The Shop Keeper

On a mild winding sloped street at the foot of the mountains in Lhasa, Tibet, the shop keeper sits slouched on a stool with feeble legs and stares sadly at the passer-bys that pass his tiny shop. He sells a wide variety of souvenir trinkets, knick-knacks and laminated pictures of the Dalai Lama on a street where trekkers must pass on their way to the mountains.

This shopkeeper is an old man, with heavy lined wrinkles on his face. Business has been progressively worse ever since shops had sprung up all along the street selling similar items at lower prices. Furthermore, these young Tibetan shopkeepers had much more in common with these mostly young tourists; they carried with them an air of confidence and could also speak enough English, German, French, Chinese and Japanese to develop a rapport with them tourists.

The old shopkeeper had longed given up on trying to keep up with warm genuine smiles and patient hospitality. He couldn’t speak nor understand their language. He couldn’t lower his prices anymore. He stayed open as late as there were trekkers. But still he had barely made enough from what he sold for the last three months. He was at the end of his tethers.

But today, a young tourist sitting outside a teahouse across the street from the old shopkeeper was watching the old man sitting slouched in the corner of his shop, staring sadly at the passer-bys who passed by his shop onto the others, as if his shop was invisible, as if he was invisible.

Then an idea came over the tourist, who happened to be a calligraphy artist. He immediately took out his drawing pad and calligraphy pens from his bag and started writing.

After an hour, he walked over to the old shopkeeper, joined his fingers and centered them at his chest and said, “Namaste”.

The old shop keeper looked up; and smiled a wide toothless smile. “Namaste”, the old shopkeeper stood up and returned the Tibetan greeting with another and a bow. Then, as if they were both conductors of their own symphonies, they started pointing and gestured with their hands as they bargained over prices for the items, smiling and making playful faces of disapproval of the selling prices at each other. Finally, the tourist bought a couple of meditation beads and the Dalai Lama’s pictures. After he paid, he took out his drawing pad and placed it among the shopkeeper’s items. He gestured a thumbs up and pointed to the pad several times, bid farewell to the shopkeeper and left.

The shopkeeper looked at the pad, he had no idea what was written on it, but kept it in the same place in case the man returned and wanted it back. Something strange happened after that day, the shopkeeper’s business picked up sevenfold. He couldn’t understand why. The universe seemed to have set itself right for him. It hadn’t occurred to him that the content of the drawing pad had been the reason. On it was scripted - 

These Spiritual Window Shoppers

These spiritual window-shoppers, 

who idly ask, 'How much is that?' Oh, I'm just looking. 

They handle a hundred items and put them down, 

shadows with no capital. 

What is spent is love and two eyes wet with weeping. 

But these walk into a shop, 

and their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment, 

in that shop. 

Where did you go? "Nowhere." 

What did you have to eat? "Nothing much." 

Even if you don't know what you want, 

buy something, to be part of the exchanging flow. 

Start a huge, foolish project, 

like Noah. 

It makes absolutely no difference 

what people think of you. 

-- Rumi, 'We Are Three', Mathnawi VI, 831-845