Brands and the Millennium City!

I can’t understand why folks are getting their knickers in a twist over a certain politician’s Louis Vuitton bag. Where I live, designer accessories are part and parcel of everyday life. From the little mouse in my apartment, the kids who land up at my doorstep on Halloween to my cleaning woman. Then, there are my friends and foes. 

Everyone has a thing about brands in Gurgaon.

 

The mouse will only nibble at branded cheese and turn up its little nose at anything else I place inside the trap. The trick-or-treaters insist on expensive candy and my cleaning woman has a shiny red designer clutch. Okay, it’s a Chanel knockoff but you get the drift.

 

If you can’t afford the real thing, you make do with a fake. Like my latest purchase. A pair of Adrcombie and Fetch sandals from the friendly neighbourhood shopping mall. There is absolutely no way you can tell that it’s not the real thing. My big fat feet hiding the logo probably has something to do with it. But seriously folks, I am not kidding. Even our local cows will only shop for Washington apples at the fruit mart.

 

Personally I don’t think it’s a big deal. If you have a thing for brands and can afford them, why ever not? Though I do think some designer wares look quite obnoxious and while I wouldn’t spend my hard-earned money on them, I wouldn’t grudge someone who does. 

 

Growing up in Calcutta, shopping for brands meant trips to Fancy (Phency) Market in Khidderpore. My first Yamaha synthesizer was purchased from a dingy shop inside the market. The best part about going to Fancy Market those days was the thrill factor. There would be frequent police raids and one never knew whether or not the raid would happen in the middle of one’s shopping expedition. So you had to be really quick and watch your back all the time!

 

Then, there was the stretch along Chowringhee – from New Market to Dharamtolla where vendors would sell phoren goods traded by cash-strapped foreigners to pay for their expenses on holiday. A selection of watches, unwashed clothes, handbags, belts, sunglasses would be hung on the racks for sale. My friend even discovered a few dollars inside the bag she bought with her birthday money. 

 

A far cry from shopping for branded stuff in Gurgaon. Here it’s completely legit and above board. No chance of a police raid unless the shop keeper hasn’t paid his taxes or has murdered someone in cold blood. But my friends swear that shopping expeditions to swanky malls are just as adrenaline-inducing. Since I’ve never been one to get my kicks that way - give me a trip to Fancy Market in the eighties any day. Throw in a time machine too.

To Market, To Market!

“Where would you like to go when the pandemic is over?” my friend asked me the other day. She had been regaling me with her plans to fly to Europe with her partner as soon as the ban on international flights was lifted. “To the grocery store next door,” I mumbled, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. 

 

The phone line went suspiciously silent for the next couple of seconds.

 

I know I sounded terribly pedestrian. There she was waxing eloquent about the French Riviera while I just wanted to go to the market next door. But the truth of the matter is I’ve been fantasizing about that trip for over a year now. To walk down the aisles, pushing my shopping cart, the sound of the wheels as they skid over the shiny floors like music to my ears. The stacks of colourful cartons lined neatly on the shop shelves, cereals, biscuits, chocolates, masalas and what have yous. The cold storage section a few steps down where slabs of meat and fish with glazed eyes lay in glass boxes waiting to be sliced and sold. The fresh greens (and yellows and reds) and the delicious smelling loaves of bread. Better than a trip to Saint-Tropez any day. 

 

Okay, maybe not. But I’ve been locked up at home for a year and I miss being inside a real store. It’s not the same, being on an app, looking at pictures and swiping. I can’t read the fine print, check the expiry dates, poke and prod to check the freshness of the produce. My heart sinks each time I see battered boxes and wilting vegetables at the lobby of our condo. I can’t wait to go back and stand in line once more, throwing murderous glares at errant Gurgaon men and women who want to jump the queue. Cannot wait.

 

My friend clears her throat. “Babes, I think you’ve been locked up for too long. The pandemic is playing havoc with your head.” “And my vegetables too,” I retort indignantly. “I got a sack load of rotten potatoes today. Can you believe it? It’s daylight robbery!”

 

She sighs and I hear a click of the phone being disconnected. I guess she won’t be calling me for a while!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apocalypse Aunty and the Vegetables!

Photo Courtesy: World Wide Web

The vegetable shop was empty. 

Well, almost empty. I could see one lady at the checkout counter getting the vegetables in her plastic basket weighed. My heart skipped a few beats and suddenly, there was an extra spring in my step.

The tiny shop inside our condominium is packed like a can of sardines on most days. Residents, domestic help, nannies, chauffeurs – all of them jostling each other as they eye, poke and pick at the assortment of fruits and vegetables that the truck drops inside the building every morning. It’s a battlefield and one is lucky to get out of there on a busy morning, unscathed.

I hate vegetable shopping. Actually, I hate shopping. Period. I hate walking down aisles looking for things that are either too high up on shelves or not there at all. I hate banging into errant carts and trolleys on the way. I hate waiting at the counter behind people. Hate, hate, hate. You get the drift.

So you will understand the adrenaline rush I felt when I realized that I wouldn’t have to wait. The woman looked as though she was almost done. I couldn’t help but congratulate myself on my superb timing. I hastily threw a few things inside my basket and took my place politely behind her. The young fellow at the counter was holding out the bill.

