Volunteering

I always said that if an opportunity to do some volunteering came up while I was in India, I'd take it. Well, it did, but not in quite the way I'd imagined.

In Udaipur the streets of the city are lined with souvenir shops selling everything you could never possibly want and one or two things you might. By and large, these shops are colourful and enticing but the pressure from the owners the moment you step inside is not, so perversely you end up in the shop where the salesman makes the leat effort, as it's the least stressful.

I went into one shop attracted by a display of colourful painted papier mache baubles. Pretty but useless to a traveller and inconveniently round to pack, I wasn't going to buy any, as I told the owner the moment I walked in.

'No problem, just look around,' he said calmly. He also sold jewellery, cushions covers, rugs, a few other bits and bobs, and shelves and shelves of pashminas. Looking at the baubles I recognised the style and asked, 'These are Kashmiri, aren't they?'
'Yes, they are.'
'Are you Kashmiri?' I asked. He had the paler skin and finer features of men from the northern state, so I hazarded a guess.
'Yes I am, ' he smiled, pleased I had spotted this.
'I thought so.' Then, just by way of conversation, and because in my opinion it's true, I added, 'Kashmiri men are very good-looking.'
He looked surprised and said, 'Thank you, except me.' This was only partly true. He looked about 30 and although he had the pale skin and fine features, there was a certain heavyness to his face that stopped him being as attractive as some Kashmiris I'd seen.

Now he could see I wasn't there to buy but to chat, he relaxed more and started to talk about other subjects. His name was Latif and, with his younger brothr Javeed, he worked in Udaipur during the tourist season from November to April, before going back to Kashmir to his family.

We got onto the subject of my profession and when I told him I was a florist and had run a shop back home his face lit up.

'Can I ask you something? he asked. 'What should I do to get more people to come into my shop?'
'Well,' I said, looking round. There was a lot to take in. 'The most important thing is to make your window the most attractive one around, so it encourages people to choose your shop over the others, come in and see what you have.'

I walked to the window. It was full of a little bit of everything he sold, all crammed in together. In the centre was a narrow floor-to-ceiling glass shelving unit on which stood about 20 grubby jewellery display 'necks' with a necklace on each. To the right was a wooden plank, balanced on a plinth, draped with five or six pashminas, all clashing colours and patterns. Above it, against a length of painted plywood, a white cotton shirt was suspended. To the left of the shelving was a black metal 'tree', again draped in a rainbow of more pashminas. Below this on the floor of the window was the basket of multi-coloured baubles that had caught my eye.

The ensemble could most politely be described as 'confused' and impolitely as 'terrible'. Everything clashed, everything fought, everything tried to grab your attention so much that nothing did. There was nowhere to rest your eye, so it flitted about, confused and finally gave up looking. Latif had applied the classic Indian 'pile it high' approach.

The inside wasn't much better. A waist-level glass cabinet towards the back of the shop contained row after row of rings, pendants, bracelets and loose gemstone. There were so many there, you couldn't pick out one from another.
And there were yet more pashminas. Along the whole of the left-hand side of the shop, floor to ceiling, was a wall made entirely of small cases, each filled with pashminas, all neatly folded in plastic bags. He must have had no less than 1,000 different designs, probably more! But you couldn't see them. Entombed in their plastic shrouds, only the thinnest slice of colour of each was visible. How did he expect to sell what his customers couldn't see?

The back and right-hand side were more of the same, but with rugs and cushion covers and more ugly necks with equally ugly, dusty jewellery on them. I took a deep breath and, as kindly as I could, told Latif a few home truths.

'Your window is too confusing,' I said. 'Your eye can't pick out any one thing, as there's so much going on. The colours don't go together, there's no sense of scale or proportion, there's no rhythmn to guide the eye through what it sees and it's all been just put in there with no theme that the customer can understand and 'read'.'

I stopped. Had I blinded him with my limited science? Had I, as a foreigner and a woman, said too much?Been too blunt, too rude? I waited nervously for his response.

'Ok, ' he said slowly, taking in what I'd said. 'So what should I do? How should I do these things?' Relief washed over me. It was OK, he'd accepted my criticisms, wasn't offended and it seemed as if he was ready to hear some suggestions too.

'Ok, " I said, looking round, not sure where to start, 'you need to have a colour theme, to link everything. Look I'll show you." And I was off.

