Last weekend when we met for coffee at his house, Swami looked grim, as though the world economy had collapsed overnight. He dropped into the sofa with a sigh.
“What happened now?” I asked, while we waited for Jigneshbhai to arrive.
“The price of onions,” Swami said, his voice low, as though delivering bad news. “Seventy rupees a kilo. Can you believe it?”
I nodded gravely, unsure whether it was for the onions or for Swami.
“Do you know,” Swami continued, “that just three months ago it was forty? Forty! At this rate, onions will need locker storage. This is daylight robbery.”
At that moment, Jigneshbhai walked into the house, smiling as usual.
“What robbery are we talking about today?” he asked.
“The onions,” Swami said. “They’ve doubled in price. How can a common man survive?”
Jigneshbhai raised his eyebrows slightly. “You mean a common man like you?” he said, with a wink in his eye. Then he stirred his coffee. “So, what’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem?” Swami almost choked. “We use onions every day. Curries, sambhar, parathas, sandwiches. Without onions, the kitchen collapses.”
“Does it?” Jigneshbhai asked, calm as ever, sipping his coffee.
“Of course!” Swami said. “Ask Vidya. She had to change last night’s dinner menu because of this crisis. No proper sambhar. Only some pale vegetable stew.”
Jigneshbhai narrowed his eyes. “Vidya changed the menu for onions?”
Vidya smiled silently.
“Whatever the reason — there was just some vegetable stew. No onions,” Swami muttered.
Meera, scrolling beside Swami, said, “Amma was trying a new dish last night.”
“Hmm.. Did it taste alright?” Jigneshbhai asked Swami.
Swami paused. “Well… it was.. umm.. fine. But that’s not the point. The point is — onion prices. At seventy rupees a kilo!”
Meera was half-listening while scrolling her phone. She looked up briefly. “Papa, you spent more than that on popcorn at the movies last week. And that was just for me.”
“That’s different,” Swami protested. “Popcorn is luxury. Onions are a necessity. Next they’ll say tomatoes are optional.”
“Hmm.. A necessity, right?” Jigneshbhai said, smiling.
“What’s the share of onions in your food bill?” Jigneshbhai said.
“And what’s the share of food in your monthly expenses?”
Swami said nothing. He fumbled while sipping the coffee.
He was not going to get a sympathetic hearing, especially after Meera’s reference to the popcorn. I too felt Swami was going to get cornered.
Meanwhile, Jigneshbhai continued. “Even at seventy rupees, onions are a small part of what you spend on food. The rest of the plate is still affordable. But you notice only that one item that went up. That’s the one that brings you to tears.”
Swami paused, as if trying to calculate percentages in his head.
This time, Meera grinned. “So, Papa, maybe next time you should complain about popcorn prices instead. I will have nachos at the movies to save cost.”
Swami gave her a wounded look. Swami said nothing. He returned to his coffee — a safer path.
Meera looked up again. “Papa, relax. If prices go higher, we’ll just cry less in the kitchen.”
Vidya laughed. Jigneshbhai smiled. “Some tears come from cutting onions,” he said. “The others from counting them.”
***
Check out The Ultimate Jigneshbhai & Swami 5 eBook Boxset Collection HERE.