Photographic Memory of Shopkeepers

BILAL AHMAD SHAMIM

Shopkeepers ,as I have observed , always  remain on their toes to deceive their customers in one way of the other. Their smile is cunning, their greetings are couched in selfishness, and  their generosity is always at the cost of the customers.

It is often said—half in jest, half in bitterness—that shopkeepers possess a photographic memory of a very selective kind.  Remembering the balance unerringly a customer owes them,  even if it is a single rupee, is their forte.  Days may pass, weeks may roll by, but the unpaid amount remains etched  in their mind like a script engraved on a stone. Yet, by some strange defect of memory, the same shopkeeper almost always forgets when he has to return a balance—even if it is a modest five rupees. This bizarre display of poor memory by the  shopkeepers have cost me scores of rupees . This curious imbalance of remembrance is not accidental; it is an art perfected through years of tricks in the trade.

The shopkeeper’s relationship with money is intimate and personal. Every coin and note entering his cash drawer is welcomed like a long-lost treasure , while a  coin leaving it, however, feels like a perpetual loss. Thus, when a customer hands over a large note and waits expectantly for change, the shopkeeper suddenly becomes absent-minded, distracted by imaginary calculations, phantom customers, or urgent tasks. Only when reminded—politely or otherwise—does he reluctantly return the balance, often with a look that suggests he is doing the customer a favour.

Cheating, unfortunately, is not an exception in trade; it is woven into its daily rituals. However close a shopkeeper may be to you—an old acquaintance, a neighbour, or even a distant relative—he rarely misses an opportunity to gain an extra rupee. Familiarity does not soften his instincts; rather, it chisels them. He will smile warmly, ask about your family, and in the same breath slip a mutilated, torn, or worn-out note into your hand. The note is always one he himself would refuse to accept, yet he presents it confidently, hoping you will not notice until you are too far away to return. In our country , ‘phata purana note chalana’ is considered a great art and trick as going to the bank to exchange a mutilated currency note is a colossal waste of time and energy.

Interestingly, customers are not entirely innocent either. The marketplace is a battlefield of quiet deception, where both sides attempt to outwit the other. Customers too try to pass off damaged notes, demand extra weight, or claim incorrect change. The difference lies only in frequency and practice. The shopkeeper cheats as a profession; the customer cheats as a defence.

Among all traders, fruit vendors perhaps deserve special mention for their refined techniques. Their skill does not lie merely in weighing fruit but in the speed of substitution. I too fell victim to such deception twice. While placing the selected fruit into the bag, they engage the customer in a friendly conversation—asking about health, weather, or rising prices. In that brief moment of distraction, one fresh piece is swiftly replaced with a bruised or rotten one. The operation is so smooth that even a extra  vigilant customer often discovers the deceit only after reaching home. The vendor, meanwhile, has already turned his attention to the next victim.

The idea that shopkeepers can be true friends is, therefore, largely an illusion. Their friendliness is transactional, measured strictly by the frequency of your purchases. If you visit their shop regularly, they greet you with enthusiasm, exaggerated respect, and even a salute. Your absence, however, erases your existence. Miss a few days, and the same man who once smiled broadly will pass you without recognition, his eyes fixed firmly on potential customers.

In the end, the marketplace reflects human nature in its rawest and crudest form. Memory serves profit, honesty bends under convenience, and relationships survive only as long as they are beneficial.

The shopkeeper’s photographic memory is not a gift—it is a strategy. And in this silent war of small deceits, both buyer and seller play their parts, pretending civility while guarding their interests with equal suspicion.