Diversified We Are

That India is diversified yet united was an overused phrase, and I presume still is, in school books that attempt to impart moral science and value education to little students. Most books say that being such a huge country with people living in all directions, speaking different languages, the difference in lifestyle, eating habits, attire and the likes, Indians are still a united people. And thus follows, 'Unity in Diversity' - a hackneyed phrase that seems to be the definition of the country's character. No doubt it sounds inspiring. But the little students pouring over these books come face to face with reality when they really meet their diverse compatriots.

On more than one occasion, I have been told by natives of South India that I was one of the few non-South Indians they had come across who actually knew the difference and acknowledged the presence of four different states in the southern part of India. The appreciation was genuine and there was hint of a little respect. I did not think it was a matter of pride. I only thought I was aware of the diversity that existed in my country.

Not being aware of a certain thing is one thing, not wanting to get rid of your ignorance is fatal. I chanced to be a part of a rather unfortunate conversation once. I call it unfortunate because there I was listening to a harrowed guy trying to explain to a silly fellow that the former was not a Madrasi but a native of Karnataka, and that the two things were completely different. It was arduous effort on the part of the harrowed guy. He began with the basics, telling the moron that there were four states that comprised south India. He explained that all the four states had a different language each. He went on to clarify that in Karnataka people spoke Kannada in some parts, and Tullu in a particular belt. Then he declared that he was a Tullu-speaking native of Karnataka. The harrowed guy looked content with his effort. The silly one had a sillier expression on his face. All he said was, "Yeah sure. But in the end you all are the same. Madrasis right?" My jaw dropped to the floor. Took me a jack to bring it back. Here was a guy who was not just ignorant, but even refused to accept facts that would only make him wiser. His outright insensitivity left me flabbergasted.

I could relate to the harrowed guy because I've met people who called me a Punjabi. On being corrected that I was a Bihari not a Punjabi they said they thought that all North Indians were Punjabis. What was the difference anyway? At other times I have tried in vain to tell people that Uttar Pradesh and Bihar are completely different states, and so are the natives of the respective states. It is really not cool to call every North Indian a 'bhaiya'. Retards have circulated this misnomer because natives from Uttar Pradesh generally refer to people as 'bhaiya' which is a term of respect for an elder brother. Obviously they don't know the logic. They are retards, remember? All attempts at trying to clarify your nativity are met with weird reactions here. Some don't want to believe you. Most don't care. That Orissa is different from West Bengal is not a big deal. You could be a Bangladeshi for all it's worth! 

I am surprised at the multitude of mentally deranged people in this country. I call this process of mindlessly using an inappropriate term to describe a vast community blanketing. We do this with foreigners as well. Every fair skinned guy is an 'angrez' (British) or an American at the most. And all dark skinned ones are Africans. I can't even imagine how our North-Eastern compatriots must feel. Being called Chinese all the time, or perhaps Nepali, in your own country is not a nice thing. It's a fact that scores of people will not be able to differentiate between a Chinese, a Malaysian, a Thai, a Mongol and a North-East Indian just by looking at them. But did they make an effort to at least find out? Perhaps not, because it doesn't matter until you face it. We are united in our ignorance, and isn't that a great thing! Tell me which book gives this real picture of 'unity in diversity' to our children?

~

Look At It From The Other Side

Aamir Khan's initiative called Satyameva Jayate is a unique and thoughtful one. We could also call it the need of the hour, seeing the sorry social scenario in the world's largest, greatest democracy. No doubt Satyameva Jayate brings to light some the most disgusting and gruesome social evils in India, but it's not difficult to sense the diplomatic tone of the show when it comes to talking about the absolute failure of the governing bodies in tackling these issues.

Indians believe that the people who are a part of the government are people in 'power', our rulers. We first need to tell ourselves that those in the government are 'people's representatives'; which means they have been appointed by a majority of the voting population to serve the populace and not to rule it. We gave up the 'raja-rank' system in 1947. So Mr. Khan and team please stop appeasing the government and call a spade a spade when you need to. Like you took in the chief of MCI today, you have a right to take a dig at the government as well. But then again I know there is a possibility that you could be victimised. The 'people in power' have with them all means to sabotage the well being and peace of mind of whistle blowers in this country.

