Day 21 - A little bit of nostalgia for the Mumbai monsoon

Eight years ago, I wrote about the Mumbai monsoon. 

Every monsoon, I remember Mumbai, mostly with fondness.  But one memory that keeps coming back to me is going to Pune from Mumbai during the monsoon.

The beginning of the journey wasn't pleasant.  Taking an auto to Andheri station, fighting the crowds to get on to the local, getting off at Dadar station, wading through water, and negotiating with the rains using a useless umbrella, getting to the Pune bus-stop.  And then once I was in the Volvo, it would be alright. The sights from the large windows weren't very pleasant till we got out of the city, but were interesting nevertheless.

And then once the bus reached the Mumbai-Pune expressway, it was like watching a movie.  The smooth roads, the rolling hills, the mist, the clouds - all through Lonavla and Khandala.  Those simple sights, comprising of green grassy hills and white mist and clouds are some of the most relaxing and pleasing sights I've seen.

Of course, mixed with it was the joy and anticipation of going "home" for the weekend.  "Home" in this case was my aunt's place, which was, for me, very close to actually going to my own home. I felt loved there, I could ask my aunt to make bendekaayi gojju and I could spend a fun, relaxed weekend with my cousins. 

Thinking of those Mumbai-Pune journeys now arouses in me, along with a tinge of nostalgia, a twinge of pain, because one of those cousins was her.

Evening Snacks in Mumbai

When I was working in Mumbai, I lived as a PG. PG Aunty gave us breakfast and dinner, and packed lunch for us to take to office. That accounted for three square meals a day.

But what about hungry evenings? I always get hungry in the evenings. Even now. Mumbai was no different.

If I spent the evening working in office, I would either order a sandwich from the coffee guy in the pantry, made to exact specifications (only one layer of butter, no onion, no toasting - only roasting, etc.), or if I had the time, I would go out to one of the two canteens in the SEZ in which my office was, and have a high-calorie snack. My favourite was the Sabudana Vada, which only used to be available on the usual fasting days of the typical Maharashtrian.

But when I left office early, I would come back to a near empty PG. Sometimes I would buy a packet of Maggi, cook it up and have it with tea. Or sometimes I would buy a 100 g pack of Amul Shrikhand and eat it all up at one go, unabashedly scooping it up with my hands and licking my fingers.

But most often, I had Dabeli. There was this little stall outside this awesome shop that sold the most head-whirringly fascinating foodstuff, called - Parry's (??) near where I lived. I would get down from the office bus, walk straight to the Dabeli man, and order a Dabeli. It was a small snack - peanuts and pomegranate seeds and masala sandwiched between two half-pieces of pav. It was just the right size - enough to quieten my hunger pangs, but not large enough to fill my stomach so much that I couldn't eat PG aunty's usually delicious dinner. I had Dabeli nearly every evening. I have never eaten Dabeli ever since I left Mumbai, though I have heard of it being sold around here. I once decided to make it myself, and even got Dabeli masala from my aunt in Pune, but I never got around to it.

I have a suspicion that I don't want to eat it again for fear that it will not reach the high standard that my brain remembers. But everytime I hear about Dabelis, my salivary glands start working overtime, I remember the smell, taste and look of the Dabeli, and the simple pleasure of my biting into the delicious snack, standing outside the shop overlooking the Gurudwara.

If my hunger was too large to be fed by a small Dabeli, I would have a Frankie further down the road. But Frankies dug too deep a hole in my pocket without giving me the requisite satisfaction in my stomach or my mind - so this was rare.

But what did provide immense Shanti to both stomach and mind was the peerless Lassi that was available in the Punjabi dairy shops on the same road. This Lassi came in a tall glass, and was thick, sweet and rich. The lassi man usually asked for your permission before he topped the lassi with a dollop of Malai. Thick cream. So thick that you could cut it with a knife. And so delicious that tears of joy would sting my eyes.

And this glass of heaven was available for just 12 rupees - or was it 15? Just one glass and it quenched my thirst, satisfied my hunger and energized me immediately. If you caught me at that point and asked me for anything, I would do it for you without hesitation.

Some things, I tell you - they make life more beautiful than it already is.

