The Short Tale of Mr Ullah

We Take our Victories Where We Find Them

Long ago, in Skirving Street in Glasgow, Mr Ullah ran the newsagents just near the plumbers. I was the Office Manager for the plumber’s office, and daily made trips to buy a can of coke and something tooth rottingly delicious for my lunch.

The Scottish national dish at that time was deep fried sugar.

I was raised to be mannerly, and was a naturally polite young woman — although when required could immediately turn psycho berserker and start screaming and frothing, a la Trainspotting. This was a prerequisite of certain neighbourhoods back then, and possibly still is.

But I am always polite to start with.

And so, every single day I would be polite to Mr Ullah or, if he wasn’t serving, another family member. And every time Mr Ullah served me, he would say nothing, and silently hand me my change.

One day, two young men around my age were in the shop in front of me. Their disrespect and blatant rudeness to this much older man was infuriating, cringeworthy and made me feel quite distressed. Nasty little Golems. The sort of low level scum who try to jostle for position when they perceive any weakness. Snivelling little shits from a long line of no hopers drinking themselves to death on the dole.

I was embarrassed that he should have to tolerate their disgusting impertinence. He glared at them with well controlled rage, and remained silent.

I thought to myself, Oh, that’s why.

Mr Ullah had a dignity about him. He was an imposing, proud looking man. In Glasgow in the 70s, 80s and 90s many Pakistani and Indian families ran corner shops — and they copped a lot of flak. As my elder brother once said to a belligerent relative bemoaning the growing number of “Paki shops” as they were delightfully known “Yes, how dare they come to this country, work 14 hour shifts, 7 days a week and provide a service nobody else can be bothered providing? The bloody swine.”

Mr Ullah was undoubtedly the regular unwilling recipient of this sort of behaviour from cretins who ranked far below him in every possible sense. I had seen it happen only once. I doubt that was the only time that week, or possibly that day, that he was disrespected and covertly threatened.

I redoubled my efforts to be polite and respectful. I think I just really wanted him to know we’re not all like those shitweasels. Some of us know how to be human.

I was getting ready to move to London, with the man who was to become my first husband. I had been going into that shop several times a week for nearly three years, and had been served by Mr Ullah countless times. He had never spoken to me except occasionally to ask a question from below his habitual frown, if he didn’t understand my request. The standard interaction was me asking for something, him silently handing me my purchases and my change, me saying thank you and leaving.

One fine morning on my final week in Glasgow, I bought my usual can of coke and Topic bar, and some dreadful proletariat magazine which I used to indulge in, and I smiled up at him and said “Thank you Mr Ullah.”

And his mouth twitched a little. And he looked into my eyes. And he said “You’re welcome.”

Note -being polite to shopkeepers is the bottom rung of expectation in a civilised society and my behaviour was standard, and should have been normal. I know this. My point is that treating someone as a human being, behaving decently to them, can sometimes thaw them. His behaviour to me wasn’t vulgar, or intimidating, or dreadful, he wasn’t doing anything that I had to fight back against. He was just a stone wall. I chipped away at his wall and eventually he saw me, seeing him. And he saw me too. It made me happy, and I have never forgotten it.

And that’s the entire point of this little tale.