I helped myself to a bright orange pashmina already in the widow, then hunted through his many stacks to find two others in similar colours, but different designs. Then I took three graduated Kashmiri-painted elephants and three Kashmiri bangles, also orange and added them to my pile. I laid everything on top of the jewellery cabinet, as a makeshift surface.

'All these things are different lines you sell, but they're all linked by colour.' I threaded each of the three pashminas through one of the bangles, fanned them out and laid them side by side. Then I stood the elephants behind them, graduating from largest to smallest. I explained how the display I'd quickly put together showed certain principles that made it attractive and easy to understand: there was repetition in the number of elephant, scarves and bangles ('Odd numbers are better than even,' I added). The grouping of elephants gave it height and variation of scale, while the pashminas threaded through the bangles gave it an interesting informality and movement. And eveything was linked through tones of orange. Latif looked thoughtful, then as if dawn were breaking inside his brain.

'You've made a theme,' he said, with a child-like sense of wonder, 'And everything goes together.' I could
almost see the lightbulb bursting on above his head. 'Yes, my dear, it's very good what you have done.'

Relief and excitement rushed through me. He didn't think I was impertinent, he didn't think my ideas were nonsense and he even seemed willing to let me run riot in his shop, helping myself to beautiful things to make a display that should tempt his customers.

'So what about the rest of my shop? How should I change that?'
'Well, all of the inside should reflect the window, so your shelves should have displays on them too, not just piles of pashminas people can't see properly.'
'But I have no space to put displays,' He scanned his shop, taking in the multitudes of pashminas, the piles of cushion covers and the horrible necks.
'Latif,' I said gently, 'That is because you have too much stock. It takes up all your display space You need to store it somewhere else to make room.'
'But where am I going to store it?' he wailed, 'I have no space.'

We spent the next two hours in deep and furious debate. I told him he could build a stockroom at the back, by cutting off some of the shop space; he said he'd already spent a lot of money re-fitting the store. So I said he needed to condense as mcuh stock as possible into as few display spaces as possble. He countered that all the space was already full!

Again and again we came back to stock versus space. He admitted that he didn't want a single customer to leave his shop empty-handed, so he'd bought every imaginable colour and design so he had something for everyone.

'But you have so many your customers can't see what you have.'
'But I have the biggest choice of pashminas of any shop here. It would take all day to show someone all my designs.'
'Precisely!' I said, finally triumphant that I'd won the point. 'No-one is ever going to spend that long in your shop - ever!' He looked beaten. With a sigh he said, 'Yes, you're right.'

It was a hollow victory as it didn't give me pleasure to make a man realise that he'd make a mistake - an expensive one. He looked so dejected. I started to feel guilty that I'd even mentioned it and thought maybe he'd have been better off happy under the misapprehension that he was doing the right thing.

'I go to Kashmir to buy the new fashions of pashmina every year,' he said forlornly, half defensively, half sadly.
'Well stop doing it,' I said gently. 'Your customers are tourists. They don't know what the pashmina fashions are. Sell what you already have.'

As we were talking, an Indian man came in followed by two German ladies. One of the ladies asked Latif if he had any pashminas in grey/black designs. He got out a selection. 'What's the price?' she asked in English. I was surprised when it was the other man, not Latif who answered. The lady scoffed.

'We saw the same thing for nearly half the price,' she said, still looking at Latif. Again he said nothing and the other man answered, explaining it was good quality and therefore a good price. But they were not buying it - in either sense of the word - and walked out with their Indian in tow protesting and lowering the price.

'Why didn't you say anything?' I asked Latif when they'd gone. He looked angry.
'What could I say? He is another shopkeeper and he told them a high price because if I had sold it I would have had to give him commission - 40%.'
'Really? 40%!' I was shocked. 'Why is it so high and why do you pay it? Just refuse.'
His eyes were blazing with indignation. 'How can I refuse? If I do, he will come back with other people and beat me up. It happens all the time.'

Now I was really shocked. The commission racket is well-known in India and covers everything from hotels to restaurants. If someone (often a taxi or rickshaw driver) brings in a customer, they expect a hefty commission, which you, the tourist, pays for with an inflated price. I didn't realise other shopkeepers were demanding commission too, if they brought you someone they couldn't sell to.

'I absolutely hate it!' Latif spat, 'but what can I do? The Government is supposed to be stopping it but it still happens. If you call the police they do nothing.'

I was lost for words, but now it seemed even more important than ever to make sure Latif got his own customers through the door, so he could keep all the profits himself.