PG Aunty

During the 16 months that I worked in Mumbai, I lived as a paying guest(pg). Many people had advised me against going for a pg accommodation, citing restrictions and lack of privacy. But when I did go house-hunting and found this house with a convenient room and a nice Sikh lady in charge, I jumped at it. I decided that I would need company in my first few days in the big bad city, and then later, if I felt that the pg cramped my style, I could always move to a flat. Besides, I didn't plan to live in Mumbai for too long. So I moved in. [I did try flat-hunting after a month or so, but at every stage I evaluated the merits and demerits of the flat and the pg I lived in, and eventually gave up the idea of moving into a flat of my own].

PG Aunty, as we all referred to her, was a very interesting woman. Very fat, with thinning hair, she had a perpetually worried look on her face. With five daughters, three of them yet to be married, she was forced to take in paying guests after her husband's business suffered severe losses. With a large house with many rooms, she had quite a few girls rooming with her. Add to them, the three daughters of her own, and a stern silver-haired silver-bearded husband, she had her hands full.

Her schedule was remarkable. We girls left home for work at different times in the morning - The two girls who were my colleagues, and I, were the first to leave. We had to catch our bus at eight in the morning. Aunty would rise at around seven, and go straight to the kitchen to start the food manufacturing for the day. She had a four-burner stove, which she utilized completely. On the back left burner, the tea boiled. On the back right burner cooked the vegetable curry of the day. On the front left burner was a tava on which she cooked chapatis for us to take as packed lunch, and on the front right burner was another tava on which she cooked thick parathas. All simultaneously.

She had two lumps of doughs - one for parathas and one for chapatis, and her hands never stopped working. She would pluck out a fistful of dough from the dough, and with three - just three (I counted) twists of the dough, it would become this perfectly spherical ball. She would then roll it out quickly, into, needless to say, a perfectly round chapati/paratha, and then it would fly, as if on its own to one of the two tavas on the stove. Oil would be poured on the chapati/paratha (this is where I would avert my eyes). A couple of quick turns and twists, and the chapati would come out of the tava and get wrapped up in aluminum foil and go and sit in our lunch boxes, and the paratha would fly into our waiting plates. In the milliseconds that she had between making these chapatis and parathas, she would add the masala to the curry or sugar to the tea, and stir the contents of those vessels. And by the time we came back for more parathas, the ready curry would have magically found its way into our boxes, the box would be packed and ready for us to take. How many times have we tried to tell her that we would do the packing ourselves, Aunty, please don't bother - but no. It would somehow get ready, as if she had a magic wand. And in all those mornings, during all those months, she ensured that we were never late. Only once did we miss our bus by a whisker - and that was because Aunty couldn't wake up in the morning because it was too cold (by Mumbai standards).

I can't speak enough about her cooking. It wasn't gourmet fare, but she was a good cook. Cooking for so many people, thrice a day, everyday, is far from easy. And she did the best that she could. Yes, it was Punjabi food most of the time - but I did not complain. I am such a foodie that I don't mind any cuisine, as long as it is good. I did miss South Indian food sometimes, and once, when I missed Saaru too much, I bought a packet of MTR Rasam powder and made Saaru for everybody that night. She also used to make something called Sindhi kadhi, which tasted remarkably like our huLi - so I enjoyed that quite a bit. Sometimes as a "special treat" to me, she would make Idli - sambar. The idlis were like stones and the sambar was not at all like sambar - but anyway I told her that I enjoyed it - I couldn't bear to see disappointment on her enthusiastic, eager-to-please face.

But she was the authority in Punjabi cuisine. She made some of the best parathas, and some great curries. These had too much oil in them sometimes, and part of my lunch ritual at office was pouring out the oil floating on top of the curry - but it was delicious nonetheless. She made great Baingan ka bharta and stuffed brinjal. Her potato fry was also very tasty. Her Khichdi was delicious. It was kind of too gooey for my liking, but I loved the taste. Her masterpieces were the Methi Malai Matar and the most exquisite Dal Ka Halwa. Strangely enough, her Carrot Halwa was uneatable, but if you ate her Dal Ka Halwa, you would forgive her for anything!

Sometimes she would turn fiercely money-minded. If we took extra curds with our dinner three days in a row, her eagle eye would notice it and say, "If you want so much curds, you should pay fifty rupees extra each month!" On the other hand, when I was down with a bad stomach upset, she made bland food and lassi for me, apart from the usual food for everybody else, and nearly hand-fed me everyday until I got better.