This initiative will definitely demonstrate the dilapidated state of Indian society. The show can expect to run forever taking into account the oh-so-many social problems that we are infested with. Radio jockeys will incessantly discuss the show and gloat about what a great person Aamir Khan is and how this 'cause' justifies his exorbitant per episode fee. Common people will have something to watch on Sunday mornings. The aggrieved who come to the show each week will have a vent for their agonies. But where is the change we were promised? 

One prerequisite for the 'change' we want is a change in the common man's outlook to shed off the retrogressive traditions that pave the way of people's lives. But is that going to happen? I guess not. Why would someone give up the 'values' their ancestors passed on to them just because some popular guy on TV tells them to? As one bad fish spoils the entire pond, a few people will keep up the various ill deeds in society. The only difference is that in a humongous population of 1.2 billion, a 'few people' will be a figure that could outnumber the entire population of an average east European country.

~

All Things Bright and Beautiful

Every human activity is nothing but an implicit pursuit of happiness. We don't always say it, but that is what we seek at the end of the day. Be it a student burning the midnight oil to fare well in his examination, a priest preaching the scriptures to his disciples, a sportsman practising relentlessly for a big game, a professional roughing it out at work, a sculptor working on his grand scultpture or a dishonest officer accepting bribes - each one of them goes about doing these things to be happy eventually. Our life is a journey, where one thing leads to another and there is always a task at hand to be fulfilled. If we think completing a certain undertaking will finally make us happy, it probably will. More often than not it doesn't, as an even bigger assignment emerges subsequently and we begin our rigmarole all over again before we know what is happening. Another exam will soon be round the corner, another big sculpture will await the artist, and yet another big match will happen. In simple words, that is the flow of life.

So when will we finally find our coveted happiness? We don't have to take a trip to Shangri-La or sell off our Ferraris to unearth the answer to this. We just have to look within, and around. As we are constantly engaged in the process of achieving a certain goal in the hope that it will lead us to our ultimate destination - happiness; we do not realise that happiness is not an end but a state of being. While all of us are busy doing our 'stuff' believing that it will lead us to our larger objective we overlook the little things that happen all around us all the time. We underestimate the power of these little things. Why do we forget that all great things are made up of several small bits? And every small bit in the masterpiece canvas has its own worth and beauty. We do not realise that in life as well it is these little bits that create a state of happiness in and around us.

It is a rare thing to realise the beauty in simplicity. Sharing a random laugh with a stranger in a public bus, a light conversation with the greengrocer, an unexpected encounter with your crush in the elevator, recognising a familiar face in a crowd, seeing a toddler smiling innocently at you, having little puppies saunter around your feet playfully, watching vagabonds race old tyres on the street, watching the sunset at the beach, bumping into an old favourite on the radio, helping an aged lady down a flight of stairs at the railway station or a sudden text from an old friend. Aren't these simple little things? And aren't they sure to bring a smile on our faces and lighten our minds? It is for each of us to realise that each day comes with its own ups and downs and so does life, in the long run. However, nobody has stopped us from encashing the few breathers that life tosses at us in the midst of those ups and downs. We will undoubtedly face constant struggles on our 'journey to bliss' but our mental disposition determines the joy we derive while on that journey.

We don't always need an expensive overseas holiday, lavish meals and designer clothes to be content. Devouring hot vada pavs at the brink of Bushi Dam in the raging monsoons wearing your denim shorts and favourite tee may prove to be far more satiating. Happiness is a state of mind. We are happy if we think we are.

~

The 11th Commandment : Love thy Book

Being an avid reader has numerous virtues. Being a bibliophile has its own thrill. However, being both, at the same time, is a rather worrisome situation. Disastrous if you fall in a category called fussy.

For me books are not just a bunch of printed sheets bound together. They are a lot more. I treat them as if they have life. Every book I buy is chosen carefully after a thorough examination and comparison with all available copies in the store. I am very particular about the condition of the book that becomes mine.

