Shoeless in Seattle

When growing up, I never aspired for dainty feet and pretty shoes. I aspired to be a tall and well-built astronaut. The astronaut part never happened. And the rest of the dream turned into a nightmare. 

Take something as simple as shoe buying. I have friends who could vouch for how therapeutic it is, and how they could do it 5 days a week. Not me. It is a nightmare, as always. 

All I needed to buy were shoes. A pair of boots. A pair of formal shoes for the upcoming conference. And maybe, just maybe, a pair of sexy red shoes. I have a thing for red, you know!

Let's talk about the boots first. 80% of choices were eliminated right away because of heels. And 90% of the remaining, because I never get shoes my size. My feet are somewhere between 9 and 10. 9 is a tad too tight, and 10 is a tad too big. They anyway stop making shoes after size 10. The only 9.5s I saw were those that did not have a box, a price tag, a discount, a flat sole, or a second matching pair. Some of the boxes even said 9.5, but someone with a sense of humor had stuffed 7s in them. Even my hands would not fit into size 7. And then, some of them had weird designs, weird zips, and weird ornamentation not befitting my age or taste. Some that clung too tight for comfort, and some that did not want to commit totally and hung too loosely. 

All I wanted were three pairs of shoes. How complicated could that be? 

The boots happened after two hours of sole-searching and soul searching about why I am structurally built the way I am, boiling down my feasible choices to exactly two pairs. I scanned an entire shop, and found only two pairs that even made the cut. 

I never found the formal shoes. Not with my requirements of no heels, comfortable soles, pleasing color, and decent looks. I needed no lace or ornamentation. I think I will just wear jeans and my running shoes for the conference. I have seen so many people wear jeans at the conferences, although I haven't mustered enough courage to do that. Not yet. 

And the sexy pair of red shoes? Well, I realized that I was perhaps asking for too much. Maybe that could wait a couple of Seattle trips.

sunshine

Top up

This is a post especially for my friend G, my host in Seattle when I moved, the person who helped me transition to a new country.

Back in those days when I had recently moved to the US, I was clueless about many things. I didn’t know how to say my quesadillas and fajitas right. I used to be so confused while ordering food. I used to frequent “Cold Storage Creamery” with G (It is Cold Stone Creamery). And then of course there were these fashion faux pas I used to make. G is a shopaholic while I used to accompany her to these shopping malls with wide-eyed wonder.

It was during one such excursion that I had picked up a fancy skirt that looked smart and chic, a nice and solid color, something that I might consider buying. So I had asked G to accompany me to the fitting room and opine. When I had come out of the fitting room wearing the skirt, she could not stop laughing.

It seemed like it was not a skirt in the first place, it was a tube top.

My embarrassment had known no bounds then.

For the next few years, G used to refer to that episode, indicating my dehatiness as a fresh off the boat, adding her own salt and pepper and spices in the process. Talking of salt and pepper, her other favorite joke was how I had messed up my soup at someone’s place because I had no idea how to use a pepper mill. That will be a post for another day.

Everything we do in life comes full circle.

A few days ago, I was at the shopping mall again, buying clothes for my upcoming trip to the beach. I looked at a rather fancy looking tube top, turquoise in color, really pretty, something you know you want the moment you set your eyes on it. However, I had my doubts, since it was there in the skirt section. I asked the attendant and she did confirm that it was a skirt. Nevertheless, I decided to try it out.

In the fitting room, I tried it as a skirt, and decided that it does not look that fancy after all. It looked way better as a tube dress, knee-length, showing off my collar bones. It was too long and unattractive as a skirt. So I thought, screw it. So what if it is a conservative long skirt, I will wear it as a tube dress and flaunt some skin.

And then, I remembered the episode all those years ago when G had laughed at my naivete. G, I have come a long way from that day all those years ago. Not only can I shop for myself without help now, I also decide what I wear as what J

sunshine

34 C

Yes you heard me right. 34 C. That’s what I semi-whispered to the only woman in the lingerie shop amid a bunch of men whose ages ranged from 14 to 54. I was not really on a bra-hunting spree, I’d much rather go to a shopping mall and help myself without the world knowing of what I needed. I’m not really in the age range where I turn tomato-red when sanitary napkin ads come during commercial breaks or I flip channels to hear the mellifluous voice of a bunch of village chicks singing naughtily “Bol sakhi bolt era raaz kya hai” [What is thy secret, o sister?]. However I didn’t see any need to get hold of a microphone and declare to the world what I was looking for. But when a friend from the US asked me to get her a few of those 34Cs from Kolkata, I had to oblige.