She often joked and laughed with us, and told us her problems. She in turn wanted to know everything about us - especially whether we had boyfriends. Sometimes the child in her would come out and she would indulge in playing pranks upon us. She also occasionally conspired with us against her husband who tried to be very strict with us. Uncle had set 11 pm as the curfew for the pgs, but if we pleaded with Aunty to relax it for "jusssst one day", she would turn a blind eye and even distract her husband when we let ourselves softly into the house after 11 pm. Uncle always wanted to watch Aaj Tak channel on TV. So when we wanted to watch something else, we would switch on our channel and then "lose" the remote (The TV was slightly conked out - the channel change button on the TV set did not work). We would then "find" the remote and hand it back to Uncle once our programme ended. Aunty knew all this, but she just smiled and said nothing.

She was extremely sensitive. She would take offhand remarks to heart and worry about the layers and layers of meanings in that comment. It worked the other way too. She was very conscious that she would hurt one of us inadvertently.
Once she came to me early in the morning and told me about her expenses and that they had to pay the daughters' college and school fees that month and they were out of money and all that. Just when I was wondering where it was all leading to, she said, "I wouldn't have bothered you otherwise, but could you please pay your rent for this month quickly?" I was surprised - I had already paid the rent for the month. I reminded her, but she was confused. I then jogged her memory, told her that I had brought the money to the kitchen, but her hands had been busy and so she had asked me to keep it under the sugar box. Enlightenment dawned on her face and she grew extremely apologetic. "How could I do this to you? You are always the first one who pays the rent, and always within the third of the month - and I doubted you of all the people... " She apologized until I was worried I would get late for office. I said "Aunty, it is ok, such things do happen...." But she called me even at office - twice - to apologize, "Bura mat maan-na, Shrooti, please, kya boldiya maine, kya sochegi tu mere baare mein..."... I finally had to tell her "Aunty, aap mujhe sharminda kar rahe hai"... She stopped, but she was extra nice to me for the next week!

She wasn't in town when I left Mumbai. Her daughter who lived in Indore was not well, and she had gone to visit her. It was good in a way, because she would have become "senti", and I, being the softie that I am, would no doubt have cried.

I still call her sometimes, and I once even wrote a letter to her in Hindi - it's very touching to see how thrilled she always is to hear from "her girls", as she calls us.

Good times and bad, I have had them all in Mumbai - but there is no doubt that by and large, my stay was comfortable and convenient - and a lot of the credit for that goes to PG Aunty!

Paper packages and cranberry squash

What do you do when you fall ill? You go the doctor.

According to my experience, going to the doc consists of the following steps:

1) Go to the doctor
2) Doc examines you, identifies the illness, writes out a prescription.
3) Take the prescription to the chemist, buy medicines, take them.
4) Get well.

But it works slightly differently in Mumbai.

1) Go to the doctor
2) Doc examines you, doesn't tell you what is wrong with you.
3) Doc's assistant puts 3-5 pills each into little paper packages, puts these packages into ziploc covers, and hands it to you. Each ziploc cover is for one day, and the contents of each paper package is to be taken after each meal.
4) Get well(???)

I discovered this paper-package phenomenon when one of my pg-mates, D, fell ill. Since we did not know any docs around, PG-Auntie took her to her family doctor. D came back with these paper-packages-in-ziploc-covers and a bewildered expression.

Me: What are these??
D: Medicines!
Me: For what?
D: I don't know!
Me: What did the doc say is wrong with you?
D: He didn't say!
Me: So you don't know what medicines you are taking, and for what illness?
D: No!
Me: Didn't you ask what these medicines are??
D: Of course I did! He said "How can I tell you my formula?"

I made her throw the tablets away, and dragged her to the OPD of a nearby hospital, without telling Auntie. There they diagnosed her sickness, and wrote out a prescription. We bought the medicines at the pharmacist, and got back. Ah, the comfort that comes with knowing what you are swallowing!

After that I did a lot of research. All the docs I enquired about in and around Andheri were the paper-packages-in-ziploc-covers types. So I took refuge in the OPD of the hospital, and brainwashed other pg-mates to do the same.

