April 26, 2009
Writing constantly in keeping with a particular underlying emotion at the centre of each piece can become quite tedious for a human in a writer often gets intertwined in circumstances beyond control. It seems more tedious when humour is at (or at least tried to be maintained at) the epicentre of a blog.
During the past few months, the usual haunts that feed news and information for writing has been nothing but depressing. No matter how hard one tries, it is difficult to write anything humorous. Dissociating myself with the cataclysmic terror strikes that I almost missed by a thick sliver of time does not seem to work either. At one point, I considered stopping to read dailies (though it would have been catastrophic to my job and addiction to newspapers), having repeatedly sifted through web pages of terror unleashed just about everywhere in the world. Whenever I tried to jot down my thoughts, verses sounded like lyrics of a Linkin Park song. Fearing it would sound too lamenting, I did force a few words of hope in them, almost like a weeping circus joker’s wild get up to evoke some laughs from a juvenile audience. But in this entire awkwardness, there was a little flame burning in the hope that there would be a return of happy words. Perhaps, as it happens to everybody else, there has been a realization. At the risk of sounding boastful, it may be due to efficient stress management. No, it wasn’t because of a book of a priest who sold his hot wheels. Just good old ego massage and some binge shopping!
Now shopping is not what I would usually pick for a weekend activity for many reasons- a. it involves lot of time in travelling up to the mall, b. the energy spent on looking through each design, colour, fabric, fall and fit per visit can almost be used to write a month’s blog – back-to-back, c. when you wake up from the hypnotic stage of being shopaholic, a question – a rather soap-opera rhetorical – immediately springs in your mind- ‘What have I done?’
But a visit to the clothes section with the intention of buying some can bring out interesting observations. Couples shopping in the ladies section is the most delightful to watch. People who shop with their partners almost end up like the two faces of a drama school. The person who is shopping – mostly the woman – usually seems like she’s on a double dose of Red Bull or a mug full of Espresso! With eyes wide-open and firm mouth, she glides from hanger to hanger, section to section with gay abandon (forgive the old usage of the phrase- fyi, it has nothing to do with sexual orientation), completely oblivious to the store helper who is right behind asking her to enrol in another phone call trap card/ membership and/ or a lucky draw, which would be as lucky as the asteroid of youth that passed 10 years ago. Phew!
The partner – mostly the man – is usually the ideal ambassador for the Frowners’ Club, if there was any! His despair moves from level 1, which is when the lady chucks a lavender pick for mauve gradient, saying that the former is too loud for her taste; to level 3, which is when she tries an asymmetrical top and asks her partner for opinion – ‘Is this alright?’ That in most cases is the point of acomodador, the point where the partner gives up, who by now is carrying a shopping bag of clothes, accessories, and a certain some things the nomenclature of which is as alien to him as a 3 eyed monster; wait- perhaps stranger than aliens.
It must be conceded that the most interesting part is the opinion seeking ceremony of sorts outside the fitting room. The mostly clueless partner transforms himself to be a face reader at this point (that is, if he has not already given up and left the store). Looking at the creases on his partner’s face and head tilt of the reflection of his other half in the mirror, he decisively volleys back answers with flourish. What many ladies in the fitting rooms do not realize is that the man’s answers are all on the fence; almost all nearly don’t care. Yet, somehow decisions are taken and the couples hit the billing counter. The total time spent on the complete exercise of a normal evening easily beats the time length of any Hindi movie. Go figure!
Shopping teaches one lesson though- you may forget your harsh memories for a while, but that need not mean the pain has left you. If there are more clothes in your shopping bags than spaces available in the closet, do not worry. It can certainly mean that you are getting over your woes and sympathy is on its way!
1 comment:
This well-written piece brought to the forefront of my mind many male faces, fathers and sons. One of the images is of my youngest son, whose mother delighted in taking him to the mall for shopping. He was fine with walking by the shops, but when she decided to enter one, he would grab onto a door and dig in his heels so as not be be dragged inside. He was two years old! (Now 19)
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