I simply dislike the offer/ discount and other stickers pasted on the covers of books. I cannot stand blunt edges, especially those of hard covers. It breaks my heart. I've mended quite a few paper backs to near perfect but with damaged hard covers there is no hope. Crumpled pages are tantamount to murder. In short, defacing a book is just not allowed. It is a gargantuan sin. And that is the reason why I do not lend books to anybody.

I am not the kinds who can just pick a book off the shelf and begin to read. I never read in book stores. It is not voluntary; I just cannot get myself to read in the presence of other people. Reading is a very private affair for me, and I prefer to do it in solitude.

Every book that I read goes through a set of rituals. Each book that belongs to me bears my name along with the date when and place where it was bought. I sometimes even fuss about the colour of ink I use. A lot of my books are signed in with an ink of a colour that matches the colour scheme on the cover of the book. At other times it's an ink colour that catches my fancy. Which page, and on which part of the page I sign is also a little episode in itself. It has happened, and still happens that I do not immediately read a book after its procurement, because a to-be-read waiting list is always in tow. I always look at the signed details before I begin to read. And I usually remember the day I got the book - be it a gift or otherwise. For me, a book is an occasion.

After the signing ritual every book is covered, very neatly, with cellophane sheet, or glazed paper. I personally cover each of my books. This is one task that I may never outsource. I just cannot read a book that is not covered. Uncovered books, especially those beginning to wear out irk me no end. So much so that many a time I have had to quell my urges to cover books that I borrow from libraries.

All my books have their own bookmarks which stay in them, always. The bookmark is so handy just to make sure that you close the book every time you put it down instead of turning its face on the page you last read. This leaves an indelible crease on the spine and also crumples the sheets.

The way you treat your books speaks a lot about the kind of person you are. For me, it is an art and I am brazenly unapologetic about all the foofaraw. I wonder sometimes if this is the reason I find myself so uncomfortable with e-books. Yet another whimsical feather in my eccentric cap.

~

Monday Morning Go Away, Come Again Another Day

Despite having had sufficient hours of sleep during the night, and waking up not knowing what day of the week it is I feel unusually attracted to my bed on Monday mornings. We're like opposite magnetic poles - the bed and I. I fight with my alarm clock; press the snooze button incessantly; shove it under the mattress and fight with my will not to leave my bed. In the meantime, my somnolent self realises that it's Monday. Hurrah! There goes my all my will. Flat like a punctured tyre; and I fall back on the bed with a vengeance. I had just begun to enjoy my weekend!

I know I will be late if I don't get moving right away. Monday morning traffic jams are the worst - I can never fathom why - but nevertheless. I haven't ironed my clothes. My shoes have to be dusted; bag has to be packed. I have to fix my breakfast, shampoo my hair and make the bed. I must not be late on the first day of the week. But it's Monday, and I hate it.

Like every other Monday, I vow to myself - in the midst of a colossal chaos - that I will keep all things ready on Sunday night so that I don't have to rush around in the morning like this again next week. But these vows fleet pass just as the morning does - in a flurry, leaving me extremely agitated and at times cranky. I curse Monday, for coming back so soon. I curse myself, for getting late and not managing my time. I curse the driver for being late; he, too, is facing the morning blues it seems! I curse the whole world, for the Monday morning panic is on - yet again. This is me on a typical Monday morning, arguing with my alter ego; wrestling the weekend torpor.

Having swallowed half my breakfast and stuffing the rest in my lunch bag, with half the contents of my handbag spilling out and clutching the remaining half somehow, I leave home. Late. Making it on time is besides the point now. The real question is how late am I going to be? All through the way I wear a frown which I realise only when I get out of the car.

Few things are capable of causing as much agony and irritation as does a Monday morning. If I were to be granted just one wish on a Sunday evening, I'd ask for Monday to be sent to Pluto. Even the Sun rises with a glum demeanour on Mondays - it is the Moon's day after all!