I changed the subject back to the displays to take his mind off such a touchy subject. Soon we on familiar territory again, arguing over how to display, where to display and what to display. I had ideas, Latif had others. It was West fighting East. It was Pakistan and India figting over his belove Kashmir. Neither of us was prepared to agree with the other's demands, neither was in budging mode.

But it was fun! I love this kind of exchange of ideas, especially with someone who cared and was passionate about his business. It excited me and I was pleased that it excited him too.

It was getting late and I had to meet two French girls for dinner, so I made Latif an offer: 'Would you like me to come back tomorrow and do your window for you? If you don't like it, you can change it back.'
'Yes please, my dear. That is very kind of you.' So we arranged to meet at 10am the next day and I left.

I turned up at 10 on the dot, only to see Latif's younger brother, Javeed, cleaning and opening up, but no Latif.

'Is Latif here?' I asked.
'He at home. Come soon.' So I waited for him, starting to worry already. Had he changed his mind or did he think I wouldn't turn up. Was he all talk and no action? As 10:00 became 10:15, then 10:30 I started to get angry. I'd offered my free time to help him and his business and he couldn't be bothered to show up. Then, just as I was about to tell Javeed I was leaving, Latif appeared.

'Where were you?' I asked.
'Sorry, sorry. I didn't see the time.' I sighed but my anger evaporated. He was here now and that was what counted. Besides this would be fun! I love doing windows, making something enticing that stops people in their tracks, then watching over the next hours and days as, bit by bit, things sell. It's exciting to see it in action. But Latif didn't seems to share my enthusiasm today. He was listless and quiet.

'So what do you want to put in the window?' I asked brightly, trying to gee him up.
'It's up to you, my dear, you decide.' This was not what I wanted. I wanted us to do it together. I wanted to see Latif get excited and have ideas of his own. I wasn't there to slave while he sat doing nothing. But at moment it seemed that was the situation. So I gritted my teeth, slightly regretting my over-enthusiastic generosity, and got on with it.

'What colour should we do?' I asked.
'Your choice.'
'OK, let's do the orange we did yesterday. It's bright and will attract attention.'
'OK.' He leaned against some cushions, picking his nails. Right, now I knew I was on my own.

I gathered together the things from the display I'd shown him yesterday. Now I did need his help emptying the window. He struggled to his feet.

'I'm sorry. I take some medication and it makes me feel very tired,' he said. So that explained his lacklustre appearance! But, not wanting to give him an excuse, I ignored this. Gradually, with Latif and Javeed's help, I stripped the window, leaving dusty but empty space. Bossing Javeed about, telling him where to put the things we'd moved, Latif seemed to regain his energy a bit.

I spread the three orange pashminas neatly over the plank so they hung down covering the plinth and placed the elephants on top, marching across their flaming fabric desert. At the bottom of the window I added a couple of orange-painted camels and a candlestick for height.

Suddenly Latif was by my side, outside the window, looking in critically. He didn't say anything, until finally, 'We need to put in a jacket, to show I sell them.'

'OK, ' I said, pleased he was finally showing an interest. 'Find one that goes with the other things.' He came back with a rather florid, rust, autumnal, brown floral embroidered one. Horrible in my opinion, but the perfect colour for the window.

'This OK?' he asked
'Perfect,' I beamed. 'You've got the idea already.' And with this little personal success Latif began to warm up.

'Put it in the top, so people can see it,' he ordered. Now he was back and raring to go.

Having done the right side of the window, I decided to do a different colour - turquoise - for the middle shelf section. Sadly some of the ugly necks had to come back into service, but this time sporting matching turquiose stone necklaces, complemented with bracelets, rings, earrings, bangles and more blue-toned pashminas.

As I built the display and Javeed busily re-packed the items we'd taken out of the window, Latif popped in and out of the door like a mad jack-in-the-box, a deep frown darkening his face. I was nervous.

'This pashmina is too high up,' he pointed to one I'd folded flat on one of the top shelves. 'People can't see from the street, it's too flat. Bring it onto a lower shelf.'

Now this was what I wanted! To see Latif not only getting a grip on the ideas I'd given him but also taking ownership of the look and if that meant bossing me around too, then that was great! I was thrilled.

'This shelf needs some earrings to go with the necklace and we need to put some cushions, I think three, along the bottom.' I could hardly keep up with him now.

Soon the middle section was done and it was onto the left-hand side, which we decided to do in more neutural colours, to show off come of the white embroidered cotton shirts he sold.

