Rama Store — The Monthly Pilgrimage

In those days, if you were a Tamil family living in Delhi, there were certain things that happened every month with the regularity of the monsoon. The electricity would go off at an inconvenient hour, somebody would receive a letter from Madras, and your mother would announce that it was time to go to Rama Store.

There was no question of whether you needed anything.

You were going.

Rama Store was where the Tamil population of South Delhi went to obtain those things which Delhi, despite being the capital of the country, had apparently decided were unnecessary. Idli rice, urad dal, tamarind, appalam, coconut oil and various powders whose names could not be explained to a North Indian shopkeeper without a lengthy demonstration.

The shopping list was usually written by Amma in a small notebook. It had been prepared after an inspection of the kitchen that could have been conducted by the Food and Civil Supplies Department. But by the time we reached the store, the list had somehow acquired several additional items.

Rama Store guy himself was a remarkable man.

He had a memory that made you suspicious of modern technology.

You would approach the counter and before you could open your mouth, he would say:

“Two kilos rice?”

“Yes.”

“Urad dal?”

“Yes.”

“LG one packet?”

“Yes.”

“Gingelly oil?”

“Yes.”

There was no need to say anything further. He had already completed your order in his head.

He knew what every family bought, how much they bought and, judging by the timing of our visits, probably when we were likely to run out.

This was before computers, databases, loyalty programmes or targeted advertising.

Rama Store had customer analytics.

He just kept it in his head.

There were also the festival offers.

Around Ganesh Chathurthi, if you bought enough groceries, you might receive an earthen Ganesha.

Nobody called it an “eco-friendly initiative” then. There was no corporate sustainability report and certainly no press release.

You bought groceries.

They gave you Ganesha.

Everyone went home happy.

Rama Store was also one of the few places where you could go for groceries and return with news.

Someone would be there from your school. Someone would know your uncle. Someone else would have heard that so-and-so's daughter had got married in Madras. Within fifteen minutes, you had learned more about the Tamil community in Delhi than you had intended to.

The adults could spend two hours discussing groceries, relatives and the price of rice.

The children waited.

We never understood why buying ten items required so much discussion.

But perhaps that was the point.

Rama Store was not merely a shop. It was a small piece of Tamil Nadu that had somehow established itself in Delhi.

You went there for rice and appalam.

You came back with groceries, gossip, news from Madras, and occasionally a free Ganesha.

And if you forgot something, there was always next month.

Rama Store would remember.

He probably already knew what you were going to forget.