Price wars

It was Saturday evening and my husband and i were looking forward to winding up a hectic workweek with a relaxed weekend. Sunday, of course, would mean waking up close to noon, then doing household chores like ordering vegetables for the week, dealing with the presswala and the raddiwala and maybe catching a movie in the evening.
After a quick dinner at our favourite seafood joint, we walked into the house on Saturday night.A small white rectangle of paper lay face up in the passage. A visiting card. It had presumably been slipped under the door while we were away. I picked it up and dumped it in the drawer where we keep bills and menus and forgot about it almost immediately. On Sunday morning, i saw the card poking through the bills and grabbed it while ordering my week's stock of sabzi. Welcome Paper Mart, it said. We deal in all papers, magazines, metals, bottles etc. Contact Hemant Bhai. Free Home Service was written above the address. To endorse the 'express' nature of the service, the address had an extra line that said, "Below this building". I was convinced that if i had newspapers to sell, Hemant bhai would be there faster than the Vodafone 3G zoozoo.
But i was more than happy with my current raddiwala. Jaswant was a strapping lad with a great smile and a deep voice. We only met once a month but i knew - and i knew he knew - it was special. I was definitely not going to cheat on him with the Hemant bhai. Better still, i would report the society's guards to the managing committee for allowing this Hemant bhai to come up to all flats and slip his card under our doors. I almost tossed the card away.
Until i saw something stapled to the back. It was a handwritten note. Paper Rs 12 a kilo, it said in Hindi. My affection for Jaswant almost instantly evaporated. Rs 12?!! Jaswant had always, in his deep voice, said: 'Ek kilo ka saat rupaiya' (Rs 7 a kilo), his bewitching smile never leaving his face. And i would place my trust - and the whole month's newspapers - in his strong hands. But now, in one clean shot, Hemant bhai had exposed Jaswant's game.
I stared at the visiting card, speechless. The vegetable vendor at the other end of the line long forgotten. I went through the four stages of break-up - denial, anger, grief and acceptance - in as many seconds. I decided to just move on to Hemant bhai, no questions asked. But i had to deal with the fifth emotion that was building up inside me: revenge. I couldn't let Jaswant get away with this. He had to know how i felt. Better still, he had to feel what i felt: a sense of betrayal.
I would call them both together, Hemant (it was time to drop the 'bhai') and Jaswant. And then i would choose Hemant over Jaswant. I called Hemant first, he said he was in the building and would be at my flat in a jiffy. Then i called Jaswant, who obviously didn't notice my clipped tone and cheerily told me he'd be there in a jiffy too. Hemant came first. He was tiny and his hair oil made me want to gag but i give him my brightest smile. Jaswant strolled in soon after. My heart ached but i didn't let it show. Then he saw Hemant and stopped in his tracks. I felt good. "Ek kilo ka rate kya hai," i asked in my haughtiest memsahib voice. But before Hemant could announce his winning price, Jaswant boldly said, "Rs 13." My heart soared. Hemant bhai melted into oblivion. Jaswant smiled that magnetic smile. We were back in business.