As I tied pale lemon baubles to some of the metal tree's braches, I asked Latif to find some neutral pashminas to match, that I would drape artfully over the remaining branches. He went off, tugging at various packages to jerk out the one he wanted without disturbing the pile, and came back with selection of pale cream, beige and grey scarves. They were just right!

'You really understand it,' I said, delighted. 'Are you pleased?'
'Yes, because I can see you are right. This looks great,' he said, shaking his head in wonder, looking at the window. 'You have done a good thing.'
'No, we've done it together.'

Soon we had the neutrals arranged on the tree and we manhandled it into the window. Sweating now, as the heat of the day intensified, we stood outside to appraise our morning's work.

'What do you think? Be honest,' I asked.
Latif noodded his head slowly. 'I think, my dear, it is great. I can see that you are right and it is so much better. You have given me so many ideas. Thank you so much. I am very appreciative of what you have done.'
'You're welcome. I enjoyed it.'
And I had. I really had. I suppose it must be something like the feeling a teacher has when she teaches something that she loves and can see her passion reflected back in the eyes of the pupil who has not just understood it but realised they enjoy the subject as much as she does. Latif had been looking but he'd not seen. He'd wanted to learn but didn't know where to start.

Suddenly one of the other shopkeeper's ran up to Latif and said something urgently to him in Hindi. His face dropped and looked grim.

'We have to shut the shop,' he said. 'Now!' It was only 12.30pm.
'Why? What's going on?' I asked, alarmed at this sudden change in Latif's mood.
"I can't explain now. We just have to close the shop, quickly.' He said someting to Javeed and he ran out to bring in a couple of display stand from outside. Once they were inside, Latif grabbed my bag, pulled the shutters down with a loud rattle and padlocked them shut. It had taken seconds. He must have done this before.

'Come, we'll go to my house. I'll explain there.' As I followed Latif and Javeed down the street at a run, I noticed all the other shopkeepers were closing down hurriedly too. Everybody was rushing to grab their stock as quickly as possible. What was going on? I couldn't think of any reason, so I kept asking stupidly, 'What's going on?'

Then halfway down the road, a shout caused Latif to turn back. One of the shopkeepers was beckoning him back. Latif asked him what seemed to be the same question a couple of times, then his face relaxed.

'It's ok, we can go back now. It's fine.' As quickly as the tension had mounted, it was over. Back in the shop he explaind what had happened.

Apparently a few days ago, a Muslim had written something derogatory about Hindus on a website and now Hindus were demanding that the person be arrested and put on trial. This had sparked Hindu-Muslim clashes between street gangs. One of the shopkeepers had heard that a group of Hindu lads, bent on revenge, was heading their way, so they had to close their shops, in case of looting. Although Latif assured me that it had been a false alarm, it left me - and him - shaken.

'Does this thing happen often? I asked.
'No, no,' said another of the shopkeepers,who had come into Latif's shop to discuss the situation. 'We are all brothers here. He is Muslim, I am Hindu, we are all friends. It is just some people who want to cause trouble.'

Although the warning that had been passed round seemed to show the traders did all look out for one another, I wasn't sure what he said was always true. Religious bigotry is all too prevalent in India and, while the majority of the time life seems an easy co-existence, tensions are always there bubbling under the surface and it hadn't taken much more than a silly little comment to bring them cracking and flaming through into fires of violence and hatred.

I looked at Latif in a new light now. First I had thought being a shopkeeper was hard for him, simply because of the sheer weight of competition from other shops, the desperation to pull in customers overriding everything else in its importance, but there was also the commission sharks to contend with. Their greed meant Latif sometimes had to work twice as hard as usual to see any profit from his business. Then there was the threat of direct violence against him and his shop. It couldn't be easy living with that tension always there, ticking relentlessly in the background.

I would always look at shopkeepers in differently from now on. No longer would I see them as an irritant, just out for my money. They were all people with their own lives, their own stories to tell and their own problems to overcome. I was glad I'd taken time out of my easy life to help someone whose own was far from simple. It cost me nothing to offer a little of my time, but it meant everything to Latif and that was all the thanks I needed.

Later that evening I came to say goodbye and take a photo of Latif and Javeed in front of their new window display before I moved on. As he said goodbye, Latif, first shook my hand, then before I could react, right there on the street, he swept me into a big hug. Indian men are not renowned for showing their affection to women, so this brotherly gesture was very touching.

'Thank you, my dear, for all you have done,' he said. The sincerity of his words made me well up. In that city, I couldn't have wished for a better way to spend my day.