Once, my roommate R told me that someone told her about a good doc, and it looked like he is the prescription type. The next time I developed a sore throat that I couldn't cure on my own, I thought it was best to go and try out this doc. R came with me.

Scene at clinic -
The doc examines me.
Me: What's wrong?
Doc nods.
Me: Is it an infection?
Doc writes something on paper.
I reach out to take it.
Doc looks daggers at me, passes it on to assistant.
Assistant starts wrapping up little pills in paper packages.
I look daggers at R.
R looks at me apologetically.
Doc takes out a big white can that one normally associates with kerosene. Can contains a bright red sticky liquid which reminds one of cranberry squash. Doc pours out an amount into a small white leaky plastic container. Hands it to me along with the little paper packages.
Doc: After every meal, take the medicines in each packet and drink two spoons of this liquid.
Me: What are these medicines? What is this liquid?
Doc: (Glares at me) Sixty rupees.
I don't reply. I pay doc, and leave with R. Leaky bottle is disposed of right outside the clinic, and medicines are thrown away after being brought home and subjected to an unsuccessful scrutiny to determine what medicines they are.
Next morning sees me at good old hospital.

Now, why, you ask, can't I trust the doc and take the medicines that he hands over to me. Here is just one reason. Suppose I turn out to be allergic to something in the medicine, or a pill has some side-effect, and I need to be treated. Imagine the conversation.

Me: (Aaakkhhhkkhhghgkkghg) I have rashes in my throat! Please doc! Do something!
Doc: Have you taken any medication recently?
ME: (KKKGHHHHGHhhhhhh ) Yes!
Doc: What medicines?
ME: A large round white pill, a little red pill, half of a yellow pill, and an orange capsule. And cranberry squash.

I rest my case.

Mumbai Monsoon.

The rains are here! Of course, they've been here for a while now, but I was tempted to write it off as one of the quirks of Bangalore weather... but the constant cloud cover, the drizzle, the chilly mornings - it can't mean anything else!

And that reminds me of another city which has a distinctive monsoon - Mumbai.

The rains in Mumbai took me by surprise, to put it mildly. It is an entirely different culture out there. Coming from a place where people take shelter at the hint of a drizzle, here I saw a city that does not stop! What is amazing is the attitude of the -

People. They walk nonchalantly in pouring rain through knee deep water. They cheerily walk into office in casual clothes, drenched to the skin, and then change into formals in the changing rooms, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. They don't put off any business, or any visits. They just treat the rain as a minor inconvenience, and go about their business, unfazed.

Another thing that amazed me is the nature of the -

Rain. Continuous. Sometimes pouring, sometimes drizzling, but raining all the time. Initially, after a day of incessant rain, I said, "God! It's been raining for 24 hours non-stop!" My colleagues rolled their eyes at me with a "You ain't seen nothin' yet" expression. Sure enough, the rains continued round-the-clock for a week! Roads were flooded, trains stopped, but Mumbai went on.

One distinctive feature of the Mumbai monsoon - the ubiquitous -

Tubs. Or buckets. Outside shops and commercial establishments. Where you dump your dripping umbrella, before going in. Very convenient. The watchman doesn't have to take the risk of offending a customer by telling him to deposit his umbrella outside. And the owner of the establishment doesn't have to endure the agony of seeing rainwater dripping over his newly polished floors. But you need to have a knack of depositing your umbrella in just the right place in the tub. If you dump it right in the middle of the tub, then it will get entangled with the other dripping umbrellas, and you will have to move heaven and earth to retrieve it in one piece. Or if you place it on the periphery of the tub, someone, in the process of looking for his dumped-in-the-middle umbrella, will displace yours, and it will land ten feet away from the tub. You have to place it just so. And yes, if you have a distinctive umbrella, and if you place it in the tub all tied and folded, you have a better chance of getting it back. In one piece.

Then of course, is the major matter of -

Shoes. After the first major rain, I tried to skirt puddles daintily, trying to protect my footwear. When I realized that daintiness doesn't really work on the streets of Mumbai, I waded through ankle-deep water, and promptly spoiled my shoes. My room-mates guided me to Andheri to buy footwear suited for the rains. I duly landed in the market, expecting to see cheap plastic monstrosities, and was stupefied to see rack upon rack of "Rainy shoes"(sic), some really elegant. I bought a cool brown pair, which served me beautifully even as .. um... non-Rainy shoes.

