Why, in many of these gated villas/complexes inhabitants might not even know each other.
In Mumbai, many of the elderly welcome Shaku’s ilk. They are their link to their neighbours. Births, admissions, exams, engagements, heartbreaks, weddings, deaths, re-done balconies, thefts, medical histories ~ all this information about one’s neighbours filter in through the likes of Shaku.
Many of Shaku’s customers I didn’t know at all, yet I shared important events in their lives by proxy, anonymously, for three generations. They say, the older a business is, the more likely that its systems are in place. These door-to-door sellers over generations have developed relationships and built reputations. In Goa, this sort of business is restricted to the villages.
Here, the postmen still play that role. Without road numbers and names, they track people in their homes, recognize them and know when they are travelling. Daily, imperceptibly, these ‘workers’ gather detailed knowledge of their areas. Political and social goings-on are transferred by word of mouth without malice or preference.
 Illiteracy doesn’t hamper communication or commerce. Like other kolins, Shaku had a remarkable acumen for facts and figures, especially in keeping track of credits/debts. Like the lamanis on our beaches who speak multiple tongues without having seen a blackboard in a classroom.
The spirit of enterprise is spilling over to other arenas. The children of these vendors are taking advantage of various schemes (I’ve seen that in Shaku’s family) and some hold responsible jobs. The taxi-drivers and waiters from our village, are stepping out of poverty, and building pucca homes. A silent step away from poverty.