I wasn’t really happy seeing so many men ready to serve you in a lingerie shop. Where were the women? I hushed my needs to the only woman I could spot in the store. First, she must have been hard of hearing, for she looked at me and urged me to voice myself louder. I was half-tempted to indicate the bus route 34C telling her, “Remember the bus route that goes from Esplanade to Baranagar? I want that bus number”. I realized how funny I would sound without making myself understood, first, because the odds were high that she would get more confused, and second, because who knows if the buses 84, 109, and 203 also went between the same places. So I braced myself and muttered only a few decibels louder- 34C.

“Color?”

“Uh …. White, black, pink, whatever”

“Design? Lace? What type?”

Uhh… I was shifting uncomfortably, wishing I’d be anywhere but here. “Anything will do. Laces?”

And just when I thought my plight was over, I found something akin to a nightmare coming true. For she turned to the boy, barely 20, and repeated, “34C. Show white, black, pink. With laces. Show it to her”, she pointed at me.

I was tempted to protest, “Not me, my friend”, but shut up as it sounded so lame.

The boy rummaged through the hinterlands of the shop with neatly stacked boxes with pictures of voluptuous women showing half covered assets and looking at various angles away from the camera. Unable to find what I was looking for, he further turned to the man in his 50s and repeated the instructions given to him verbatim.

How I wished I had turned to powder and vanished.

So after what seemed like a lifetime of searching, rummaging, and asking questions about suitable alternatives, the old man came up with a few boxes of what I needed, handed it over to the young man, who in turn handed it to the lady who dutifully bared the contents of the box in front of everyone. I was thinking of ways to conceal my embarrassment when I heard a thick, authoritarian voice from behind me, “42 C dikhaiyega” [Show me 42C]. Where were these liberated women when I was looking for them? The woman attendant quickly went to interact with the 42C woman, and I was left at the mercy of two men who insisted the product I was seeing was world class.

“Take this, it’s export quality, very comfortable, very stylish”. To emphasize his point, he held the piece of cloth in between his hands like he would hold an elastic band, and stretched it a couple of times. “Ekdum stretchable kapda hai. Export quality”.

Suddenly I knew what I had to do. No longer able to witness a person from the opposite gender stretching a piece of cloth of supreme privacy to me, coaxing me to buy it just because he could stretch it anyway he wanted to, emphasizing the ultimate comforting experience I will be embarking on if I wore it, I left the boxes at the counter, muttered something incoherent, and started towards the exit. To which the man looked confused, wondering if he had got me the wrong stuff by mistake. He shouted, “34C nahi chalega kya?” [Won’t 34C do?]

Whatever hope of privacy I had left like the smoke out of the chimney. The whole world now knew what size I was looking for. It was barely any consolation that I was not looking something for myself. I finally paused and looked one last time at the man, “It’s for a friend. I will ask and come back”, and sped out of the door.

I felt so stupid, trying to convince the world that it wasn’t something for me but for a friend. As if they cared. I know I am going back to nowhere except the shopping mall in Seattle where I can settle things within the four walls of the fitting room without the world knowing about what exactly I wanted to buy. As far as my friend goes, I’d recommend her she do the same.