And then, you cannot expect to survive the rains without an -

Umbrella. I had brought a tiny three-fold umbrella with me from Bangalore, which would fit snugly into my handbag. I disregarded warnings that I would need a sturdier two-fold umbrella, claiming that mine was very strong. A week of enduring the rain and winds and the Tubs of Mumbai, my dainty turquoise umbrella was a clump of rusty spokes and muddy fabric. The next weekend saw me again in Andheri, bargaining for a hardy two-fold umbrella. I picked up a light blue one with white raindrops... that somehow made me feel like a Powerpuff girl, but which, I was sure, was pretty resilient to withstand the winds, and unique enough for a life in the Tubs. A month later, though the white raindrops had turned brown, the umbrella was intact. It even accompanied me back to Bangalore as a prized possession.

And I just cannot stop talking about the -

Sights. And the experiences. A walk down Marine Drive in the rain, biting into hot, spiced, corn on the cob. Or looking out towards Powai Lake. Or a drive on the Mumbai-Pune expressway, through Lonavala and Khandala, in the rain. One of the best experiences ever. Endless green hills and valleys with drifting cottony clouds. Black roads, dark tunnels. And the chill. My only grouse is that I had no one travelling with me to share the moment with, and I did not have a camera. Aaargh!

Of course, everything is not hunky-dory in the Mumbai monsoon. Cancelled trains, stranded passengers. Clothes take forever to dry, and attain that musty, sour smell that no perfume can mask. Grease gets on your clothes when you wade through water on the streets, and no amount of scrubbing will remove it. And if you are not too careful, the clothes in your cupboard develop fungus. And worst of all, if you are feeling lonely or if things are not going too well for you, the Mumbai monsoons have the immense ability to hurl you into the depths of depression.

But nowhere else is the monsoon an event in itself. And the way the city and it's people have adapted to this necessary evil(?) is a joy to observe. How can Mumbai possibly not endear itself to you?

Walking at the Gurdwara

I had got a job in Mumbai. Filled with uncertainty and foreboding, I arrived in the city. The first place we visited to look for paying guest accommodation belonged to a very nice Sikh family in Sher-e-Punjab, Andheri East. They looked like very sweet people, and the place was just 2 km from my place of work, and so I took the place without a second thought. After a day or two of unpacking and settling down, I set out to explore the locality.

The house was situated in a quiet, friendly street, and just a couple of roads away was the main road. I was pretty thrilled to see that everything was close by. Medical shops, General stores, a supermarket, eateries, everything. For the rest, we had to go to Andheri station, which wasn't too big a deal, anyway. I settled down, glad that I had chosen this place.

But only one thing was missing. A park for my daily walk. I asked the girls in my pg, whether there was a park anywhere around, where I can walk. "A park? In the middle of Andheri? Do you know how much paucity of space there is out here? And you want a park. A park! Ha!" They said, and laughed derisively. Half of the derision seemed to be directed towards Andheri, and the other half towards me, fresh from the Garden City and expecting parks and gardens in the middle of Andheri. I refused to believe that there could be no place for little children to go and play, for old people to go and sit and talk, or for people to just spend some time, or walk. But these girls had been here for over a year, and they would have known!

I gave up and decided to walk on the streets of Sher-e-Punjab. Now, anyone who knows this locality knows how much of a risk I was taking. Tiny, narrow roads, going nowhere and everywhere. A largeish road where traffic was in full swing, where BEST buses zoom back and forth. Nothing resembling a footpath. But walk I did. Past the shops, past the bus stops, past the gurdwara and the temple and the church, past the hospitals, the cybercafes. I started enjoying it too. I discovered more shops, more places. With familiarity came boldness. I walked through strange new roads. I explored every nook and alley. Until once, when I got hopelessly lost and had to catch an auto back home.

I went home, forlorn, and went to Auntie (who owned the pg accommodation) and poured out my sorrows to her. "I have no place to walk here", I said. "Every locality in Bangalore has a number of good parks where I can walk. Why aren't there any parks here?". The Mumbaiya in her rose immediately. "Who said there are no parks in Mumbai? I have heard there is a park behind the Gurdwara", she said. "But I have never seen it", she added.

