IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 68- SHOPPING Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

"(Tune munh kyon banaya) Why did you make faces,  when I started talking to mummy on the phone?" the newlywed bride asked her husband, her voice laced with angry accusation. They were standing in line for bhel puri at the bustling Central Market of Lajpat Nagar. The vibrant red chura adorning her wrists gave away the fact that they were married for less than ten days.

The husband gave a sheepish look, avoiding her gaze by turning slightly away. But his eyes betrayed a silent plea: “Don’t worry, Uncle Ji, I can put up with this predicament.”

I couldn’t resist silently responding, "Beta, if you'd gone for an arranged marriage, you could've postponed this kuttekhani (humiliation) for at least two years."

The bhel puri vendor, having narrowly escaped the municipal corporation officials, had strategically positioned his cart between two benches. I briefly considered leaving my spot, but the heavy bag of ladies' suits I was carrying quickly dissuaded me. The thought of lugging it around—a potential spine-disaster waiting to happen—made me stay put. Thankfully, this bench promised ample entertainment.

Not far away, I noticed every young salesman glancing in my direction. My first instinct was, “Wow, still got it!” But no, their gaze wasn’t for me—it was for the girl seated next to me. Barely out of her teens, she was sporting finely waxed legs, in a  short skirt, and an air of purpose as she scrolled through her phone. From her phone conversation, I gathered she was raising funds for a pricey dress she had her heart set on. To my amazement, within five minutes, she had collected contributions from four boyfriends! She confidently walked off to make her purchase, leaving behind an aura of entrepreneurial genius.

Her spot was soon taken by a middle-aged Muslim man, his forties etched on his face. He carried the unmistakable air of a man left to guard shopping bags—a total of four, courtesy of his wife, who had wandered off to hunt for more deals. His expression mirrored my own helplessness, the universal look of men reduced to human baggage claim counters. A silent camaraderie formed between us, and soon, we struck up a conversation about the Maharashtra elections.

Our political discourse, however, was repeatedly interrupted by the ding of his phone notifications—each a grim reminder of his credit card swipes. His anxiety was palpable, escalating with every beep. Finally, he sighed with relief. “Thank God, the card limit’s reached. At least now we can go home.”

But fate had other plans. Moments later, his wife called, and her sharp tone carried through the phone. He hung up, visibly deflated, and turned to me. “Now I understand why people join jihad,” he muttered under his breath. “In heaven, you don’t have to maintain 72 hoors. Here, I’m dying maintaining just one not-so-hoor.”

I could only empathize, though deep down, I felt smug for one smart move—I had disabled my SMS notifications. Blissfully unaware of my financial doom, I preferred to be jhatkaoed (slaughtered in one blow)

That evening, as I watched the bustling crowd around the bhel puri cart, I had a revelation: any place frequented by ladies is a goldmine for bhel puri vendors. Out of 22 women who ordered, 21 asked for bigger plates of bhel puri. The sole exception? A woman who ordered a smaller plate—for her saasu ma(mother-in-law).

 

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