sunshine

Happiness Index In Shopping Malls

Shopping is a necessary evil. Necessary, you know why, but evil, I’ll tell you why. I was at the mall yesterday, trying to buy formal clothes for my defense, when I made an interesting observation. The mall was filled with pictures and life-size cutouts of models who belonged to a different planet altogether. These models had sparkly white teeth and the most flawless smiles. They wore clothes that seemed to have been stitched on their bodies from their naked scratch to fit to perfection. They had their hair in the most suitable of styles, combed in just the way it should be. They had the best of figures, the perfect six packs and abs, as if they spent their entire days running on treadmills and lifting weights, without a hint of tiredness on their faces, of sweat or signs of fatigue. I looked at their figures, then looked at myself in the mirror, and thought- May no man ever want me if I don’t have a figure like that. They lived in the perfect houses, with not a stain on the walls. The orange juice they drank looked delicious. The cushions and the couches and the bedspreads looked all right. They smiled as if the world revolved around them and whatever product they were trying to sell. The women did not have wrinkles or dark circles under their eyes. They did not have any marks or blemishes on their skins, even if due to a childhood bicycling accident. They had happiness and joy written all over their faces. They wore the best of clothes, carried the best of accessories, and always knew what would go with what. None of them had birthmarks or flabby thighs, or bore the evidence of puppy fat or stretch marks under their skin. Everyone seemed so happy, as if they have never known what it means to cry and to feel sad and sorry and upset. The lady, who poses for a pair of shoes, focuses on a particular spot on the wall, smiling into nowhere, and had you not recognized the name of the company, you wouldn’t know if she was trying to sell us shoes or her happiness at owning those shoes. I look at the two models acting as husband and wife posing for another product, and I know that they have never had fights and arguments. They probably start their day happily going to the gym, exchange love notes and romantic telephone calls all day in office, go for candlelit dinners every evening and go to sleep in each other’s arms without bickering or fighting. Even the background showed me a home where every single thing was in its place. It seems that these people have never had disappointments, breakups, or failures in life. They never scratch themselves or are caught digging their noses at their off-guard moments or burp. I imagine myself buying one of the products these people are selling, and wonder if I’ll start looking as happy and as glamorous as they do. But I’ve realized that compared to them, I am still poor and ugly and miserable and cross with life. Rarely have these products- perfumes, diamond jewelry, high heeled shoes and watches and whatever I’ve seen in a shopping mall has ever given me flawless smiles and luscious lips and a figure to die for.

My point is, if it is a surreal world out there, or the creative imagination of Utopia, I don’t know how it fits into my real world of ugliness, imperfections, miseries and heartbreaks. And if that is the case, I don’t see why I should be lured into a fantasy world to spend more and more money and want things half of which I will never need and none of which will put me into such a fantasy world.

By the way, I finally bought a formal skirt and jacket along with formal shoes and 2 pairs of stockings. I further got a formal pair of earrings and a handbag too. And all this at a whooping time frame of an hour and a half. All I did was focus on what I absolutely needed, and stayed away from these smiling faces alluring me to buy sexy lingerie and designer dresses that I know I am not going to need at the moment.

sunshine

First Buy

The other day, I was wondering about the first time I made a dollar transaction in the US. In other words, what was the first thing I bought in the US? It was the day after I had landed here. My first (and my longest) flight did not prepare me for the basic hazards of travelling in compressed, dry, and closed compartments for hours, and I had left my cosmetics behind for fear of unwarranted security harassment. I had not taken into account how cold and dry it would be inside the airplane, and how it could affect my lips. I had barely crossed Mumbai when my lips started to get dry, itch, and irritate. I tried taking sips of water to keep them moist, but that only increased my frequency of restroom visits, much to the chagrin of my fellow passengers. My lips just got worse with every passing hour. By the time I had landed here, I could barely smile at the friend who had come to pick me up, or at G (my host). My lips were sore and bleeding, and looked as if some monstrous insect from Africa had hatched out of the eggs inside my lips. The next day when I went to visit my department for the first time and introductions were made, I could only exchange hugs, but not smiles. It was then I knew why people talked about stiff upper lips.

Anyway, G decided to relieve me of my miseries of severely chapped and bleeding lips, and took me to the nearest Walgreens store. It was my first time in a store as well, and just the sheer variety and quantity of things neatly arranged in aisles amazed me. There were so many choices for something as simple as lip balm that I did not know what to choose.

“Hmm…. Seems like you will need quite some quantity”, G remarked at the sight of my battered lips. I spotted this big jar of petroleum jelly, debating whether to buy it when G read my mind and told me that store brands were cheaper. The jar alone weighed 368 grams, and I wondered if I would need that amount. $3.49 each, it said, or 2 for $5.

I had barely been in the US for 10 hours and before I knew it, the consumer bug had bitten me. It was the phenomenon of buying in bulk whether I needed that much or not, just because it came much cheaper. And right there, I fell into the trap. The first thing I bought in the US was 2 jars of petroleum jelly, costing me $5 and weighing 736 grams in all. “Good buy”- G had remarked.