A park behind the Gurdwara? And Auntie, who goes there everyday, hasn't seen it? Then I don't think any such park exists. I tried to remember if I saw anything when I had gone to the Gurdwara the previous week to see what a "Langar"(community dinner) is like. I remembered no park. Auntie must be mistaken. I dropped the idea from my mind.

But the next evening, my sneakers-clad feet automatically took me to the Gurdwara. I walked past it a couple of times, peering in to look if I could discern any magic chink anywhere which would open into a park. Nope. No luck. But how can Auntie be so confident? I anyway decided to go in and have a look. But as I approached the gate, I stopped. While going to the Langar, Auntie had told me that I could wear whatever I wanted, but I should cover my head. I was covered from top to toe in a track suit, but i had nothing to cover my head. Ok, I was not going inside the Gurdwara, but could I enter the premises with an uncovered head? To add to it, I saw a group of old Sikhs in big turbans and long flowing white beards, standing around in their typical dress, and conferring among themselves. They looked so serious and dignified, and I felt very shy and small. I could not enter. I just hung around, intimidated. The guard came to me and raised his eyebrows. "What?" he said. "I...err... Park?" I ventured. "Inside", he pointed with his thumb and walked away. Just as I stepped into the gate tentatively, a lady, dressed like me in trackpants and walking shoes, walked in briskly. She had not covered her head. I immediately followed in her tracks. She skirted the main gurdwara, went a few steps towards the right, and made a sharp turn. There was a small gate, and she disappeared through it. Following her, I stepped out through the gate and could not resist a cry of surprise.

A huge, huge, huge park! Complete with a walking track around it! Trees and bushes lining the walking track. Benches with people sitting on it. A small lawn with little kids tumbling about, and their parents watching and talking to each other. There was an entirely different world here! I trotted down the dozen steps, and fell in step with the dozens of walkers and joggers. As I walked briskly, I noted the surroundings. The park was enclosed by a tall compound on three sides. The fourth side was the wall of the gurdwara. No wonder this place wasn't visible from outside! It took me almost 10 minutes to finish going round the park once. It was that big. I walked to my heart's content and went back home, gave Auntie a thankful hug, and went up to my derisively laughing pg-mates, and laughed back derisively at them, while telling them of my find. "Just 5 mins from here? A park??" they said. Their incredulous expressions made my day! ;)

I became a regular at the park. On most of the days, I returned late from office, and could get to the park only at 8 pm in the night. It was a race against time to finish three rounds of the park, before the guard blew his whistle, signalling that he was going to close the gates. But this walk at night was the best. There were very few people, and I could walk and swing my arms as much as I wanted without worrying about hitting somebody else. Though it was dark, I never felt scared. The lone bright light came from the Gurdwara. I guess the proximity to a holy place put me at ease. And to add to it, every night, I walked accompanied by the sonorous drone of the reading of the Guru Granth Sahib, which came out of the loudspeaker at the entrance of the park. This sound was strangely comforting. As if somebody was accompanying me during my walk and talking to me. At the end of a year, I could recite most of the verses, in the same tune, same style, but I think I got most of the words wrong. :)

My walks ended abruptly when I fell and had a ligament tear. I had to leave Mumbai to come back to Bangalore even before my leg healed and I could resume walking. So I could never go back to my beloved park to walk there one last time.

Recently, I was surfing channels on TV and heard the reading of the Guru Granth Sahib. I was immediately transported back to my walk. All the feelings rushed back to me. The slight out-of-breath feeling. The hunger, thinking of what delicious dinner Auntie would have cooked. The mental exhaustion that comes after a hard day's work at office. The loneliness and emptiness in the heart. The feel of the mobile phone in my pocket, waiting to ring and bring the voice of a loved one to me. Bitter-sweet memories. Strange feelings. But an experience I would not have traded for anything else in the world - Walking at the Gurdwara.

Shoplifting!

There are very few things in life that I am scared of. And most of these are totally inane things, which make people laugh at me. One of these silly things is exiting a shop, through a door which has those detectors fixed. (I don't know what these detectors are called, those that buzz when you take out an item that has not been paid for. If you know, please enlighten me!). I keep feeling that it will start buzzing any moment. Why am I afraid of that? There hangs a tale.

