The shopper who is sophisticated

Buying a gift for a woman needs a sensitive mind, a sophisticated outlook and a keen sense of taste. 25 years ago, when I was both recently married and employed, I discovered I have none of these qualities.

“What can I get you from Delhi? Ask for anything.” I said to my wife before a business trip, my voice brimming with romance and enthusiasm. “Within Rs200,” I added, before she got carried away.

Appropriately for a new bride, she demurred, but - more appropriately for a woman - not for long. She asked for a sweater to combat the chilly December winds of Mumbai. She went on to describe her requirement in detail. I nodded politely but I didn’t take notes. After all I was buying a sweater, not an intercontinental ballistic missile. How difficult could it be?

Walking back to my hotel after my meeting in Delhi’s Connaught Place, I passed a hosiery shop in Janpath. “If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly,” I said, quoting Shakespeare as I do often when I talk to myself.

Five minutes later, I walked out of the shop, package in hand and smile on lips: at Rs150, the sweater had come in under budget.
Back in Mumbai I spread the object out on the bed with a flourish.

“My God!” my wife cried, but not in extreme ecstasy, “What have you bought?!”
“A sweater,” I said coldly, “Exactly what you wanted.”
She began digressing. “Has it ever snowed in Mumbai? Have you ever suffered from frostbite? Do the lakes freeze? Has it…”
I interrupted her. “I don’t see where you’re going with this.”
“It’s thick - like you. That’s where I’m going with this. Which idiot will wear this blanket in Mumbai? It’s designed for an Eskimo suffering from cold.”

I picked up a ruler lying on the desk and measured the sweater: it was 4 mm thick.
“Okay,” I said, “Perhaps it’s a bit over-designed for Mumbai’s weather. But no problem: you can wear it when we go somewhere cold for a holiday.”
“I will never wear this horrendous flame red colour.”
“You don’t like it?” I asked, surprised, “But the shopkeeper particularly recommended it.”
“I asked for black. And I told you where to buy it. But of course you cleverly realised that what I really meant was: ‘Enter the first undergarment shop you see and follow the recommendation of the 50-year-old male shopkeeper’.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, valiantly trying to salvage something, “We can dye it; then you can use it when we go on a holiday to a very cold place. We couldn’t have done this if you had wanted a pink sweater: you can only dye something into a darker colour. There’s nothing darker than black! “ I laughed.
My wife could have laughed at the joke or appreciated her luck for not wanting pink or thanked me for the education in dyeing. Instead she shook her head in disgust. I tried harder.
“At least try it on. Then we can imagine how it will look on you in black… in winter… in Kashmir.”

Reluctantly she pulled the sweater over her neck. Immediately I regretted the suggestion. The garment flowed and flowed, ending at her knees. Each shoulder sagged till the elbow. The sleeves ended a long way after her hands did.
“Perhaps, after dyeing it, you may want to cut it into two or three sweaters?” she said.

I almost suggested that it may fit her in a couple of years but better sense prevailed. Instead, I offered to exchange it for a smaller, less thick, black sweater on my next trip to Delhi but, with panic in her voice, she pleaded with me not to.

Later, when I tried to get my money back, the shopkeeper was not amused. With the aid of a magnifying glass kept beside him for this purpose, he showed me the small print behind the bill that stated that they did not refund cash. He allowed me to buy something else in exchange.

To keep it brief, all I can say is you could buy a lot of briefs for Rs150 in the ‘80s. Even today, I’m using underwear from that
collection.

Paddy Rangappa is a freelance writer based in Singapore. Read more on his blog http://theflip-side.blogspot.com
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