“Both Chickens, Please”
“Both Chickens, Please”
Christmas was nearing, and the house was already preparing itself, even before the guests arrived.
Our daughter was coming from Bangalore with her husband and the children.
That meant early mornings, unplanned snacks, and meals that stretched beyond the table’s capacity.
So one evening, my wife and I went to the butcher shop near Uloor.
The small one-half shop, half freezer, where the smell of raw meat, detergent, and old newspapers live together without complaint.
Business was good that day.
The butcher’s voice was tired yet cheerful.
By the time our turn came, only one chicken remained, resting alone like a late passenger on a platform.
Annie asked softly,
“Chicken undo?” (Do you have chicken?)
He nodded quickly, relieved.
Pulled out the last chicken and weighed it.
“₹420,” he said, without even looking up.
Annie studied the chicken.
She didn’t frown.
She didn’t bargain.
She just looked.
Then she said, almost kindly,
“Kuravaanu alle? Christmas guests aanu. Bigger piece undo?”
(It seems a bit small, right? We have Christmas guests. Do you have a bigger piece?)
The butcher hesitated.
I could almost hear his thoughts.
Only one left… If I say no, they may walk away… If I try something, maybe it’ll work.
A small pause.
Then confidence returned.
“Undu, undu,” he said, as though he had an entire farm behind him.
(Yes, yes, I have.)
He lifted the same chicken, turned his back to us, slid it into the freezer, and pulled it out again-
A performance meant more for courage than deception.
He placed it back on the scale, of course, not with good intentions.
“This one is better,” he announced.
“₹540.”
I watched my wife.
Nothing changed on her face.
She looked at the chicken.
Looked at the butcher.
Paused a little…as if she knew the truth.
I was wondering how she will manage.
Women have more practical knowledge in these matters than men.
Then she said,
“Okay. Then give both. Christmas Alle? ( Isn’t it Christmas)”
For a second, time slowed down.
The butcher blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Both?
Ayyo… now what?
(Oh no… what do I do now?)
His eyes went to the freezer, then to the scale, then to Annie-
Who was already taking out her purse.
“There is only one, alle?” she asked gently.
(There is only one, right?)
The shop felt suddenly smaller.
The butcher smiled, scratched his head, and gave up.
“Amma… actually, yes. This is the last one.”
(Madam… actually, yes. This is the only one.)
Annie nodded, as if the truth had finally arrived on time.
“Paranjal mathi,” she said.
(It’s enough if you just say it.)
“No need for tricks. Christmas alle.”
(No need for tricks. It’s Christmas, isn’t it?)
He weighed it again, slowly this time, as if in apology.
“₹400 mathi.”
(₹400 is enough.)
We paid and stepped out.
Walking back, the packet swinging between us, I asked,
“How did you know?”
She smiled.
“When someone tries too hard to impress,” she said,
“It usually means they are hiding something.”
At home, the chicken was cleaned, cut, and cooked well.
The children never asked about size.
They only asked for second helpings.
Somewhere in Uloor, a butcher probably still remembers.
A woman who didn’t argue, didn’t accuse,
And still made him tell the truth.
Sometimes, intelligence waits.
Sometimes, silence does the bargaining.
And sometimes, the cleverest move is simply asking for both.