Gosh, I can be gauche!

A lot can happen over coffee. Hell, yes. Like horrific self-realisations about how gauche I can be, even if only fleetingly so.

KO and I seated ourselves down for coffee and a quick bite in the middle of our mammoth shopping trip. We cooed with delight, noticing the bottles of hand sanitizer on each table. Since we’re both rather finicky about it - we carry our own sanitizers everywhere (KO sometimes showers with it) - we thought it was one of the best things to happen to coffee chains since umm… well, since the introduction of those tasteless chocolate doughnuts.

We placed our orders. Two energy drinks, rather dubiously named “XXX”, a samosa for KO and a chilli puff pastry for yours truly. Not so difficult to remember now, is it? However, it appeared that both the staff and I had left our brains back home that afternoon. Our waitress came over twice to reconfirm our order - and that proved once too many times for a feeble-minded flake like me apparently. I completely forgot about what I had ordered.

Our drinks and a plate with two samosas were placed on the table. The dubious drinks had nothing else on them except for “XXX” - we had to figure out for ourselves which one was grape and which was wild berry. KO’s tasted suspiciously like tobacco. We were right. The fineprint said the drink was a substitute for nicotine. The irony? Both KO and I are non-smokers. One sip and I felt like I was sucking on an empty carton of Gold Flake Lights. Sick.

“Mmm-hmm”, said KO, gesturing toward the plate of samosas. “How strange”, I thought while helping myself to one, “Why can’t these people place the samosas on individual plates for each of us?” Yes, I was having one of my blonde moments and had begun to believe that I had ordered a samosa as well.

I wolfed it down, still blissfully unaware that it wasn’t my order in the first place. I was too busy swapping tales of dodgy dreams. After I’d gulped down the last crumb, KO very matter-of-factly asks, “Hey, hasn’t your order come as yet?”

The horror of what I had done descended upon me. I had just gobbled up KO’s food. Without batting an eyelid. Unapologetically. Unthinkingly. “Oh, my God! KO, I ate your samosa!” I howled loudly, oblivious to the attention the rather dramatic response was drawing from other patrons. “No, no, it is quite all right. I was not going to eat the second samosa anyway”, KO said magnanimously.

I felt my cheeks burning with shame. “I am so sorry!” I lapsed into silence mulling my terrible social faux pas. How could I have been so obtuse and unaware? Then the second wave of horror struck - as KO chuckled at my beetroot-red face.

-KO?
-Yes, child?
-What if this had been a date?

O.M.G. It could happen. I am now watching myself...very, very carefully.

Veni, Vidi, Visa

It is that time of year again. Indulgence. That is the key word and what better way to kick things off than with some hard-core retail therapy?

Armed with cash, cards, cheery smiles and a mental must-buy list, KO and I shopped our way through dozens of stores across the city this weekend.

My planned list comprised of jeans and dresses. Shoes? Definitely not. Although I would have loved to add more to my burgeoning shoe rack, which would give Imelda Marcos a hard run for her money, I simply do not have the space for anything more (despite having recently given away over 30 pairs – that is how dire the situation is). So unless someone could point me in the direction of a nice delicate pair of white or off-white stilettos, footwear was strictly off my shopping list.

Just jeans and dresses. That was the plan. And what did I end up with? Well, three pairs of jeans, a pair of capris, a wee denim skirt, two tops, de-stressing aromatherapy products, dozens of junk accessories - including earrings, bracelets, necklaces, finger rings - a maroon clutch, tiny terracotta artefacts for the house, a wall plaque with a nasty message for Bin and a hot pink rubber cow that flashes like a strobe light when you shake it.

Not bad. I didn’t veer that much off my planned course now, did I? Also, on the positive side, I haven’t changed my mind about any of my purchases. Yes, not even about that pink flashy cow.

On the downside, the dresses were disappointing. I almost found something I liked. However, one look at myself in the trial room mirror (subjecting KO to a horrific preview as well) and I couldn’t get out of the little black number fast enough. The dress screamed “Forget the drinks, dinner and gripping conversation; let’s move this to the bedroom right away – and oh, keep the money on the night stand”. Yep, prudently discarded that.

KO fared almost as well. With just jeans on her agenda, she ended up with two pairs of jeans, capris, a bunch of handbags - including one gigantic enough to house a healthy Shetland pony - aromatherapy products, clutches and junk jewellery. Of course, KO decided that she would also shop for our Christmas presents and kept barking at me to stay away from certain sections of the store. After she’d bellowed at me a couple of times, I was forced to feign interest in a pink pig table lamp that lit up when its nose was jabbed just to kill time until she had finished shopping for our presents. Oh, the wretched indignity of it all.

Six hours, aching feet, bulging shopping bags and considerably lighter wallets later, we joined BC to bask in the refreshingly tangy iciness of kiwi frozen yoghurt, pleased as punch with our fruitful shopping binge.

As Swoosie Kurtz said, “Veni, vidi, visa”.

Down To Bra Stacks

They’re right up there on my “Yech! Hate it” list along with lizards, queue cutters and people who say “I am looking forward FOR”……

Who?

The salesgirls in lingerie shops. Indian lingerie shops at least.

I’ll tell you this: we Indian women are a disadvantaged lot when it comes to undergarments. The number of brands available - limited. The sizes, colours and styles - limited. Sales personnel knowledge on the subject - limited.

After an SOS from KO, who needed just the right kind of bra to go with some newly acquired dresses, I accompanied her to just about every lingerie store on Bangalore’s Commercial Street. While the search was quite fruitless for the most part, the attitude - or more pertinently, ineptitude - of the sales personnel really got our goat.

