A day at the mall

 I paused for a moment before crossing the road. The glass and concrete building loomed in front. Enthusiasts were making a beeline for the entrance, crossing paths with murderous motorists. These cars were headed for the same building, their owners couldn't wait to dump their rides in the basement and pack themselves in elevators to join their comrades inside. My daughter is part of this band of devotees; I on the other hand, abstain. We cross the car drop off area and stride through the giant open glass doors. We were inside the mall.

I submitted to the traditional welcome ritual: the sentry waving a beeping wand around my armpits and privates. I wonder if any suicide bomber has even tried walking into a mall, with his deadly cargo strapped around him. I wish him luck, provided he delivers his fireworks after the mall crawlers have left. I step off the pedestal after my friend had satisfied himself that I posed no threat. The cool sterile air had calmed me and I started looking for a deserted corner. You see, I have this compulsive need to avoid human contact. My daughter in the meanwhile, had struck gold; she was parked in front of a stall selling overpriced trinkets. The owner was licking his chops at the sight of easy prey. Like a hound alerted by fresh scent, he sensed that a fool was soon to part with his money. The fool being me.

Don't get me wrong, I am all for consumerism. After all we have an obligation to push our trillion rupee GDP along. If we bought only what we needed, the economy would be on its knees. Mega corporations would stop doling out fat bonuses and banks would stop chasing us with cheap loans. Society of course would be happier and healthier but hey, we all need to make sacrifices in order to progress, right?!

The wife had meanwhile persuaded my daughter to ignore the trinkets. The shopkeeper dropped his shoulders, like a leopard whose dinner had eluded him. His eyes soon light up however as another girl glues herself to the store front, like a moth to a lightbulb.

My daughter had moved on to the main course: the garment store. Full page print ads had promised the launch of their latest range of torn jeans and halter tops. She strode with the determination of a devotee who had heard the clarion call. I could see the wife issue instructions after her but I do not hear them from where I stand. I know I should also follow but the familiar comfort of the deserted corner held me back. I decided to pick up the scent in a couple of minutes. The feeding frenzy around me went on.

"Sir! Sirr!! I swivelled my head and braced for an attack following the angry bark. It was only the guard at the garments store. He was pointing at what I was holding. It was the plastic bag wrapping itself around a slim file like a skin tight outfit. It took me a moment to realize that the guard wanted to examine what was inside. What on earth could I smuggle in or out in a plastic slip packet which could barely conceal what it currently held? A thong perhaps! I didn't get to finish my train of thought as the guard tugged at the packet, peered inside and waved me off. Relieved at not being manhandled, I could now locate my family. Shouldn't be too hard to spot two plain looking girls in a store full of oversized women wearing dresses at least one size too small. The wife gestured me to come near the trial room. I obeyed, ignoring the dirty glances thrown at me by women shoppers waiting their turn. I should have told them not to bother: the items they had chosen didn't have a fighting chance of covering their modesty. The wife read the mark of protest on my face and explained that our daughter wanted to know what I thought about what she had picked out. Why do I have to give both, I complained, ie money for the purchases AND my opinion?? Nothing doing, she had already donned something and my approval was required. The shirt she had picked looked like an experiment gone wrong: it ran out of buttons midway so one had to tie the two ends into a knot. The pair of shorts looked like they had snagged against the shelf corners: they sported gaping tears just above the hem! Just when I thought we could get these defective items for free, I spied the price tags: they were costlier than tear free, wearable clothing!

I had to hand over my plastic to the billing person who snatched it out of my hand and thrust it into the slot. The charge message beeped. Mall 1 - Me 0

Daughter emerged victorious from the store. I dragged myself out in her wake, clutching my plastics bag, refusing any more inspections. Small victories mattered here.

Mall trips are incomplete without a visit to the food court. These span an entire floor and are conveniently located to capture and corrall lost visitors who stumble through the mall maze before emerging here. As the escalator deposits you to the top, the cleverly designed open space of a few acres, with the food counters at the far end, releases a million Newton metres of pent up energy and frustration. Small boys run amok, copious rolls of puppy fat jiggling as they make for the bright neon signs of Pizza this and Burger that. Weary parents, their pockets emptied and morale sapped, are helplessly dragged along. By the time you realize that you are about to part with your week's grocery budget for a few slices of cheesy dough, you turn around and your heart sinks. You find that your getaway lift is a few miles away, a distance that your obese child has dragged you across by your underwear elastic. You give up, surrendering the last of your credit limit in abject defeat. In return, you get to watch the small tyke chomp his way into early diabetes.

In any case, I queued up to get a pre paid token to be redeemed for food. If you thought that you could limit the damage by picking and choosing a few nibbles, these Shylocks have got you there. Another thousand rupees lighter, I get down to the business of choosing which carcinogenic fry or wrap we could poison our bodies with. My daughter on the other hand, has a very different opinion of mall food; she derives her weekly nutritional needs here. I chomped through the stale dough and smelly cheese, fighting back tears of my lost money. If it was any consolation, this was the final ritual of our visit.

I stumbled out of the exit, following in the wake of my daughter's victory march. She held the spoils of war aloft, as I was left to be mobbed by the auto thugs. Fighting for a ride home was tinged with some happiness: I had lived to fight another day. The next visit to the mall was at least another fortnight away!

                                                                   xxxxxx

This article has been written on invitation by a dear friend. Thanks for reading:)