Tis Diwali in the air, and the palms have got that familiar itch which comes from the streets being ablaze with banners declaring 50 per cent off, and grand Diwali sale and such like. The other day, passing through Lokhandwala market for the sole purpose, ostensibly, to get the brat a burger he had been whining interminably for, was all I could do to keep my feet within the car and not sprint out like a woman on fire to the store which declared 70 per cent off on handbags. The mother in law was with me, and it is to their credit that she almost did the sprint herself to a store selling salwar kameezes. Not for herself, blasphemy, or even more blasphemous, for me, but for her daughters. There is some retinal subliminal influence created by flashing mirchi lights strung up by the dozens on store fronts and the urge to go before the cashiers of them stores and genuflect before them, laying bare the contents of one’s wallet like a confessional at the church.
With a new house, a lot of odds and ends have to be picked up, for instance have junked all the old wall clocks and now rely on a sole antique wood number in the living room for the time. Then, the cushion covers, floor mats, corner tables, and assorted odds and ends that go into making a home look lived in are still to be picked up. And wringing my hands in anticipation. And Diwali clothes to be bought. Fancy schmancy stuff with bling bling sequins and and embroidery. Which means trying out of stuff…
This evening the brat will be at the mothers and the mother in law and I will be raiding the shops. Dhanteras is on us. We have to buy. We have religious sanction for the same. I love this festival. I can celebrate this all year round.
Update: The next morning
Wore my wonderful golden croc skin ballerina shoes to pound the streets. Practical choice, I thought, given the situation of the roads and the pavements and the frenzied population wrestling over finds in shops. I even managed to conquer claustrophobia (more power to me) and squeeze my corpulence into hole in the wall stores that claimed to be on 60 per cent sale. Of course. Once I entered I found that all that was on 60 per cent sale was stuff that needed the services of a darning needle and some good dry cleaner. I should have known better.
Counted my blisters and soaked the feet in a tub of aroma oil and hot water when I reached the mothers. Was a sensible decision to go to the mothers and spend the night there with the brat. I ate and threw myself on the bed and nodded off, while mother bore with the brat’s bouncing off the walls style of unwinding before dozing off. Woke up, bathed self, had coffee and sashayed out. Almost felt like had gone back to the golden days of my youth and collegedom where all one needed to do was spend energies and time in shopping and getting dressed and throwing tantrums if the food was not to one’s taste.
The mother in law picked up shoes and a bag. Given her heel and foot situation, osteoarthritis and hypochondria, she requires a pair of slippers with mega soft insoles and plenty of arch support. None of which were happening at the 60 per cent sale outlets with their strappy numbers and mile high heels, which I was drooling obscenely over, needing attendants to bring in buckets and mops to get rid off. Thankfully, mega depleted wallet situation and recent indulgent gift of Blackberry by husband shamed me enough into not spending anything more on self. Though some shoes, and a wonderful croc skin patent leather bag has made it to my must buy or will die list, I kept the decision on hold. What also helped was the fact that I had kept credit card in difficult to access place, aka the purse, which given this current cavernous bag, is impossible to find in crowded places and needs calm and quiet to be fished out. Therefore we eroded MIL’s knee joints some more by walking the length and breadth of the market in search for the perfect multipocketed non blingy sober handbag on sale and the perfect soft insole, good grip and easy to slip into slippers also required to be on almost 90 per cent sale.
The moral of the story. Donot go shopping if you dont intend buying. You will come away with a sour taste in the mouth, like the aftermath of a really ugly break up. I almost burst into tears when I reached home.
I panted like a puppy dog outside stores with marvellous bags which also claimed to be on sale, but did the hundred metre dash when I dared enter one which had a wonderfully original Prada fake on sale at six grand. I need my fakes cheaper so I chuck them out when I bore of them. As for the originals, if I pay so much for the damn purse, what money will I have left to put in them?
Bought the brat a wonderful muted gold and beige embroidered sherwani. He will look like a right prince this Diwali. Bought the sis in law two salwar kameezes, with enough bling to blind everyone in the vicinity. Didnt buy myself anything. Now excuse me while I adjust my halo. Is it shining bright enough, you think?