Dave Sherwin Dot Com

My son Josh, who’s eight, had just one request before I left for India. he wanted me to bring him back a rock. So imagine my happiness when, after completing a tour of the Taj Mahal, we ended up in a shop that had a wonderful variety of pretty rocks and semi-precious stones.

I was particularly taken with the “Star Of India” stone, that, when held under light, casts six very distinct rays of light. Perfect! I think to myself, He’ll love it!

“How much for this one?” I ask, pointing to a rock about three quarters of an inch across. But I knew instantly I was in trouble when he reached down and pulled up a scale, and replied, “It depends how many karats it is.” And he started weighing.

Now, I’m no rock expert, but I know what kinds of stones are measured by the karat- they’re called diamonds.

“Four thousand, six hundred and fifty rupees.” He says, and maintains a straight face. I do the mental math.

“That’s over a hundred dollars US.” I say. “One hundred and five.” He says back. Great.

“OK, look, I have an eight year old son at home who would like a rock from India, but I’m talking way less money here, what have you got?” So he pulls out a tiny version of the “Star Of India” rock and weighs it. “Thirty US.” He says. It’s smaller then the fingernail on my pinky.

I patiently explain that to my eight year old boy, this tiny little thirty dollar rock would probably be a disappointment. I ask him what he has that’s big, and less than five bucks. (The lifespan of a rock in my house if about a week.)

He pulls out a tray of polished rocks, picks one up and says, “I could do this one for twenty.” Now, where I’m from, we have vendors in pricy little tourist towns that have bins of polished rocks. You can fill a little velvet bag with as many as will fit for five bucks.

“That’s a polished rock.” I say, thinking it sums up the total thought process that went into the previous paragraph.

“No, it’s a semi-precious stone.” Maintains he.

“No, it’s a polished rock.” Restates me.

“No, it’s a semi-precious stone.” Says he, still with a straight face.

“What’s it called?” Asks I.

“Sandstone.”

I left the shop. If the conversation would have carried on any longer I may have inadvertently poked him in the eye. Disappointed, but undaunted, I found another shop, and explained exactly what I was looking for. The large, bearded man in white robes smiled and said he had exactly what I wanted. We went to the back of his shop, where he told me he was the wholesaler to all the other shops in Agra.

Trying to contain my excitement, I start looking through his tray of polished rocks, to find the perfect one for my son. “Are any of these unique to India?” I ask.

“Yes, all of them.” He smiled back at me. My enthusiasm dropped a tad, my skepticism rose, and I asked, “What’s this one?”

“Sandstone.”

OK, here we go, I think to myself. So I just tell him, “Look, at home we buy a whole bag of these things for five bucks. All I want is a nice stone for an eight year old boy, and the most I’m willing to spend is five dollars US, or two hundred twenty five rupees.”

“OK, how about this one, it’s only twenty…” he says.

“What have you got for five?” I ask. He rummages through, and pulls out all the rocks that I could have found myself if I had walked around outside for about ten minutes. My patience wearing thin, I pull out my wallet, grab a five hundred rupee note, pick up one of the “twenty dollar” stones, and say, confidently, “Two hundred and twenty five rupees.” Which I repeated three times, automatically, to whatever retort he gave me, each time shoving the note towards him dramatically.

He finally gave in, and, proud of my negotiating prowess, I walked out of the store with Josh’s rock, knowing full well that when my wife sees it she’ll say, “You spent five bucks on that? I can get a whole bag of those for five bucks…”

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