Friday, I miss you already.
~

Shopping Diaries : The Electronic Torment

I have never really been interested in shopping for electronic goods. I do it only when it is absolutely essential and I cannot avoid it any further. Even when I am in the store, you will not find me browsing through gadgets. They just don't interest me. However, there have been a couple of instances when I have actually strolled through electronic appliances lined up on shelves, just like that. It is not that electronics per se bore me. But yes, it may not be my first choice on a shopping outing. And I must confess that the post sales and especially installation irk me no end!

Buying a pair of headphones or a spike buster or a hair dryer off the shelf is no big deal. The real trouble arises when you decide to invest in durables like a home theatre system, a washing machine or a food processor. The hassle begins once you've taken possession of the goods. Get the warranties stamped, understand the terms and conditions of servicing and maintenance, disuade the salesman from persuading you to buy an extended warranty; and as if all this, after the toil of having selected your gadgets, wasn't enough you are required to fill in an installation form - which is nothing but your preferred time and day when the official 'engineer', who is basically a mechanic, can come over and install your appliance.

You've filled in your preferred time for installation as the coming Monday, between 12 noon to 3 pm - let's assume you binged on electronics on a Friday. The 'engineers' don't work on weekends, so Monday was the earliest option. The electronics are stacked up in a corner of your house awaiting the 'engineer'. In the meantime you decide upon a spot to get it installed, and your insincere maid has an excellent excuse for not sweeping and mopping the area around and under that huge carton. Finally, after a lazy weekend, Monday does arrive. You rush to work, and instruct your spouse - I am not just referring to the wives here! - regarding the installation. When you return home, you spot the carton intact where it was. It so happened that the official 'engineer' had a busier Monday than you'd thought he would. He may probably call on you the next day.

If you are lucky the mechanic turns up the next day, at whatever time is convenient to him. He may interrupt your lunch or worse, your siesta. But do you have a choice? You are supposed to stay indoors till the esteemed guest graces your residence. Once the 'engineer' is in your house, rest assured that it is the end of your peace and solace for the rest of the day, atleast. You must make sure that your house is appropriately ventilated to suit the busy man. He will fuss about unnecessarily with the packaging of your gadget, demand the warranty card and sometimes even the payment receipt! He will place his filthy bag on your sofa or the dewan as may be the furniture in your house. He may even trod on your carpets with his socks on! Out of courtesy when you offer him a glass of water, make sure its straight out of the deep freeze. They are fastidious about these things you know and do not think twice before ordering you around your own home. While they are working you must be at their beck and call, equipped generally with a dry duster, a wet duster, a broom stick, a mop and some old newspapers. More specific requirements will be pronounced as the installation progresses.

When the ordeal is finally over, he will proceed to make a call - that in addition to the N number of calls he already attended to while he was at work. You remember he's very busy, right? Not to mention the pseudo-intellectual expression on his visage. While on the call, he will start checking your device as though he installed it for himself, completely ignoring you and forgetting that you are waiting for the demo. Then he gets busy with the memos and other paper work, tells you where to sign, almost snatches the memo when you want to fill in the attendant feedback and leaves. At the doorstep, he turns, and nods. Personally, it takes a hell lot of self restraint for me not to strangle that unpleasant creature. I shut the door saying 'thank you' -  not for installing my appliances but for leaving.

~

What Was That Word, Again?

 "It's always a bit of a struggle to get the words right, whether we're a Hemingway or a few fathoms below his level."

~  

Rene J. Cappon

One drawback of thinking too much is that you must supply your mind with an unending stream of words, all the time. Many a time, it so happens that you know exactly what you are thinking, but you cannot recall the word or term that describes your thought. For instance, this morning I couldn't recall a certain word. I don't know why I thought of it in the first place; but I did anyway. I was in the process of preparing a glass of chocolate milkshake for my breakfast when suddenly obscure thoughts start racing my mind, and they halt on the thing you use to pluck the strings of the guitar. I know the word. I will recognise it if I just hear it once. It is almost at the tip of my tongue. But I cannot recall it!

