the first sale

"Pitanjali, Pitanjali", she said loudly to the old shopkeeper who was looking at her through his centimeter thick glasses. He had his nose lifted up to squeeze his eyes small so that he could look at her clearly. Not thinking that he needed to hear her better.
"Ok Ok", he said and slowly turned to the piles of the books. He wanted to look like he knew what he was doing. He could have been better a few years ago, but the body is not so dependable always. He came back with a few books and magazines. He knew this time the customer doesn’t want Gitanjali, though he didn’t have any idea what she was asking for. He felt restless internally but didn’t want to show his frustration to the young girl and scare her away from the stall to the other one across the street. He dropped the books and magazines in front of her and again lifted his nose and squeezed his eyes. He hoped to see an expression of approval.
That one little sale could have put ten rupees in his pocket that morning. And the old shopkeeper was doing his best to get that. Deep inside he knew that he needed more than one sale an hour to keep the things working. He knew the stall on the other side of the road was making many more sales than his stall, which made him more depressed. He didn’t know what he could do to make things work the way they used to be in the old days, when he knew each and every book he had in his stock, when he didn’t have to use a calculator.
He realized that the girl was leaving as he heard something she said which he couldn’t comprehend. The disappointment was not new to him. Now he had to put the books back. Picking up the books he heard the sound of dropping coins, He looked closely to find out the girl had bought the book and paid the amount he had written on the backside of the book on a little sticker. He picked the money, and didn’t bother to count it. It was the first sale of the day.