Humans of Mumbai: Saroj
It was late on a Saturday night, and I was desperate for chocolate. Absolutely pining for it.
We were under strict instruction – don’t go out after dark on Independence Day in India – but my longing was too fierce. That’s how I found myself standing in the tiniest grocer on planet earth. Between the stark, artificial lights and the perfect tessellation of every snack food you can imagine, this store was by far the cleanest place in all of Mumbai.
The chocolate was good. Exceptionally good. So, the next day I went back. And the day after that. And again. Until, eventually, I was spending more time in the sardine-can-size shop than my own hotel room.
Tangled in the sanctuary of snack heaven was Saroj – a robust woman with a sparkling bindi on her brow and a glittering saree to match. Her English was near perfect, her curiosity evident in every question.
“You must come to my home. You must drink tea I make and eat food I cook. You must.”
Well, how could I decline? It was simply unmissable.
The following evening, after a long day of study, four of us practically skipped to the grocer to meet Saroj. We were greeted by her and her husband, who promptly ushered us out to the front of the shop to sample the delicacies of Indian street food; pani puri – a hollow crisp filled with sweet chickpea water and tamarind paste (much tastier than it sounds), and another dish that I can only describe as Indian nachos – fried bread layered with potato and chutney, dusted in spices and cashews.
Saroj lead us the short way to her house – a bottom level apartment in a large complex tucked off the busy street. The house was spacious in Indian regards - a symbol of their middle class-ness; every nook was filled with photos and trinkets. A small shrine sat in the corner of the living room. Jainism, Saroj’s religion, is one that teaches salvation through perfection, and non-harm to living creatures.
Draped over the couch was a sash of blue chiffon adorned in crystals and beads. As it turns out, Saroj is a saree fanatic. Her wardrobe closet, which she very proudly introduced us to, was packed full of sarees in every colour, fabric and embroidery you can imagine. Fifty-two of them, to be exact. She touched them caressingly, lovingly. Every year, she travelled up north to her favourite fabric district to buy more.
The sweet smell of chai consumed the house the moment Saroj set it to boil. I watched her deft hands set to work in the kitchen – one dry-frying chapati, the other pouring about a cup of sugar into the tea. We sat together on the living room floor, sipping sweet, silky chai. She spoke extensively of her daughter – 26 and unmarried, geriatric for Indian standards. Saroj told us of her search for her daughter’s perfect suitor: he must be handsome, educated, of a good family, and my daughter must like him.
I told her that in Australia, parents don’t generally find their child’s significant other. That most of us don’t wind up married until we’re nearing thirty, or beyond. I told her that mostly, we marry for love.
“Love? Oh no, no. Not the same as India, I don’t think.”
We drank some more, ate some more, laughed and talked like old friends. When it came time to leave, Saroj presented us a gift – socks, each perfectly crocheted with silky, baby-blue thread into little booties. With only two pairs in her stock pile, we each took one, to remember the evening, the grocer, and dear Saroj.
The evening left me reeling – I couldn’t believe how welcome I’d felt in a stranger’s home. More than that, I couldn’t believe how much Saroj wanted us there. The hospitality was akin to none.
I’ll never forget that night. It was, and will always be, one of the most special moments of my travels.