It has been 2 years, and I am still struggling to finish off the first jar. I can’t get rid of it, not just for the sake of old memories, but for the fact that there is so much of it all remaining to be used. And every time I go to a shop and see cute little chapsticks and lip balms of different flavors, I resist the temptation to buy them, just because I want to finish off these monstrous sized things first. It’s no longer a matter of wasting something worth 5 bucks, it is a matter of wasting half a kilo of petroleum jelly.

My first buy in dollars- 750 grams worth petroleum jelly ! God knows what I was thinking.

sunshine

Once Taken, Twice I Buy.

The women in my family are dangerous. They will cook you amazing food, love you, spoil you silly, and take your stuff. 

I learnt this lesson the hard way. First, grandma came to visit and I was enthusiastically showing her all that I had shopped. She started eyeing a particular handbag that I had bought on sale for hundred rupees. Her eyes were full of adoration as she kept fiddling with the handbag.

"Do you like it? Would you like to keep it?", I asked. 

She needed no second invitation. She grinned happily and stuffed the handbag in her suitcase. The grapevine has it that she has been going around showing that bag to everyone who visits, boasting about the granddaughter. 

On a similar note, I was flaunting my tee shirt to my sister. Being expensive, I waited for months for them to go on sale. Sister started eyeing a nice red and white stripped shirt. 

"Don't you think this would look great on me?", she asked. "You are yet to give me a birthday gift this year."

 And just like that, the shirt went in her closet. 

"Hey, wait! Isn't your birthday in seven months?", I asked. By then, I was just talking to the empty walls in an empty room. 

The next week, when aunt visited us and wanted to see all that I had bought, I lied that I lost the suitcase keys. Once bitten, twice shy. Twice bitten, I must lie.

sunshine.

Consequences Of Splurging.

Someone left a shopaholic into just any mall of the city for one full month. That shopaholic was me.

I finally decided that unbranded jeans were as good as the branded stuff provided you got them at the right place. Surprisingly, they would cost almost one third. So I ended up buying 7 pairs of jeans!

The problem is, 7 jeans weigh what 7 jeans should weigh. And it's not just about jeans. I always thought I wasn’t very organized when it came down to shopping. But now that I look at my suitcases, I realize that I have perhaps got myself everything I would need for the next five years. Thanks to all that extra help and effort by mom, you can find anything in my bags ranging from kitchen napkins to bottle openers. So when I was allotted roughly 70 kg in all by my airline, I was overjoyed that perhaps this way I would be able to carry almost half my home with me. I kept on shopping till I finally decided to start packing.

You know, my suitcases could be used as mono bath tubs as well. So like mini dragons, they kept on engulfing the things I kept stuffing. And then when I thought that I was a little more than halfway through, I weighed them and found to my horror that I was almost more than 10 kg overweight (not me, my bags I mean). There must have been some error. So I borrowed another weighing machine from the neighbor and got the same result. Holy shit !!! And I thought I was only half way through.

Now the trouble was that I wasn’t really sure what would I keep and what would I throw away. Of course text books weighed like baby elephants. So I took out a few books and somehow got within the safe weight limit. But wait, wasn’t I going there to study? Naah, the jeans had to wait. So I put back the books and took out a few clothes. And then I realized that I would need all the clothes in a cold country, but perhaps not as many cosmetics.

So for the whole evening, I have been taking out books, weighing the suitcases, and then putting them back, taking out clothes and weighing them again, and then putting them back and taking out a few utensils and kitchen items, and hauling everything up on the weighing machine. And if this continues, I am sure I’ll need a spine transplant before I leave. You see, I am in a mess. And the idea of leaving anything behind breaks my heart. And you know who has been having the last laugh in all this? My sister, who knows that whatever I don’t take (except books, which she won’t touch) will go to her.

How I wish airlines had no weight limits. 

sunshine.

“Suit” Yourself.

Continued……

Surely there had been enough of melodrama the last few days and I had told dad after the Sunday episode that if I was not taken to the wholesaler (or whatever) the very next day, I’d straightaway take the metro to Esplanade, enter one of those showrooms at Lindsay Street, blindfold myself, and pick up just anything my fingers fancied. Of course all these empty threats never work on dad. Nevertheless, on a clear, sunny Monday morning, I was dutifully taken to the wholesale market.

