By Balakmen Suting
At the entrance of Iewduh known as Shillong’s great beating heart of commerce, the oldest and most beloved bazaar (Iew) of the Khasi people, there is an archway that every trader, every vendor, every customer passes beneath. Carved into that archway, above the bustle of vendors and the scent of fresh produce and smoked meat, are four words in the Khasi language: “Kamai da ka Hok” which means “Earn with righteousness”.
It is not merely a decorative inscription. It is a covenant, a promise made by a trading community to itself, across generations. It says: “we will sell, yes, but we will sell fairly. We will earn, yes, but we will earn with honour. Every shopkeeper who ducks beneath that archway to open their stall inherits that promise. Every customer who passes under it trusts that it will be kept.
I thought about those four words for a long time after an afternoon that left me quietly troubled.
I had gone to a small bistro in the Mawkhar area of Shillong, the kind of modest local eatery that I have always been glad to support. My purpose was simple and sincere. In a city where money can easily slip away to large chains and outside enterprises, I wanted my rupees to stay local. I wanted them to pay a neighbour’s rent, a cousin’s school fees, and a family’s grocery bill. I wanted to be part of what economists call the “circulation of wealth”which means money moving through the hands of our own people, building our own community from within.
I ordered what I love most in all of Shillong’s rich culinary world: ‘Ja stem’ – steamed rice, clean and fragrant, served with Dohneiiong, that deep, dark, slow-cooked pork dish that carries the soul of the Khasi kitchen in every bite, and Sohbaingon Dieng chutney, sharp and alive on the tongue. A plate of two small pieces of meat. A small portion of rice. The kind of humble, honest meal that has nourished generations.
After eating, I asked how much I needed to pay for two plates of Ja stem, chutney, and two pieces of meat. I listened carefully, wondering if I had heard correctly.
“Two hundred rupees.”
I asked the shopkeeper gently, without argument to confirm. Yes, they said. Two hundred rupees.
I paid. I left. And I walked through the afternoon street of Mot Phran, Shillong carrying something heavier than a full stomach: the quiet, uncomfortable feeling of a trust that had not quite been honoured.
I want to be very careful here, because this piece is not written in anger, and it is not meant to shame any individual or establishment. The people who run small food businesses in Shillong work hard. Prices of chicken, pork, fish, rice, firewood, cooking gas all have climbed steeply in recent months and years. A shop owner carries costs that a customer never fully sees: rent, staff, early mornings at the market, long hours over a hot stove. I respect all of that, and I say it sincerely.
But there is a difference — thin, yet important between pricing that reflects real costs and pricing that leaves a customer feeling taken advantage of. That difference is not just about money. It is about the relationship between a seller and a buyer. It is about whether commerce in our city is built on trust or on surprise.
And it is about whether the words inscribed on Iewduh’s archway,“Kamai da ka Hok” are still alive in the practice of our daily trade
There is another dimension to this that troubles me equally: customer relations.
When I asked the shopkeeper to confirm the price, there was no warmth in the exchange. No explanation. No acknowledgement that ₹200 for a small bistro plate might seem unexpected to a customer. Just a flat confirmation, and silence. Keep in mind, this is my personal experience, hopefully others customers do not have the similar experience.
I understand that not everyone is born with the gift of easy conversation. But in a small food business, the way a customer is spoken to, or not spoken to, is part of what is being sold. A smile costs nothing. A brief, honest explanation, “Our meat prices have gone up this season” or “This is our special recipe, so our pricing reflects that”can completely change how a customer receives a bill that surprises them.
People will pay more for food when they feel respected. People will not return even for food they enjoyed when they feel dismissed.
As the old bazaar wisdom says: ‘a customer who leaves happy will return with ten more. A customer who leaves hurt will warn a hundred.’
Shillong stands today at a genuinely exciting moment. Local cuisine likeJa stem, Dohneiiong, Jadoh, Pumaloi, Tungrymbai, is drawing interest not just from across India but from around the world. Travellers come to our city hungry not just for food but for culture, for authenticity, for the particular warmth that only a small local kitchen can offer. This is an extraordinary opportunity for our food entrepreneurs.
But that opportunity is built on a foundation of trust. And trust, in commerce as in friendship, must be tended carefully.
If visitors leave Shillong’s bistros and local eateries feeling uncertain, wondering whether they paid fairly, whether the experience matched the cost, they will not return. Worse, in the age of social media, they will say so loudly, and the whole world will hear them. Conversely, a restaurant that makes every customer feel genuinely welcomed and fairly treated becomes, in time, an institution. A legend. The kind of place people travel back to, year after year, and bring their friends to.
That is the choice before our local food business community right now.
For local food businesses, a few thoughts offered with respect:
Show your prices clearly. A handwritten menu board, even a simple one removes uncertainty before it begins. Customers who know the price before they order feel respected. Customers who discover it only at the end feel ambushed, even when the price itself is reasonable.
Price fairly and explain proudly. If your Dohneiiong costs more because you use better-quality pork, say so. If your portions are smaller because ingredient prices have risen, tell your customers. People understand hardship. What they do not easily forgive is silence in the face of a bill they did not expect.
Train in hospitality, not just cooking. The best food in the world is diminished by a cold or dismissive interaction. Warmth, eye contact, a genuine welcome these are skills that can be learned, and they are worth learning.
Think long-term. A customer who feels well-treated today may return thirty times over the next year and send twenty of their friends. A customer who feels overcharged once may never return at all. The arithmetic of loyalty always favours fairness.
Remember: supporting locals is a partnership.When a customer walks past a global chain to eat at a neighbourhood bistro, they are making a statement about what they believe in. That statement deserves to be honoured.
And to us as customers, a word as well. Choosing local means choosing to invest in our own community and investment requires patience and grace. Quality ingredients cost money. Running a small business is hard. We should not expect local food to be cheap simply because it is local. We should expect it to be fairly priced and that is a different thing entirely.
One uncomfortable afternoon will not change my belief in local commerce. I will return to our neighbourhood bistros and our market stalls. I will keep choosing Jastem and Dohneiiong over fast food and franchise restaurants. That choice is not naïve, it is deliberate, because I have seen what our local economy can become when it is built with care.
The archway at Iewduh does not say earn as much as you can. It does not say charge whatever the customer will bear.It says something simpler, and harder, and more beautiful:Kamai da ka Hok (Earn with righteousness).
May every plate of food served in our city be seasoned with that spirit. May every bill presented across a counter in Shillong carry the quiet pride of fair dealing. And may our local economy grow not only in size, but in the trust and warmth that make a community truly worth belonging to.
