Shopping Therapy.

          “You,” came the accusatory comment, “do crises-oriented-shopping.”

Whenever Shri Husband starts a sentence with ‘you’, with index finger wagging at me, I get palpitations: never know what crime I’ve committed. There are times when even the sight of a cobweb-to-happen is considered reason enough to begin a sentence (could be as in legal penalty, too) with ‘you’, (followed by ‘…haven’t dusted in many days’).

Big-big words like ‘crises-oriented-shopping’, don’t make sense to me.

          “Crises-oriented-shopping,” I echoed. “Means?” I asked.

Explanation followed: “Chappal breaks, you buy a new pair. Steam leaks from pressure-cooker lid, you buy a new rubber gasket. Washing-machine hiccups even after several parts are changed in an attempt to salvage its function… then you break an FD to buy a new one. Why can’t you be prepared? Why can’t you pre-empt (I need to look this up in a dictionary) things and shop on time?”

‘Why’ is a word that gives me panic-attacks; it’s used as a trap to get me to defend the un-defendable. If you-know-who asks me why I wait until the last moment to buy salt/ insect repellent, I have no answer. Example: I buy a new umbrella every year, yet the first few showers catch me unawares. “WHY?” Shri Husband yells, level of frustration in proportion to decibel level, “didn’t you buy an umbrella on time?”  Like I said, I have no answer to such questions.

Talk of crises-oriented stuff, hair-cuts take the cake. Most fellow Goans, like me, avoid the barber/ hair-dresser/ hair-stylist until really desperate. (We must be the only state where a cardiologist’s fee is equal to the cost of getting eye-brows plucked. Of that some other time.)

          I can’t be considered—am not-- an expert on what’s new in the market. Brands, prices, models, all come as surprises during my infrequent forays into shops and ‘consumer exhibitions’ (amusing phrase, no?). Malls are places to spend time browsing, in air-conditioned comfort, after going up and down moving staircases, at stuff that’d look terrible if I chose to wear it. Models of my size/ shape/ appearance/ age don’t make it to designers’ studios.

          Armed with Shri Husband’s training, last week I ventured into unfamiliar territory. I went shopping for tiles. The kinds used to clad a floor. I spent a full day gallivanting and finally found a shop that stocked something pretty, elegant, inexpensive, with colours that went well with stuff I own. I had dragged along an architect friend to make sure I wasn’t making a mistake regarding quality. Last of all, I invited Lord and Financer to approve.

          What happened next makes me believe in ‘nasheeb’.

Whenever I like a chappal/ sandal/ shoe, my size isn’t available. Or the colour I want is out of stock. Same thing happened here.

Every piece I’d selected was ‘out of stock’ or not been manufactured for some years. But they were displayed; the kindly-talking old man who told us about the rates and advantages of the ‘finish’ didn’t once mention through our multiple visits that they’d been placed there only to make the shelves look full. He didn’t care that I’d spent hours/ days figuring out measurements, budgets, combinations that looked good. He didn’t have to deal with Shri Husband, whose stern expression evoked a sad response from me: ‘Sorry.’ No fault of mine, but I declared ‘sorry’ anyway.

Since then, even when I go to buy a milk-packet from the corner grocer’s shop, I ask: “You have milk-packet, yes? Sure? Full packet or half? Sure, no?” Yesterday heard the grocer was suffering from a nervous breakdown.

But I digress. I thought of this when I read about the Make In India program that the television channels were talking about. High tech computer hardware might get made right here for our own consumption, maybe even for export. Perhaps India will even manufacture medical equipment like state-of-art cochlear implants for the profoundly deaf whose auditory nerves and auditory lobes are working fine.

Then I thought, what if someone like me (ok, not exactly like me, perhaps an Air Marshal/ Admiral/ General) went shopping for fighter-trainers or submarines in some PSU, only to be told, after years of negotiations, re-re-calculating specifications, meetings with stubborn bureaucrats and creating drives and drives of files: “…sorry, sirs, not happening a) on time, b) at all.

The reasons could be many: i) shortage of skilled people, ii) too many ‘jayantis’ (read holidays), iii) raw material not provided when needed. iv) raw material not provided as specified, v) different prime ministers, changing governments, fluid policies, blah and more blah.

I wonder whether the creators of the ‘Make In India’ policy have figured out penalties if something wasn’t of desired quality. Would the Customer be King? Luxury brand gurus declare that shopping is therapeutic. Is that true if one has to browse through substandard supplies and that’s the only choice? What will the manufacturers do with rejected ‘maal’ ?

If at times things don’t work, the promoters of lets-go-‘desi’ might follow my philosophy of crises-oriented-shopping. War coming up, let’s go somewhere to buy some weapons. Big difference is: in my case, a small discomfort of limping in ill-fitting footwear is the result. At national level, several thousands of fit young lives will be at stake. Scary thought. I hope I’m wrong.

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