The woman reached inside her bag for the money and then paused for a heart-stopping moment before reaching behind me to pull out a huge cabbage, narrowly missing my skull in the process.

“How much is the cabbage for?” 

Her shopping was not done evidently. The boy sighed and proceeded to weigh cabbage.

“And spinach? Oh, and how much are you selling the apples for?”

For the next fifteen minutes or so, she kept adding things to her basket. The old bill was discarded and the boy went back to weighing. 

What on earth was she stocking up for?  The Apocalypse? Her basket was overflowing!

My temper had started to flare and my eyelids were twitching like Chief Inspector Dreyfus in the Pink Panther movies.

Now I’ve been working really hard to keep my anger issues in check but this woman at the shop was not helping. Why on earth had she come to the counter without finishing her shopping? I see people doing this all the time in shops and malls and it is really bad etiquette. One of the reasons I hate going out in the first place. The app keeps my blood pressure in check.

I mustered all the self-control I could manage so that I didn’t whack her with my shopping basket. I turned purple with the effort.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Apocalypse Aunty had finished and I saw her yelling for someone to help her lug her shopping. I heaved a sigh of relief and handed my basket to the chap. Just as he was about to weigh the potatoes, woman comes back and shoves a bundle of coriander leaves under my nose.

“You didn’t add this,” she told the boy accusingly. “You should have given this to me for free.”

The boy shook his head. “I can’t give you that much for free, you’ve taken too much already.” I could tell from his face that he was exhausted.

She gave him a dirty look. “This is not done,” she grumbled. “Well, how much is this much for?” 

He mumbled the amount.

And then she had the gall to ask me. “Are you done with your shopping?”

I would have vaporized her on the spot with my glare. 

She threw a five rupee coin on the counter, dumped the coriander in her bag, ordered her coolie to lift it, held up a floral umbrella and walked off, waddling her butt in the process. A butt I really wanted to kick.

Well I never!

For Your Eyes Only!

photo courtesy: pixabay

The ground floor trial rooms at the clothing store are occupied. It’s the start of a long weekend and there are shoppers crowding every floor of the three-storeyed retail store in Gurgaon. A couple of women are trying on clothes (heaps of them, in fact), darting out every couple of minutes to parade in front of their men, waiting patiently at the entrance to the trial rooms, and seek their approval.

The men, some of them pacing up and down the aisle impatiently or checking their smartphones while they wait, look up when their women materialise and either nod or shake their heads. The smiles on the womens’ faces dissolve into frowns or stay firmly in place depending on the signals they receive from the men. One of them, a pretty, thirty-something lingers a little longer than the others, smoothening the shimmery top over her tummy, fluttering her eyelids.

“Is it okay Jaanu? Are you sure I don’t look fat? This colour, is it nice?”

Jaanu, a stout man with heavyset features, nods and waves her off, back into the trial room. The moment she vanishes, he  starts checking his mail again, but not before darting a furtive, embarrassed glance in my direction.

I’m beaming now, enjoying the runway fashion show.

I’m accompanying the teenager and she has disappeared into one of the trial rooms with a bundle of things she wants to try on. There’s no chance of her appearing in the doorway to seek my approval. She knows I won’t approve and neither of us like exchanging angry words in public. So I wait, skulking in the aisles, while she makes up her mind on her own. Much like I do, when I'm out shopping on my own.

I can’t help but feel astonished that all of these women cannot pick outfits without taking sartorial advice from the men in their lives. I can understand wanting to look good for someone, but shouldn’t you be able to decide what you want to buy and whether or not it would look good on you, on your own? If the man says no, it doesn’t look nice, will you just accept that verdict without a question?
That doesn’t seem right to me. And it’s certainly not something I would do!

Jaanu's better half has just appeared wearing a frothy chiffon dress. But he doesn't like it. He scowls and shakes his head vigorously from side to side. She looks uncertain, bites her lower lip and heads back indoors sadly. What a shame. I thought she looked rather nice in that dress. But no one has asked for my opinion!

Of course, I can’t help but feel slightly envious of the fact that these men have taken time out and are patiently waiting while their wives and girlfriends shop. Not just that, it’s their decision whether or not a particular article of clothing will be bought. Now, that’s an awful amount of responsibility to give someone. Even if you are in love with that person.

There is the tiny matter of the bill. If these men are the ones doling out the cash, then perhaps it does make sense? They do get to decide what they spend their money on. But it’s not an air conditioner or a fridge or a piece of crockery that we are discussing. Why do they get to have a say in what their wives and girlfriends wear?

No one (other than my mother when I was a little girl) has ever taken me shopping. None of my boyfriends when I was a teenager or my husband of 23 years. I’ve mostly shopped alone and bought clothes I wanted to buy and felt I looked good in. Whether I did or not is another matter altogether! The only approval I’ve ever sought is my own.

Is it time to change? Seeing all these women, I’m beginning to wonder that maybe I’m the odd one out.  Perhaps I should ask my husband to take me shopping next week. There is a lovely blue blouse I’ve spotted.

I’m quite sure he will think I’ve lost it. Early onset of dementia. I can almost hear him laughing at me. My jaanu is not willing at all. But then, he’s not used to his woman seeking approval for anything so can’t say I blame him!

Do you?