A Street Shopper's Diary

“So, what is the agenda today?” my sister queried, as we stood at the entry point of the street market in Colaba.

It was a Friday evening. An ocean of people, dressed in their weekend best, swallowed us in as we walked into the busy street.

“I need a skirt,” I replied, pulling my hair into a bun to keep the summer sweat at bay.

“Okay. That seems fairly simple. Wait, did you just drag me all the way here to find ONE skirt?”

“Yes, I did. And no, it’s not that simple. It should neither be too short, nor too long,” I continued.

“I want something that can double as a formal one that goes with a shirt, as well as a casual one when paired with a t-shirt or a crop top. There should be no frills, prints or motifs on it. It should preferably be in a somewhat universal solid colour like black, red or navy blue, so that there are more options in my closet to team it up with. And all of this should fit into the most important criterion of all – a budget of 500 rupees.”

My sister stared at me with a deep frown. “Wow. This seems tougher than finding my dream man!”

“Well, at least I got you for company to walk me through my ‘dream’ skirt,” I grinned.

Halogen lights hung from the shops in the snugly wrapped street market, making the alley warmer than the weather outside. As we braved through the crowd, I kept glancing at the items on display in each counter – colourful clothes, chic jewellery, trendy footwear, sunglasses of myriad shapes and stylish purses for every occasion. Complimenting the collection in the shops was the assortment of people jostling for space in the sidewalk. Some queued up in front of Café Mondegar, some huddled in front of the shops to catch the deal of the day, while some others simply lurked around aimlessly, gazing at the chaos at play. The constant chatter of the people and clinkering sound of the items for sale effortlessly blended into a unique background noise. Piercing through this cacophony was the voice of a lone chai-wallah:

“Cutting le lo! Cutting le lo!

Ek sip se stress dur karo”

He swiftly made his way through the clutter, serving tea to all the shopkeepers in small paper cups.

We stopped by at a dress and shirt stall, a little way down the market. Summer dresses hung across the stalls are always a vision for the sore eyes. My sister had her eyes set on a long grey dress with bell-shaped sleeves. It had small self-coloured embroidery around the waist.

“Yeh Zara ka reject hain madam,” the shopkeeper promptly said as he caught us browsing through the dresses. Quickly, he took the dress and showed us a pocket stitched wrongly. It clearly bore the label ‘Zara’ around its neck.

My sister’s eyes gleamed, but somehow, she resisted her urge to buy it. “Honestly, I have zero space in my closet right now. Buying another dress would be criminal.”

The shirts hung in the shops are my personal all-time favourites - light cotton and linen ones in pastel colours, checks and bohemian prints. All for the price range of 300-350 bucks, these could make up an outfit for almost all occasions. Over the years, the shirts I bought from the streets made it to conference rooms on busy workdays, paired with formal trousers; they saw me in my travels, in company of loose chic pants and for every strappy dress I bought, they doubled as a shrug to add that extra quotient of cool. Every time I walk by the shirt stalls, I invariably end up buying one. But that day, I did not pause. We brushed past the array of shoppers to continue with my impossible quest to find the perfect skirt.

A glimmer of shine welcomed us as we entered the ornaments section of the alley. The knick-knack ethnic earrings lining the shops have a separate fan base altogether. Small danglers, trendy studs, hoops and jhumkas of multiple hues and shapes can make even the brave-hearts go weak in their knees. The women make the negotiations, while two kinds of men accompany them – one who participate in the brutal decision-making process, pointing out possible choice options to their ladies, and the other, who find curious spaces in the vicinity – stairs, stools, bus stop benches, and the likes, and quietly settle down while the women battle it out with the shopkeepers. The one thing binding these two kinds of men together are several shopping bags in their hands, testimony to the triumphs of their partners.

“True love in plastic bags” my sister quipped, pointing at the congregation of men holding bags by the bus stop.