At the end of the ordeal, I had a thing or ten to tell lingerie sales women:

1. Do not judge your customer and throw her holier-than-thou looks; as if she is morally less upright than yourself for not having asked to see your cloth-bag-cum-emergency-parachute range of brassieres that would put her rosary-counting great grandma to shame, opting instead for racier numbers

2. You will never be an expert judge of size. Period.

3. If you don’t have it, don’t put posters of it up on the wall and then nod forlornly when asked for it

4. Do not assume that everyone needs a white bra; not all women like to shroud what nature gave them in Indian mourning attire

5. Not every customer is Winona Ryder; if you are convinced that all lingerie tryouts are guaranteed shoplifts, put those bar code thingies on the undergarments instead of shouting across the floor, “Madam, where is your bra?”

6. Finally, “Multiplay” is a line of multi-way bras (from Enamor), new on the market; do not act like we’re nincompoops who walked into a lingerie store asking for contraception

Interestingly, we found exactly what we were looking for in a little section of Arihant Plaza… ably guided by… a man.

They All Fall Down

Even scorching 45+ degree heat could not deter a chronic shoppaholic like me. So, with Ducky in tow, I strolled around the bustling market of Sarojini Nagar. I've noticed that salesmen up north are much more aggressive in trying to drive up sales than their more benign counterparts down south.

And so it was in SN that we haggled with and were hounded by dozens of salesmen. We finally approached a store where there was a 'fantastic' sale on - pick anything in there for 75 bucks. It had a mound of t-shirts, shorts, kurtis and whatnot with dozens of enthusiastic shoppers burrowing into it like frenzied moles. The salesman, who stood outside the store bellowing for people to check out his fantastic sale, would put any foghorn to shame. "75 rupees, any item, all item, super sale! ", he hollered.

Three women strolled past him, lugging a whole lot of shopping bags. They paid the foghorn absolutely no attention. He would have none of that. "Arrey, Madam! Dekho kya gir gaya!", (look what has fallen down!) he shouted suddenly. Startled, they turned around, worried eyes scanning the ground. "Kya gir gaya?", (what fell down?), one of them asked him anxiously, obviously thinking one of her precious purchases had fallen out of her bag.

"Madam, dhaam gir gaya!", (the price has fallen), he whooped with a broad smile, gesturing toward his shop as laughter erupted all around him.

Stone Deaf

In Delhi, I got the chance to attend a workshop conducted by a well-known crystal healer and tarot-card reader, Bindu Maira at The Maximum Store. Ducky was dragged along for good measure and cowered at the back of the room while the otherwise all-women audience waxed eloquent about the supposed fantastic power of gem stones on one's life. While I am still quite sceptical, the overall session was interesting.

At the end of the session, I went over to Bindu and asked her whether she could suggest any crystal for Ducky, since he's in the army et al. Only families of defence personnel must worry for the safety and protection of their loved ones every single day. Bindu suggested Larimar for Ducky, saying it would do his lungs good. Rarefied air at his high-altitude post and ciggie smoking is a bad combination!

I promptly told Ducky that he required Larimar and we decided we'd pick it up from Bindu some time later.

Days later, while shopping in Jaipur, I was busy thwarting the attempts of a resolute salesman trying to interest me in earrings made of semi-precious stones. "Ok, Madam, take a look at these bee-yoo-ti-ful earrings made of Lapis Lazuli", he persisted. At this point, Ducky, who had thus far displayed marked disinterest in the proceedings, suddenly pricked up his ears.

"Lapis Lazuli?", he said, eyes gleaming brighter than the gems on display. "Do you have just the stone?" Looking pleased as punch, the salesman enthusiastically fished out a tray with the bee-yoo-ti-ful stones. Deep blue with little flecks of gold. I had to agree. They were bee-yoo-ti-ful.

"Shall I buy it?", asked Ducky. I could see his mind was made up already. Nothing I said could deter him now, not even if I threatened him with the world's largest cannon (Jaivana) that was parked nearby. "If you like it so much, buy it", I said. And so, Rupees 1,550 later, we strode out, Ducky beaming and the even happier salesman doing the cancan behind a terracotta camel.

A day later, Ducky mentioned that he was glad he'd picked up "the stone that Bindu recommended". Dramatic pause.

- What? She suggested LARIMAR, not this!
- What! Then what is this?
- Lapis Lazuli!
- What! I paid 1550 for a stone I don't even need?!
- Hahahaha!
- Why didn't you tell me!
- [Choking] How was I to know that you'd gotten them mixed up? I thought you liked the stone. It is bee-yoo-ti-ful.
- I don't believe this!
- [Sides splitting] Oh, well, if nothing else, Lapis Lazuli has definitely taught you to listen to your woman!
- $$#@&%&*^*^^%**#@

Bargains at Bagdogra

We disembarked at NJP and proceeded to Siliguri, where we were to spend the night at the Army guesthouse. From Siliguri, we made a quick trip to Bagdogra to shop for warm clothes and take a look at the market there. I picked up a nice warm hooded jacket for Rs 350 and a thick, soft polo-neck sweater for Rs 100! For someone used to expensive Bangalore, this was quite a jaw-dropping shopping expedition. We also picked up 36-movies-in-one DVDs for Rs 50. I now possess a single DVD with almost all of Johnny Depp's blockbusters! I feel quite ashamed for having rejoiced in Bangalore when I ferreted out a place that sold single-movie DVDs for Rs 60 or even 4-in-one Bollywood DVDs for Rs 40!