"Absolutely beautiful—fit only for queens to wear," I replied, my admiration clear.
"Yes, that's exactly what I said to my father. Too bad you arrived late—otherwise, you two would have met," he said with a playful hint of disappointment, to which I nodded and offered a silent smile.
Ohh so sad I have absolutely no intention to meet your father so will rip my hair along with my clothes if I did something wrong thought Veer with a smile on his face.
"Have you visited the palace?" he inquired, curiosity twinkling in his eyes.
"Yes," I answered. "The king granted me permission to open a shop here, allowing me to earn my own living."
"A shop, huh?" he pondered thoughtfully, his mind racing with possibilities. "Do you know of any decent places where I can find supplies at a reasonable price, preferably in a prime location?" as i continued to ask him.
Engaging in a conversation with him—or really, anyone—requires quite a bit of mental gymnastics for me. I often find myself pondering over my questions and strategizing how to spark a dialogue. In today's world, many people converse in a form of Shudh Hindi, the refined version that you might hear in historical dramas. Unfortunately, I'm not particularly fluent in that style. There are moments when I pause, searching for the right word, which inadvertently leads others to assume that I'm lost in nostalgia or daydreams. This can sometimes make me come across as harmless and even a little pitiful.
"Finding a shop in a prime geographical location is incredibly challenging," Rahul lamented. His tone was serious, signaling just how much weight this matter held for him. That's precisely why I had come to him. I knew that he was the one person who could help me navigate this tricky terrain, and I expressed my unwavering confidence in his abilities. As I spoke, I could almost see his chest swelling with pride; he was buoyed by my faith in him.
"Oh, you're absolutely right! I'm indeed the only one who can make this happen," he replied, puffing out his chest and thumping it with his right hand as a show of determination. "Rest assured, I'll ensure that this deal is a success!" With that, he exclaimed, "Let's go!" His father had just arrived at the shop, granting him the freedom to join me on this quest. Eager for the adventure ahead, we set out to scout potential shops for purchase.
As we wandered through the bustling market, we stumbled upon several shops that looked decent but were priced far beyond what we were willing to pay. After evaluating our options, we decided to venture further afield in search of better deals. It was during this exploration that we paused to take a break, our attention drawn to a scene unfolding nearby—a visibly distressed man kneeling and clutching the feet of a wealthier gentleman.
"That man over there is a sahukaar," Rahul remarked, glancing at the wealthy figure with disdain. "He's notoriously greedy and shrewd, engaging only with those who can offer him some kind of benefit." I listened intently, an idea beginning to form in my mind. If Rahul was correct about the sahukaar's character, perhaps I could exploit this situation to my advantage and negotiate a bargain on his shop.
A absolute greedy person who is willing to do anything is perfect for my trap.With renewed energy, I shot to my feet and announced, "We're going to buy his shop!" Rahul's eyes widened in disbelief. "What! You actually think he would just sell it to you?"
"Oh, he will," I replied confidently, "because I doubt he'll have any other choice." I took my time to formulate my words, wanting to ensure that my intentions were clear while still sounding persuasive.
"Let's go," I said, a mischievous smirk creeping across my face. The thought of the predicament we might put the sahukaar in was exhilarating as we made our way toward him.
As we approached the sahukaar's shop, it was a hive of activity. The air was filled with the sounds of haggling and laughter, and the walls were lined with gleaming brass items, vibrant bolts of silk, and an array of trinkets that dazzled the eye. I stood at the edge of his doorstep, wearing a faded cotton kurta, a humble yet purposeful appearance.
A cloth bag slung over my shoulder held an impressive treasure—50 gold coins gifted by the king. As I prepared to step into the bustling realm of commerce, I felt a strange mix of excitement and nervous anticipation coursing through me. This was it; I was ready to transform our wild ideas into reality.
From Rahul's Perspective
I sit here, engulfed in a haze of uncertainty as I watch Veer approach the formidable Sahukaar Bhimdas Lala. Doubt gnaws at me. How in the world will he manage to persuade this cunning usurer? Bhimdas is a master of manipulation when it comes to money—he navigates the realm of profit like a seasoned player dancing through a game of chess. I can't wrap my head around how this young boy, once overcome with grief and tears from his recent loss, has transformed into someone brimming with audacity and determination. Not only has he garnered support from the palace, but he now strides forward with an unshakeable confidence, ready to make the Sahukaar part with his shop by any means necessary.
Ah, Sahukaar Bhimdas Lala—a man in the prime of his years, but rather too generous with his indulgences. In his presence, one can't help but feel the weight of his greed almost suffocating the air. He is the very essence of avarice, wrapped snugly in luxurious silk garments that defy the very spirit of modesty. His belly bulges like a ripe fruit, straining against the seams of his elaborate brocade kurta, a deep maroon dyed to dazzle and adorned with intricate golden embroidery resembling coins and paisleys—a sight meant to boast of wealth and status. His fingers, thick and laden with ostentatious rings, tremble with excitement whenever the topic of silver arises, and that gluttonous gleam in his small, shifty eyes reminds one of a rodent sneaking around a candle-lit kitchen.
The sun bathes his sallow, slightly greasy skin in a harsh light, highlighting the permanent creases etched deep into his forehead, lines that tell tales of a life spent scrutinizing profit margins and counting coins. Atop his head rests a bright orange turban—tied up high like a signal flag—seemingly intended to divert attention from his beady eyes that dart around like a thief's. His thick moustache, expertly waxed to almost painful angles, twitches in rhythm with his voice, which carries the persistent nasal whine of someone perpetually negotiating, even when he should be complimenting someone.
When he laughs, the sound resonates heavily, his multiple chins quivering delightfully like the rustling of coin bags, a cacophony that is as much a pronouncement of his wealth as it is a reminder of his insatiable desire for more. His shop, forever pervaded by the aromas of old incense, earthy turmeric, and the unmistakable scent of unrestrained greed, is a paradox of allure and aversion. Even under the blazing heat of the summer sun, he drapes a luxurious silk shawl over one shoulder—not for any practical reasons, but as a statement, a display of lavishness, a visual cue of his status in this bustling market. His feet, cracked and darkened from years of walking on the gritty streets, remain adorned with elaborate silver toe rings and anklets he claims are charms for "luck in business."
And now, here stands Veer, approaching him with a spirit that's humble yet bold.