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Cheap thrills
C.K. MEENA
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Whatever happened to all those friendly guys who sat around street corners and repaired old umbrellas and suitcases?
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PHOTO: S. RAMESH KURUP
NIMBLE FINGERS This man's efficiency would give a surgeon a serious complex
I was hunting for someone who could treat a broken rib. Not mine, but that of a foul-weather friend, my trusty umbrella. The rib was smashed in by a gusty Bangalore wind but I didn't worry about it until it started sticking through the cloth like a bone piercing flesh.
Now it's not easy to find someone who mends umbrellas. While I was passing through City Market the other day I surveyed the pavements — bristling with locks, frocks, shoes, fruits, toys, sunglasses, nail clippers, every imaginable product at bargain prices — and I struck gold in no time: an umbrella-repair-man. I asked him how much. Fifteen rupees, he said, probably in anticipation of my haggling it down to ten. Since I make it a point never to bargain with vendors, cobblers and other daily-wage workers, I agreed instantly. He moved his head to indicate where I could sit — a cement step opposite him, near a man who was deep-frying angrily orange jilebis.
I sat next to a beggar woman eating a mango. He grabbed a pair of flat-nosed pliers and started the operation. It's a pity I didn't time him. His efficiency would have given the surgeons in nearby Victoria Hospital a complex. In about 90 seconds he had the hinge moving smoothly and he opened and closed the umbrella a few times to show me that the rib had healed.
This story reveals in several ways that I am decidedly uncool. It isn't cool to carry an umbrella. It isn't cool to visit City Market. And most of all, it is downright shameful to want to extend the life of a low-priced object. That's not how we live in ritzy glitzy Bangalore. To give a new twist to an old American saw, "If it's broke, don't fix it — junk it."
But I don't mind confessing that I'm thrifty. I'm the sort who gets cheap thrills by saving a few bucks. You should see me at the end of a day's gadding about on a 25-rupee daily bus pass. I'm positively glowing. If you're not familiar with this pass business let me explain. The monthly or annual pass is meant for regular commuters but if you're an irregular traveller and you have several places to go to on the same day, the day pass is ideal. You ask the conductor of the first BMTC bus you board for one. (Note: Don't try this on the Volvo or the KSRTC.) After that you proceed to skip in and out of buses all day long without having to fumble for loose change. The warm glow intensifies at night when you mentally calculate how much you would have spent if you had bought regular tickets.
Thrift finds no mention in the credo that today's middle class lives by. And the middle class is not what it used to be. I'm part of the ration-card generation. The quotas that affected us were rice and sugar, not college admission. Since a penny earned was a penny saved, my father would use the flat end of a teaspoon tail to scrape and fold the metallic toothpaste tube so that every last smidgen was used up. Of course I thought it frightfully niggardly of him at the time, but years later when I watched a toothpaste commercial which had children squeezing out its contents to write on the bathroom mirror, I threw a fit. You don't need to be miserly but there's a limit to what you can waste.
In the not too distant past, middle class folks would get their plastic buckets repaired. With a piece of leftover plastic and a blowtorch the repairer would seal the torn part, leaving a lumpy scar. Even if you wish to be thrifty today you'll find it difficult to locate people who mend cheap household objects. In principle at least, an expensive branded product poses no problem; if it's bulky the mechanic comes home and if it's small you take it to the service outlet. But if a relatively cheap item goes kaput you have to search high and low for a spare part (straps for rubber slippers, for example) or a repair shop. A friend with a broken suitcase-handle made many fruitless trips and mobile calls to the handyman until he discovered that the source of malfunction was a single missing screw!
But who has the time to lug damaged goods around town? I just have to say the magic words "pressure cooker handle" and hundreds of you are bound to emit a collective shout. On the one hand you're pressed for time and on the other, there's the three-point programme devised by manufacturers to encourage consumer spending: ensure that products are not made to last, reduce the warranty period, and keep coming out with newer models. Another method of tempting you to replace, not repair, is the so-called exchange offer. It falsely assuages your guilty conscience. The price you get for your used appliance is next to nothing, whereas a timely repair would have given it a fresh lease of life.
Arm yourself, therefore, with hammer, pliers, screwdriver set, sewing kit, and strong adhesive. If the problem is beyond them, start hunting for the elusive fixer. But if you're going to turn around and tell me that you actually darn the holes in socks and jocks, I bow to you oh maestro.
Send your feedback to ckmeena@gmail.com.
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