Something to Write About? : Nuzhat Shahzadi

On my daily walk towards our park, I pass by a single-storied building adjacent to the cobbled sidewalk––almost enshrouded in foliage. In deep summer white flowers tango with the green-vines creating an enchanting environment.

Many a time I thought about this house . . . photographed it from outside, wondered who lived there. I was drawn to it. In my mind I crafted stories about this place––romanticized about its inhabitants. Never saw any living being around the house. Somehow, I missed the signboard placed away from the house entrance, a bit obscurely positioned, with a “laissez-faire” attitude. The signboard said “POSH,” didn’t describe what it was about.

Entrance of the house

One day I gathered my courage, went up the steps and peered through the glass door. It looked like a store . . . I pushed open the door and entered. Immediately, I was pulled into a fantasy-world of antique porcelain vases, figurines, statues . . . table lamps and an endless array of voluptuous silk-flowers . . . Time stood still in there.

I was the only customer or visitor. A middle-aged lady came forward, greeted me with a smile. She looked indigenous (I am trying to be accurate, not a racist. . .). She had long hair, wore dangling beads earrings––a pair of soft black eyes set in a brown face. She was the one and only store assistant. The place looked dead, anyway . . .

“Can I look around?” I smiled back.

“Yes of course . . . but no photos, please. You can be on this floor only . . . the upper floor is our office . . . and the basement are off limits,” she laid down the ground rules. I nodded in agreement.

“You have a good collection . . . what are these for?” I had to ask. Still puzzled . . .

“It’s an interior design studio and home furnishings and accessories store,” she clarified.

I wasn’t sure why photographing inside the store wasn’t allowed. I began touring the store. It was huge. From the floor to the ceiling the merchandise displayed the flavor of long-lost-days gone by… at least 500 years behind schedule. Even the smell in the store had a “closety”-stagnant flavor.

Merchandise: photo from POSH Facebook post

The store with its bizarre commodities made me think of Charles Dickens’ Miss Havisham (Great Expectation) who lived her life in her bridal clothes her entire life after she was ditched at the wedding- altar . . . she lived in a house darkened even in the day time . . . surrounded by large Victorian furniture, paintings, artifice . . . and the mummified-wedding cake. She tried to stop her life . . .

I felt the same vibes in the Posh store. It had an eerie air . . . decayed, frozen, unreal.

A snapshot of the wares at display: from POSH Facebook post

I went from stall to stall . . . there were several rooms spilling over with similar kinds of goodies. I wondered who buys them? How were they managing the rent . . . or perhaps the owner of the house is using a portion of the residence as the store?

At that time the owner or the manager stepped into the store––a Caucasian woman in her mid/late 60s, grey haired. Her face displayed the many seasons it had experienced. Her attire was old fashioned––long, flowery skirt, sandals with straps . . . (sort of Ms Havisham kind. Sorry, I was a bit judgmental, I guess). Her attitude was curt, wooden.

“A big collection. You have buyers for this?” I was genuinely interested to know more. (I put my foot in my mouth, instead . . .).

“Yes, yes. We have a large clientele,” she hurried past me. She knew I wasn’t a potential buyer.

I thanked the store assistant. It was time to leave.

“Are you from Peru?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. She seemed disappointed.

“Oh, but you can consider me as a Pacific Islander. I lived in that region . . .” I felt I needed to lie. Her eyes lit up. Not sure she properly understood what I said about my heritage.

Anyway, it felt good. Soon I was back on my way home.