Now that’s easier written than done. Anyone who has been to a wholesale market would know the chaos and utter mayhem one gets to witness. So when we took a bus from Central metro past the Lalbazar Police Headquarter, little did I know that I’d be seeing a place that was a far cry from the grandeur of the shopping malls I was so familiar with.

For reason number one, keeping pace with dad when he walks is an impossible feat. And in wholesale markets, you do not have the benefit of buses, cabs, or anything more than hand pulled rickshaws. After the first few lanes, I did not even know where I was being taken to. Almost scampering through the lanes and the alleys, frantically trying to keep pace with dad, I could barely manage to steal an occasional glimpse at the names of the shops just to know where exactly I was. After a few incomprehensible street names, I found out that we were somewhere in Kolkata- 700 001. That had to be close to the Dalhousie, tea board area. The lanes at times were so narrow that I could not even walk parallel with dad. And then, I had to run like a scared kid, grabbing hold of his left hand (since he had his briefcase in the right one), lest I miss him among so many office goers. If somehow I was lost there, I had nothing more to help me than a few thousand rupees and a mobile phone. And even with that, I was sure I could never find my way through the place.

Every time I looked in front of me, I would see coolies and baniyan-clad daily wage workers carrying asbestos sheets and foam mattresses and screaming expletives, almost bumping into me. I had felt this scared and agoraphobic the last time I had been to the Chandni Chowk market. I had never believed there could be a crowd of this magnitude dashing into you every now and then if you were not careful enough. This is one reason I never go pandal hopping during the pujas. I feel claustrophobic.

And then, people would test your reflexes every now and then by spitting pan and expect you to acrobat your way through the filth and dirt. Or it would be the footpaths where one would wade through the giant chulhas, hot tawas, unwashed utensils and dirty water from these food stalls.

So after what seemed like ages of walking, I finally managed to scream and grab hold of dad’s arms to stop him and to know where exactly were we headed for and if at all he knew a particular place. To which he calmly said, wait, we will need to stop over at a few shops and compare prices before we make a deal. A few shops? I could almost feel the first bouts of dizziness as I approached a blackout.

But no, I couldn’t afford to black out just like that. If I did, dad would take me back home and then, my plans for buying a suitcase would be stalled. I faintly tried to remember brave women like Rani Laxmi Bai who’d fought battles. Surely I could tolerate this much of heat and sweat. But then, perhaps the Rani of Jhansi had never been to a wholesale market in one of the dingiest areas of the city, and if she did, perhaps she too might have needed a few glucose biscuits, a few sprinkles of cold water on her face and the smell of worn shoes and stinking socks thrust into her nose to bring her back to her senses (It’s a common belief to let the person who has fainted smell worn shoes. My theory is that if the person is strong enough to withstand this shock, he/she will live).

To cut a long story short, we finally arrived at a place that seemed to me was in one of the remotest corners of the world. A pan chewing pot bellied man soon asked the attendant to show us a few suitcases. This time, there was no air conditioned showroom, but just a dark room with a noisy fan that dated back to the days of Akbar and could have done with some lubrication. But there was a repeat performance of the Sunday melodrama as I saw dad carefully scrutinize every brand of suitcase they had stocked. The materials and zips were checked, the country of origin verified, the guarantee period known, the colors and the looks… ah, that was the only thing where dad sought my opinion. Surely I hated those 2 bulldozer sized suitcases he had chosen.

But dad, I won’t be carrying ballistic missiles in the suitcases. Why do you want me to take such rough and tough (filthy looking) stuff?

What if your suitcase breaks at the airport?

Dad has always had a fascination for rough and tough, unimpressive looking things, basically anything that has more of strength and less of looks. And it’s not just the suitcases I am talking of. And no, I’m not talking about my mom either.

So after endless rounds of haggling and haranguing, I am finally the proud owner of 2 suitcases and 1 cabin luggage, bright red and deep blue in color. And I can boast that I have got the best deal in the minimum possible price, unless of course your dad happens to be the owner of a travel gear shop. But wait, let me tell you more.

Dad never returned home with me. He packed all the stuff into the rear end of a cab, exchanged a few words in Bhojpuri with the cab driver (and I’d give anything to know what exactly did he told the cab driver), and waved me a goodbye.