As we were passing by, I overheard a foreign lady bargaining with a shopkeeper for a beautiful neckpiece on display. It was studded with blue beads and had a classy silver finish.

“How much for this?” the lady asked.

“1500 rupees only”

The lady burst out laughing because the price he quoted was obviously absurdly high by street shopping standards. She had done her homework well, I thought. To my amusement, the shopkeeper had started chuckling too.

“Aap kyu has rahein hain?” the lady asked in fluent Hindi, taking the shopkeeper by surprise.

“Yuhi, aap has rahein hain isiliye,” came the shopkeeper’s quick-witted reply. I could almost see the lady blush. Some of these shopkeepers, I can vouch, have a charm hard to resist. Before the bargain could finish in an acquisition, we shifted from the area to focus on the mission at hand.     

After strolling for an infinite time, I spotted a tiny stall with skirts on display at the wee end of the market. There, peeking from a cluster of garments, was a black skirt with small buttons in the front. I floated towards it to take a closer look. A front slit, fitted shape, two tiny pockets and an elastic band near the waist – it checked off all the boxes on my list! It was unbelievable! My heart immediately leapt in joy while I maintained my poised expression in front of the shopkeeper. Without further ado, I took it out from the batch of clothes hung in the stall and enquired about its price.

“800 Madam,” the shopkeeper said.

“500 me de dijiye bhaiya,” I said point blank, without giving much room for negotiation.

“Nahi hoga Madam,” he smirked, in a rather matter-of fact manner.

“Oh, this is going to be interesting,” my sister wryly smiled. “Should I just grab a bag of popcorn?”

I glared at her, while continuing my bargain, determined to own the skirt in the budget I had in mind. The shopkeeper was adamant too, sharpening his marketing skills by the minute. He constantly kept boasting of the various qualities of the skirt, which purportedly made it ‘the one’. Easily washable, durable, perfect for both day wear and night wear – the skirt became almost invincible in the span of 15 minutes we had stood at the shop. He left no stone unturned to oversell the skirt:

“Madam, skirt ka pockets toh dekhiye! Kahin dekha hain aise pockets?”

How the tiny pockets became the selling point in the conversation, I cannot really say. He said, one could store nuts in each pocket to satiate hunger pangs in emergencies. On sultry afternoons, these pockets could store handkerchiefs to wipe away traces of summer from the face. It could fit small roll-ons, lipsticks and coins to hand over change, while keeping the hands free.

At this stage, my sister had exercised tremendous control to refrain from laughing out loud. But I stood still listening to the shopkeeper in rapt attention.

“600 last price Madam,” the shopkeeper said in exasperation, after an eternity of animated wheel and deal. He refused to negotiate any further. But for some odd reason, I was unwilling to bend too.

“Rehne dijiye. Thank you bhaiya,” I played the final card of the barter, hoping he would give in once and for all. I prepared to walk away and turned my back, expecting him to call back. I grabbed my sister by the hand and began walking ahead.

Soon, he shouted out, calling me.

“Arre Madam rukiye! Sau rupay ke liye yeh skirt chhod ke jayenge? Sau rupay kya hota hain? Sirf ek kagaz ka tukda!”   

I paused to ponder over what he had just said.

There, I had the perfect skirt - a unique one fitting my million impassable criteria, waiting to be worn by me. What are the chances that such a skirt would exist and I would find it? Close to zero, I think. So, was it worth it to forgo the skirt for one hundred bucks?

My musings were broken by my sister’s voice.

“Well, he has a point, you know. Pockets are the real deal. Why should men have all the good pockets?”

A skirt with pockets. The real deal. She was right.

I turned towards the shop and walked up to the shopkeeper.

“Thik hain, 600 rupees, final.”

The shopkeeper beamed, the smile brightening up his face, as also mine. He packed the skirt in plastic wrap, which I happily took. My sister gave a sigh of relief on witnessing the happy ending. The shopkeeper took the money and said:

“Phir milenge Madam. Naya skirt Mubarak ho!”