It was one of those months when I found that I have a shortage of clothes, and I just had to go and buy new stuff for myself. Thankfully, my roommate R also wanted to go shopping, and we decided to go and check out that huge mall at Malad, Mumbai, which has both Shoppers' Stop and Lifestyle under the same roof. As we were leaving, X said she would join us. The more, the merrier, we thought, and we set out together. At the mall (Whatzitzname?), we found that we wanted to go to different shops, and buy different things, and we had only a couple of hours before we ought to be heading back. So we separated out and went our ways, deciding to meet at the billing counter of Lifestyle at the appointed time.

So I spent the next hour and a half shopping by myself, checking and sorting out clothes. I was blissfully oblivious of the whereabouts of both R and X, and that made it all the more enjoyable. (You should try shopping alone. Nothing like it. You don't have to wait infinitely for your companion checking out stuff you are not interested in, and you don't have to worry about making your companion wait or give her the wrong impression while you get inexplicable urges to check out some horrendous stuff). Anyway, I got my stuff, and came back and stood at the billing counter, waiting for my turn. I found that R and X were already waiting. Both of them had full shopping bags in their hands. After paying for my clothes, I took my bags, and joined them. We got to the door and exited the building together. Just as we passed through the detectors, "Buzzzzz Buzzzzzz" went the buzzer. "Stop please", said the security guard, "Please give me your bags". My heart was hammering against my ribs. Had something got into my bag my mistake? I could feel the heat in my cheeks. R was totally shaken up. Both of us handed our bags to the guard. Another guard had joined him, and he took the bags and walked through the detector. It did not buzz. "Not in these", said the guard, and asked us to pass through the buzzer one by one. Just as this was happening, X suddenly decided she needed to go to the washroom, and she dashed through the detector into the shop. The buzzer dutifully buzzed again. "Please stop", said the guard to X, but she did not stop. "Stop her!" he called, and a female guard ran after X. All this while, R and I just stood there, mouth agape. "Sorry, ma'am, you can go inside if you want", said the guard politely and handed our bags to us. We went back in like zombies and stood, not talking. We could feel the eyes of the other shoppers on us. We felt guilty for no reason at all. We looked around. Neither X, nor the female guard could be seen. I looked at R. She seemed to have tears in her eyes, and looked terrified. "I thought... something has accidentally got into my bag", she said. "Me too", I said, and we just stood there, not doing anything.

Before long, another guard came and told us, "Your companion is upstairs - you can join her". R and I went up to find her at the first floor billing counter, paying for something. As soon as we went there, she became a blur of explanations. "The key my pocket caused the detector to buzz! Can you beat that? I argued with the manager and made him apologize. And I had bought a kurta and given it to them for alteration. Now I am taking it back from them. I am terribly insulted. So I am paying for the kurta and getting out of here. I will not come back here!"

I found two mistakes in her statement -
1) The detector is not a metal detector - its the bar-code detector - or whatever its called.
2) If she had given the kurta for alteration, she would have paid for it before. These shops do not accept clothes for alteration unless you produce the bill of payment.

I duly pointed out both anamolies to her.
Her answers -
1) No, no, the key caused the problem! The manager apologized.
2) No, here they said I could pay for it later.

Did she think we were a pair of fools?

Anyway we did not say anything. After she paid, we went back downstairs. We could feel the stares and the glances. Back to the exit. Back to walking through the detector. Heart-hammering, fists clenching. But we passed through it. We cleared it. I heaved a sigh of relief. I turned to X and asked her, "So where is your key now? Why didn't it buzz this time?". "Oh that's coz the key was in the pocket of my jeans at that time. I have now kept it in my purse".

Yes, she did think we were a pair of fools.

We went back home in silence. We did not mention this again, but needless to say, we did not go shopping with her again. Also, she left the city within a month, and we haven't been in touch ever since.

Anyway, this incident seems to have scarred me for life. Whenever I exit a shop walking through those detectors, I hear imaginary buzzings and "stop-please"s and my heart beats faster and my breath becomes laboured. When my sister is with me, she, in all her sweetness, takes one look at my expression and holds my hand each time we walk through a detector. The fear seems to be slowly subsiding. But I don't know how long it will take before I can walk confidently out of a shop!