But dad….

Don’t worry. He’ll make sure you reach safely. Just give me a call when you reach home.

Sighs !!!! So very typical of you dad. But thanks for the suitcases anyway. Of course we got them at a great discount. Plus, I got to write this post too.

sunshine.

When Shopping With Dad- III.

Why is shopping with dad absolutely nightmarish?

Reason three- Because sometimes, there is no stopping him.

It so happened that dad decided to help me buy the suitcases that I'd need. Good enough. This included a comprehensive theory session at home regarding which materials should one rely on, how does the fiber sheets inside the cases help keep it strong, what’s the basic difference between Indian “maal” and the imported stuff, how the suitcase he’d got from Hong Kong was lightweight but sturdy, etc. So for the last 15 days, I have been trying to set an appointment with dad. Yet either work at office or the rains or the uninvited guests or something else would crop up the last moment and delay our visit to the showroom. So on a clear, sunny Sunday afternoon, I almost forcibly took him to the showrooms selling travel gear at New Market.

At the showroom…..

We specified our budget and were shown different stuff by a rather impassive-faced salesman. Soon, I found dad examining the materials just like a quality control officer would do.

Come and see the inside material. It doesn’t seem very sturdy, does it?, he asked me.

Now when you are with a learned man, even the most ignorant of people have to feign some amount of knowledge. How was I supposed to know if the material was sturdy? As if I have been buying suitcases all my life. Yet I nodded my head in compliance with him.

He scanned half a dozen more stuff, asking the salesman every type of question. Kahaan se aata hai yeh? Material imported hai kya? Yeh channel dekhiye andar mein, it doesn’t seem very thick. Yeh material kya fiber ka hai? Kitna discount aata hai is range mein? Chinese cheezein kitni reliable hoti hain?

Frankly after some time, I had lost the conversation. I kept browsing through the prices of the rucksacks and the waist pouches, dreaming about a backpacking trip to Europe, while he kept scanning the hinterlands of the suitcase, unzipping everything, slightly tugging at the materials. I had never known there could be so many unknown things one could look for in something as simple as a suitcase.

Finally after an hour or so, I thought a handful of stuff had caught his interest. I had come all prepared with the money, sure that I was taking 2 large ones and a small cabin luggage home (and that was a lot of money I was carrying). So I started moving expectantly towards dad, wanting to make the final choosing on color (why did I feel that was the only thing I’d have a say about?).

Dad, the red one….

I think we should not restrict our choices to one shop.

We spoke these lines together. At the same time.

Eh?, I stopped after the word “red one”, not understanding for once what did he have in mind. You mean you still wanna look around? I didn’t believe I was hearing it.

Look, these are pretty expensive things. And who knows, we might get a better deal elsewhere.

To my embarrassment, the salesman had already got a hint that we might not be making business here. So he drifted off to the other customers, repeating the rote set of lines he had enthusiastically repeated to us a lifetime ago when we’d entered the shop.

But dad, this is not done. These are all branded stuff. Wherever you go, you’d get the same thing.

Arre yaar, apne baap pe bharosa rakh. I’d get you the best stuff. Whenever my dad uses this “arre yaar”, one must know that he is definitely going to do what he has had his mind set on. And there is definitely no stopping him.

But half the shops are closed on Sunday, I was frantically trying to make him change his mind. The suitcases seemed fine to me. Most importantly, the prospect of suitcase-hunting for a few more hours bothered me.

So what next dad?, I felt defeated. Exhausted. Irritated.

We will go to the wholesaler tomorrow.

Dad !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh come on, these showrooms at prime locations charge a lot of money.

But dad, mom said she won’t let us enter the house if we didn’t buy the suitcases today.

Arrey don’t worry. Tomorrow we’ll go to the wholesaler first thing in the morning. What does your mom know about suitcases anyway?

And your office?

I’ll go to office late.

Frankly, I didn’t look convinced.

What? You don’t trust your dad? I said I’ll go to office late. We are going to the wholesaler first thing in the morning.

So this is shopping with dad. He is taking me to the wholesaler tomorrow. Let’s see what brews there.

At the wholesaler’s place…. Coming up soon.

sunshine.

When Shopping With Dad- II.