This is one situation I dread and hate; and one that I am confronted with very often. My mind is not at peace until I remember the word that I have forgotten. It becomes impossible for me to do anything unless 'the word' is discovered. Today, I panicked and pestersed my parents to tell me the word I had forgotten. They racked their memory, Google was consulted but the word was not uncovered. This had to end. I thought where I had come across that word for the first time. It was an arts & craft book which has been in the family for nearly 40 years now. I ran to my book shelf, and almost instinctively my hand went to the shelf where the book was. I was lucky that the book was still where I had kept it almost an year ago. I flipped through the pages and saw it - plectrum. It was the joy of heaven!

On other ocassions, too, I have inflicted torture on mankind when my memory tricks me. But most of the times I have come to my own rescue. Words may slip out of my mind, but strangely I always remember where I came across them. I once scoured through a particular dictionary because I remembered the location of the word on one of the right hand side pages, and also what it meant, though I had forgotten the letter with which the word began. I was successful in the end; but I did this atleast 5 times. This word was bezel. Another time, I sent out panic stricken text messgaes to my parents in the middle of a lecture pleading them to tell me what was Pranoy Roy's expertise. Thankfully, they obliged. The word here was psephology. The other day, while I was strolling through a mall, and I noticed that the counter of a particular brand was missing. I kept straining my head but couldn't get the name of that brand at all. Not even a hint. How, then, was I supposed to ask the salesman about it? After I got home, and the first thing I did was to dive into my wardrobe to hunt for my floral dress and check its label. I had forgotten Remanika. These are just a few of occurences out of so many.

I have spent innumerable afternoons scanning through magazines, newspapers, thesauri and even novels trying to search for words that escape recall. I have a little notepad where I note down the words that I usually forget - yes, there are some words that I regularly forget. I cannot locate that notepad now by the way, and okapi is the only word I remember writing in it. Then there are those words which I am not able to recall for a very long time - despite all my efforts -and consequently I forget that I have forgotten them and eventually when such a word does come back to me I don't know that it was the same elusive one that had agonised me sometime back!

~ 

Shopping Diaries : My Foot!

"Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?"

~  

Frida Kahlo 

After almost every instance that I have gone out shopping, I've returned with a resolution in my mind - never to shop for footwear again! However, the next time I do spot a shoe store, my curiosity and optimism get the better of me, and before I can stop myself I am already browsing the shelves. Here's why we came around to the resolution in the first place.

In a store that has say around 500 pairs of footwear on display, I might like a couple - courtesy :  the choosy me. The size on display is never the one that will fit me. So I ask the storekeeper to get me my size of the same shoe. He looks at the shoe on display and tries to take sneak peek at my feet. I ask him bluntly, "What is the bigget size you have?" He doesn't want to lose a prospective customer easily, and in his attempt to buy time, tells me, "We may have your size. I'll just have a look in our godown. Why don't you see something else in the meantime?" I bid my time and look around. Sometimes I find something interesting, most of the times I don't. The keeper returns empty handed, and feigns regret at not having found my size in that particular design. Tell you what, I am not surprised. Its not the first time this happened. I am kind of used to it. Ever since my feet grew to their full size - I was 15 then - I have visited a number of shoe shops only to return disappointed!

It is not that I was always used to this. The first few times this happened, I was rather embarrassed  Some shopkeepers tried to console me by saying that they had run out of stock whereas the other insensitive ones told me that shoemakers did not make shoes of my size! This would usually be followed by me losing my temper and storming out of the shop swearing under my breath, determined never to glance at that shop again. With the passage of time, however, I have come to terms with the fact that its not easy to find good shoes that fit my feet; but it is not impossible. There have been occasions when I have had to have my footwear flown in from the middle east and Bulgaria. In addition to the lovely shoes, I was also reassured that atleast in some part of this world, there are women who have feet like mine. So yes, shoemakers do make shoes that fit me. If they didn't, I'd have gone the M F Hussain way a long time back.

