and butter.”
“Are you fighting again, you two?” said Mrs. Kohlah. “I’m going crazy listening to it.”
“You have no control over your son,” said Mr. Kohlah, even more mournful. “Can you not do something about his nonstop keech-keech? He contradicts everything I say. He thinks he has a new formula for success — he thinks this is a science experiment.”
He refused to let Maneck order new brands of soap or biscuits which were proving popular elsewhere. Suggestions to improve the lighting in the dingy interior, paint the walls, renovate the shelves and glass cases to make the display more attractive were all received like blasphemy.
Maneck had trouble reconciling this absurdly cautious man with the image that had grown in his head from stories told by his mother, and by his father’s friends: of the fearless individual who had descended a rope into the rain-swollen gorge to rescue a puppy; who had shrugged off the loss of his eye to flying glass as though it was no more than a mosquito bite; and who had once thrashed three thieves that had wandered into the store looking for easy prey, tempted by the sight of the lone woman behind the counter, not reckoning on her husband bottling soft drinks in the cellar — like sacks of rice Mr. Kohlah had tossed them around, said his friends.
And now his father was disintegrating all because of the construction of a silly road. Maneck, too, had lately seen the world being remade around him. But with optimism surging through youthful veins, he was certain that things would sort themselves out. He was fifteen: he was immortal, the hills were eternal. And the General Store? It had been there for generations and would be there for generations more, there was no doubt in his mind.
Secretly, Mr. Kohlah also hoped it would be thus — that a miracle would restore the past. But he had read the signs, and the message was unfavourable. Snuggled amid the goods that the loathsome lorries transported up the mountains was a deadly foe: soft drinks, to stock the new shops and hotels.
In the beginning they dribbled into town in small quantities — a few crates that were easily outnumbered by the ever-popular Kaycee. Out of curiosity, people would occasionally sample the newcomers, then shrug and turn their backs; Kohlah’s Cola was still number one.
But the giant corporations had targeted the hills; they had Kaycee in their sights. They infiltrated Mr. Kohlah’s territory with their boardroom arrogance and advertising campaigns and cut-throat techniques. Representatives approached him with a proposition: “Pack up your machines, sign over all rights to Kohlah’s Cola, and be an agent for our brand. Come grow with us, and prosper.”
Of course Mr. Kohlah refused the offer. For him it was not merely a business decision but a question of family name and honour. Besides, he was certain his good neighbours and the people of these settlements were not fickle, they would stay loyal to Kohlah’s Cola. He was prepared to put up a fair fight against the competition.
But, like bow ties and watch-chains, fair fights had gone out of style while Mr. Kohlah wasn’t looking. The corporations handed out free samples, engaged in price wars, and erected giant billboards showing happy children with smiling parents, or a man and woman tenderly touching foreheads over a bottle out of which two straws penetrated the lovers’ lips. The dribble of new soft drinks turned into a deluge. Brands which had been selling for years in the big cities arrived to saturate the town.
“We must strike back,” said Maneck. “We should also advertise — give out free samples like them. If they want to use hard sell, we do the same.
“Hard sell?” said Mr. Kohlah disdainfully. “What kind of language is that? Sounds absolutely undignified. Like begging. These big companies from the city can behave like barbarians if they want to. Here we are civilized people.” He gave Maneck his mournful gaze, disappointed with him for even suggesting it.
“Look at him,” Maneck appealed to his mother. “He’s making his long face again. Anything I say, he makes that face at me. He doesn’t give my ideas any consideration.”
So Kohlah’s Cola never stood a chance. The General Store’s backbone was broken, and the secret formula’s journey down the generations was nearing its end.
Mr. Kohlah went ahead with the alternate plan for his son, who would soon be obtaining his Secondary School Certificate. He began making inquiries and sending away to various colleges for their prospectuses.
“Are you sure this is necessary, Farokh?” asked Mrs. Kohlah.
“The slow coach gets left behind,” he answered. “And I don’t want the same thing to happen to Maneck.”
“Oh Farokh, how can you say that? Just look at your success — you lost everything during Partition, yet you made such a good life for all of us. How can you call yourself a slow coach?”
“Maybe I’m not — maybe the world is moving too fast. But the end result is the same.”
He would not be distracted from his purpose, and career possibilities were discussed with the faithful family friends. They agreed it was an excellent idea to keep the options open.
“Not that your business is going to fail,” said Brigadier Grewal. “But it’s good to be prepared on all fronts. Nice to have a big gun in reserve.”
“Exactly my thinking,” said Mr. Kohlah.
“Would be so nice if he could be a doctor or lawyer,” said Mrs. Kohlah, plunging straight into the glamour areas.
“Or an engineer.”
“Chartered accountant is also very prestigious,” said Mrs. Grewal.
It was up to the army chaps to steer the discussion into the practical realm. “We have to deal with the reality on the ground. The choice is limited by Maneck’s marks.”
“Which is not to say that he isn’t talented.”
“Not at all. Sharp as a bayonet, like his father.”
“And he is good with his hands,” agreed Mr. Kohlah, taking the compliment in stride.
Something technical for Maneck, that much was certain, they all agreed. Preferably in an industry that would grow with the nation’s prosperity. The answer, in a country where most of the population lived in tropical or subtropical climates, was obvious and unanimous: “Refrigeration and air-conditioning.” And the best college granting diplomas in this field, they discovered, was in Mrs. Kohlah’s native city by the sea, the one she had forsaken to marry Mr. Kohlah.
When the final term ended, Maneck came home to discover what had been decided for him and protested vehemently. The second betrayal was not received with a slow ache, as the first one had been. It exploded inside him.
“You promised that when I got my S.S.C. I could work with you! You said you wanted me to take over the family business!”
“Calm down — you will, you will,” said Mr. Kohlah, mustering more conviction than he felt. “This is just in case. You see, in the past it was easier to plan for the future. Nowadays, things are more complicated, too much uncertainty.”
“It’s a waste of time,” said Maneck. He was sure that his father was doing this to be rid of him — to be rid of his interference in the General Store, as though he were a rival. “If you want me to learn a trade or something, I can become a mechanic at Madanlal’s Garage. In the valley. Why do I have to go so far away?”
Mr. Kohlah made his mournful face. Brigadier Grewal laughed good-humouredly. “Young man, if you are planning a second line of defence, make sure it’s a strong one. Or don’t bother.”
The family friends said Maneck was a very lucky fellow, and should be grateful for the opportunity. “At your age, we would have been thrilled to spend a year in the most modern, most cosmopolitan city in the whole country.”
So Maneck was enrolled in the college, and preparations were made for his departure. A new suitcase was purchased. His clothes were sorted through, and tickets booked for the various legs of the journey.
“Don’t worry,” said his mother. “Everything will be all right when you come back after a year. Daddy is just concerned about your future. All these changes — they have happened too fast for him. He should be calmer in a year’s time.”
She began to assemble the items he would take with him in boxes. Fearful of forgetting something, she frequently consulted the suggested checklist in the college handbook. She kept opening and shutting the suitcase, taking things out and putting them back in, counting and rearranging. The woman who effortlessly managed the General Store’s merchandise began going to pieces over her son’s packing.
Time and again, she asked for her husband’s advice. “Farokh, how many towels shall I include? Do you think