Why is shopping with dad absolutely nightmarish?

Reason two- Because ignorance is bliss and he isn’t ignorant.

Most of the time, I prefer shopping on my own. However, there are things (like kitchenware, cosmetics and cotton socks) I have no idea about. It is then that I take mom along. Shopping with people who (like me) don’t have much idea about things is relatively simple. This is because they keep on experimenting all the time and don’t blame you if you have paid more than what you should have. However, there are people like dad, shopping with whom can be absolutely nightmarish. He will scrutinize every part of the article, trying to strike up a conversation with the salesman. Like recently I couldn’t decide between a pair of Reebok shoes and a pair of shoes from Nike. Had I been there alone, I’d just have closed my eyes and picked one. Not dad.

He took his turns to hold each shoe and bend them this way and that way. And then, he knocked on the sole and twisted the tongue of the shoe (that’s where the laces are) while all the time I kept wondering what exactly was he trying to do. We were told by the salesman that the sole was vulcanized (whatever that meant) after which, dad asked the salesman something else I could not even comprehend (some technical thing perhaps). And then, I was asked to put on both the pairs and catwalk the passageway till I knew which one was more comfortable. I wish I could do a little jive before I could tell him. For truth be told, I hardly realized the difference. It is then that he himself tried on the shoes (we have the same feet size) and finally passed on his verdict after some 45 minutes of deciding between the two pairs.

It is then that I finally got to buy myself a pair of shoes. Thankfully.

I’ll tell you how it would have been with mom. She would have chosen the reebok one, and then I’d have told her that the nike ones looked better. And then she would have agreed on the nike ones and I’d have started having second thoughts. This would have happened for 10 more minutes before we would have made a random selection. Vulcanization be darned.

You see, ignorance is bliss. Sometimes the lesser you know about things, the easier it is to make a choice.


sunshine.

When Shopping With Dad- I.

Why is shopping with dad absolutely nightmarish?

Reason one- Because we are ignored (not deliberately though) most of the times.

First, he walks so fast that I can never keep pace.

And then I hate this weird habit he has of striking up a conversation with every cab driver who happens to hail from Bihar, Orissa, or Delhi.

Chapra zila se hain ka?

The cab driver’s (with his broken Bengali) eyes would suddenly light up, hearing someone speak the dialect of his native place. Mom and I would silently give knowing looks to each other the whole journey. We would yawn, we would start talking on our own, but nothing would give dad the cue. He would be at the front seat so engrossed talking to the man that family would soon be forgotten. The contents of the discussion could be anything, ranging from the reason the man shifted to this city and took up cab driving to the local political scenario to who all live in his family to how much of dowry the brother-in-law demanded, basically anything under the sky. Had you not known dad, you’d have thought he and the cab driver have been best buddies in school and were separated at the kumbh mela. Mom and I would look thoroughly disinterested, trying to fix up our hair or applying lip gloss, trying to decipher broken pieces from the conversation progressing in fluent bhojpuri. And then when we reach our destination, the man would exclaim, aap bihari (or oriya, or whatever applies) hoke bhi badhiya bangali bol lete hain.

I would be on the verge of stepping forward to clarify the man’s wrong notions about my dad and his origin when (instead of clarifying the faux pas the person has just made), dad would smile at him and point at mom- ka karein? Apne sasuraal waale bangali jo thehre. And then the cab driver would speed away, his smile clearly indicative of the glee he’d experienced on having met someone from his “des”.

And then, dad would look at us guiltily and I would put my hands on my hips and make a face at him, saying- raste mein tanik hum se bhi baat kar lete. Ab chalein ka? (you could have talked to we lesser mortals too on the way. Let’s get moving anyway).


sunshine.

Of Suitcases and Love.

Finding a love mate is pretty much like buying a suitcase.

One fine evening you visit a particular shop, look around and suddenly spot a particular suitcase you just can’t take your eyes off. You survey it trying to look intelligent and experienced, as if you have been buying suitcases all your life. You check on the quality, the material, the color, the durability. You tend to assess its reliability. You tend to take your best friend’s opinion. You suddenly imagine making a world tour, proudly showing it off. You check on the company. You check on the warranty period. You check on the price tag and are left in a dilemma. You know that it’s too expensive for you to afford. Yet you simply cannot bear the thought of leaving the shop without it.