These days I can, more often than not, predict the response of the shopkeeper. I have mastered the art of reading expressions which conceal the process of choosing the right words to tell me that I have large feet and the shop cannot cater to my pedial needs. Nowadays, I get into shoe shops more for the kick of it than to actually buy them. Before the shopkeeper can frame his sentence I ask, "You don't have it, right?"; and all he can do is nod sheepishly. Guess that makes it easier for him as well as for me. For him because he is spared the effort. For me because I can easily move out of the shop after having embarrassed him for a change.
~

Of the Heart, From the Mind

"Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember."

 ~ 

Seneca 

The frivolous overuse of terms like 'get over' and 'move on' these days spurs a thought in my mind. Is there really something like getting over things, or moving on? Can you really 'get over' your past and 'move on'? It is easier said than done. No wonder every Tom, Dick and Harry, in fact, only preaches this and doesn't practice.

Wise folks have advised their antecedents not to dwell in their past. To do and forget. To forget and move on. We are told to forget the bad times and cherish the good ones. Let go of the bad memories, and revel in the happy ones. But can you really sort your memories and experiences in order to remember them selectively? A human brain cannot do that, and maybe to make up for that shortcoming we made computers, where we can manage the 'memory' as we please. Humans, by nature, tend to associate significant events, occasions and people in their lives with certain physical cues. The moment passes away but the paraphernalia remains. Every time you pass a certain lane or visit a certain place or make a passing reference to something, memories - good or bad - rebound.

Your past was once your present. It is something that was a part of you, and something that will continue to be a part of you. Always. No matter how much you loathe it, hate it, detest it or even try to forget it; the fact is that the past continues to remain as long as you do. Be it a lost opportunity, loss of a loved one or a heartbreak - we just cannot get over it. Time is a great healer, agreed. It may heal the wound, but the scar will remain. The memory of that wound will linger.

Just as the good times stay with us subconsciously, so do the bad ones. You may, perhaps, try to avoid recalling the unpleasant episodes of your past; but in the process of avoiding, haven't you thought about it already? The long and short of it is that your past never leaves you. It lives with you. Like it or not, it keeps coming back and there is very little you can do about it.

What is in your domain of control, however, is the extent to which your past affects you. Rather, the extent to which you let your past affect you. How wise is it, anyway, to ponder over your past? Be it a happy memory that brings a smile to your face everytime you think of it, or a sad reminiscent that churns up a buried pain within. Neither gloating over something great that happened nor mourning over a mishap is worthwhile, if done excessively. You thrive in the past by forgoing your present and ignoring the impending future. Relishing a past glory or crying over spilled milk for a more than proportionate period of time proves detrimental to your personal growth. Thoughts do not knock before entering your mind. They just float in. However, it is your stance that matters when it comes to handling them.

Given that a memory lives forever, you mustn't, however, halt to accommodate it in your routine. That will be a clash of your heart with your mind.  But take it as it comes. Let it catch pace with you if it can or else let it disappear into oblivion. If it does catch pace, let your 'present' actions overpower it - if its a joyful memory, do something that makes you happier; if its a memory that hurts, again do something spectacular that obliviates your pain. Spare a moment for it only if its worthy of it. It will pester you for a while, and then leave your mind. Even if does saunter in your subconscious self, don't let it hold you back from doing what you must right now. Don't let it become a hurdle in your path to your goals. At the same time, don't run away from it. That won't help, because your memories reside in you and you cannot run away from yourself. Learn from your past, and act with prudence now. For it is this 'now' that will be your past in a while and the cycle goes on endlessly.

~

Shopping Diaries : A Sunday with Seema

Following a series of unforeseen circumstances, Seema was forced to cancel her usual Sunday brunch and window shopping trip to Phoenix Mills.

In order to meet a deadline for her latest assignment at work, she had been burning the midnight oil for the past fortnight. The report had been duly prepared and dispatched on time. However, due to an accidental omission of a few essential facts she was compelled to sacrifice her precious Sunday afternoon in the lone desolate cubicle in her office. Having finished all her work finally, Seema realised that she was famished. She had been working for hours at an end and saw that it was 3:30 in the afternoon. In order to grab some lunch she packed up and left the office premises.