You leave the shop, yet you can’t let the thoughts of the suitcase leave your mind. You try in vain to forget all about it, deciding that you could do with a less expensive one. After all, all you need to carry are a few clothes and a few books. You go to sleep deciding that you are better off without that particular one. Yet the very next morning, the thoughts of that particular one keep coming back and haunting you.

You have two options henceforth.

1st option: You spend a month making market surveys to find out reasons why you could do without it, doing everything to take your mind off that one. At the end of a month, you decide that you could not handle the pain anymore. What’s the use of such a life if you cannot afford a suitcase of your choice? Determined, you wear your best clothes, take out some extra cash from the bank, look your most confident self, and enter the shop, only to find the suitcase gone. Some customer had bought it a few days back. And no, there’s no second one of that particular model available, though the shop has been freshly stocked with hundreds of other ones with different colors and materials and designs, many of far superior quality and may be cheaper prices. Yet that one particular model is gone. You ask in vain if there would be fresh stocks arriving soon. Yet at the back of your mind, you know that it’s gone. Forever.

2nd option: You get impulsive, take out money from the bank the very next morning, go to the shop and buy it. You still don’t know if it’s worth the money and if you could strike a better bargain. Yet you are past caring. You have what you wanted, and that’s all that matters to you.

Now substitute the word suitcase with a man. It sometimes (though on very rare occasions) happens that you suddenly like a particular man for some particular reason, even if you people haven’t known each other very well. You know it doesn’t really make sense. Yet you suddenly feel a certain chemistry, a certain force of attraction, and every single man in the room ceases to shrink into being non existent for you. You know that this is crazy and that you are not really equipped to handle a relationship at this point of time. You aren’t sure if you are doing the right thing. So you keep analyzing the situation left and right, up and down. You try to find out umpteen reasons why it could end up in a disaster. You are scared of getting hurt. You have reached the age when you stop believing in love and you know that it is just one of the many routine processes you have to perform in life, culminating into marriage and kids and whatever. I mean a lot many people marry without love and then get used to the situation. You don’t really need to fall for anyone, let alone a person you have hardly known, at this point of time.

1st option: You spend your nights thinking and analyzing and finding ways to overcome the pull. You know this might not be the right thing to do knowing that you might always end up hurt. Your priorities are different. You don’t really need the unwanted hassles of relationships. You wait for him to make the first move since despite your modern thoughts, you don't think its appropriate for the lady to make the first move. You convince yourself of these facts for 29 nights. On the 30th morning, you dress up all prim and proper, ready to convey your feelings. You meet him over lunch. You guys get to talk and he excitedly tells you how he met a girl in the same party he met you a month back and how they got to be friends and how they are thinking seriously about things. Wham!!!! You see your dreams shattering into a million fragments and disappearing. Even the thought of having spent 29 nights pondering over it seems like a waste now.

2nd option: You decide to get impulsive and confront him. You aren’t worried about the outcome. Even if the answer is going to be a no, you would at least not spend further time and waste your energy thinking about the whole issue. And if it turns out to be a yes, then nothing better. You know that he isn’t a many things you want, and he is many a things you don’t want. Yet nothing really matters anymore.

We are always facing this dilemma in life, undecided about things. Most of the time, we don’t state things clearly. If we did, we could have saved ourselves from heartbreak. Yet we decide to keep things to ourselves and take our own sweet time to come up with a conclusion we should have come to months back. The possibility of getting a thing or not getting it always remains. Yet this way, we somehow increase the probability of not getting a particular thing we wish to have. And live to regret our actions (or the lack of it).

Maybe I need to take a lesson out of this post and talk to him soon. After all, I don’t really wish to increase my chances of hearing a no. I know this is crazy, but sometimes you have to get out of that logic-mode and let impulses take over.

I’ll meet him and talk to him on Monday after school. Wish me luck. I’ve just realized that I cannot do without he knowing about it.

I've never felt this impulsive about things. I need his help now. I’ve finally realized that I just cannot do without the deep blue Gior Dano cabin bag I’d seen in that showroom at Esplanade last week. Never mind the fact that it's exorbitantly priced. And the salesman of the showroom should be the first person to know this. Don't you think so?

sunshine.