It was a typical humid Mumbai afternoon. The sun was at its peak. Seema looked around for an auto rickshaw but there was none in sight. Left with no option she began to walk. There was a good fast food joint a little ahead, however, she did not have the strength to walk up all the way. So she decided to stay under the shade of a hovering tree and wait for an auto rickshaw to come by. Ten minutes passed. Not a single rickshaw came that way. It was the wrong day to have sent her car for its maintenance and servicing. In despair, Seema began to walk ahead.

Her high heels made it difficult for her to walk. She was cursing the auto drivers, the weather, the government, the state policy and the uneven roads. As she dragged herself to the other side of the lane a sign board caught her attention. It read “Rajasthan State Emporium's Handicrafts Exhibition". As if involuntarily, Seema began to walk towards the exhibition hall.

The hall was a vibrant canvas of a million colours. Authentic traditional Rajasthani artefacts and handicrafts adorned with hundreds of tiny mirrors made a beautiful collage and was a welcome to sight for Seema after a tiring drab day. Her exhaustion and hunger took a backseat and she leaped forward at the nearest stall to begin her exploration. As she came to understand the exhibition was to wind up in the next couple of hours. Visiting an exhibition in its last few hours has its own pros and cons. Most of the vendors are out of their best stock, and a lot of them are in a hurry to wind up. However, many a time you will find this last minute visit as an amazing opportunity to bargain, as most vendors are anxious to get rid of their stock, and they are not as sticky about their otherwise exorbitant prices as you will find them on other occasions!

Seema scanned the hall quickly in order to decide which stalls she wanted to visit. Having made a note of a few, she ventured forth on her unplanned shopping expedition. The first stall that she went to, had sarees and other apparel for women. Seema was an expert shopper, and time was of the essence right now. She quickly had 3 sarees pulled down for a closer look. She compared and contrasted and decided to purchase one. The vendor tried to entice her to purchase another one as well. She refused but he persisted. He offered a good bargain and persuaded her to take along the other saree for a discount. Now that is an offer a shopaholic can never refuse! Seema haggled with him a little more and eventually bought both the sarees for the price of one. Hail bargaining! She then came across an interesting vendor who looked like he was in a trance. He kept quoting different prices for the same commodity to every other person who approached him. Seema observed him for a good five minutes before she finally lay her hand on a chiffon stole. He told her it would cost Rs. 250. To the other 3 people who enquired about the same stole - much to Seema's chagrin - he quoted Rs. 300, Rs. 500 and Rs. 600 in quick succession. Before he could change his quotation to Seema, and in order to avoid quibbling with him she quickly settled the deal and went ahead, rather amused.

The next stall had what Seema loved - bags! She was excited at the variety that was still available at that stall. Pointing out to a bright red sling bag, Seema asked the man behind the counter to show it to her. He was preoccupied and did not respond. When she again asked him to show her the bag, he put down the receipt book he was fiddling with and gave her a harried look only to say, " Listen Madam, please help yourself! I am very busy and don't have time for all these things. Take down whatever you want to see on your own!". Here was one strange merchant. In the entire shopping process he only obliged her by disclosing the prices of his goods. Having had helped herself - quite literally - she calculated the amount due and thrust the money onto the vendor's palm who was still not interested, and murmured that this was the last hour of the exhibition.

With just an hour at her disposal, Seema had to act fast. Really fast. There were so many other things to see and buy - earrings, bangles, beads, clothes, bed covers, footwear, puppets and pottery! She felt she was on the verge of losing something valuable. After all, this was the only way to make up for her wasted Sunday. Moving like a ninja on a mission, Seema raced past the stalls, her eyes scanning the items on display. She bargained with the vendors, argued with them and pushed aside other shoppers who eyed the things she'd chosen to buy.

By the end of three quarters of the hour that followed, Seema was a rejuvenated woman with a dozen shopping bags dangling around her carelessly. Satisfied with her unexpected shopping, she left the exhibition hall. Just then she got a call from the service centre informing her that it was time for them to deliver her car. She instructed them to get the car to the exhibition hall, and squatted down on the lawn in front with a benign smile. The day had been set right - yet again - by her favourite stress buster.

Shopping is such a bliss!

~