Given the spate of malls springing up like blotches on the face of suburbia, we are soon confronted with the exciting prospect of visiting an average of a new mall a week. Yesterday, the honour of our esteemed presence was bestowed on Mega Mall, at Oshiwara. It was chosen for a very fickle reason. I loved the graphics done for the ads which blared out that the entire mall was on sale. Therefore we went. Jacketed and sweatered, in the unearthly chill of this February freezing over the city. Parked and entered. The brat spotted a two floor sized Ronald McDonald and yelled a greeting to his old friend, threw his red woolen cap in the air and ran off for a friendly hug. With me running behind him holding discarded cap in hand trying to fix it back in place. The cold wind was already digging canals to my brain and my unfixed cavities. Ever try putting on a cap on a disinclined child running at warp speed towards object of interest. Lets say, I broke my own record for the 100 m dash yesterday, and then waved at adoring audience of wide mouthed male gawpers staring horrifically at the vision of huge momma sprinting behind skeletal child. Luckily, in a moment of sanity I had worn flat gold croc skin ballerinas yesterday. Am back to insanity today and chocolate pumps.
Having got the greetings and the clambering into the lap of said Ronald McDonald out of the way, we consented to enter the mall. Not before asking the guard whether he was a real security guard, and if yes, be a man and show me your gun. In Hindi. Was dragged away by red faced mom. Too many gangsta flicks being watched in the august company of gangsta flick aficionado papa. This papa has the world record of having watched Reservoir Dogs, Vaastav and Satya one gadzillion times each to the point, where the father starts on the dialogue and the son repeats it. Verbatim. And this is a kid who will not say his nursery rhymes for love or chocolate.
Anyway, mamma entered said mall in a semi trance seeing that every store as far as the eye could go bore the magic four letter word on its window display. The word that gets her heart into knots, and thudding with a spiraling overdose of adrenalin, resulting a rush that can only be matched by the kind of rush that comes with the dizzy giddy high of a first love. SALE. SALE. SALE. Everywhere. Mamma controlled her immediate urge to rush shrieking into the stores gathering up everything she could lay her hands on, and more, and summoned driver from car to supervise brat in order to leave her free to run shrieking into stores gathering up everything…well you get my drift. The driver came in but was no match for the brat’s sheer agility at disappearing into confined spaces and vanishing behind corners, so mamma ended up being chaser and bodyguard all over again, looking wistfully at store fronts from the outside. The one store the brat deigned to grace with his presence was Adams Kids where he had a right out meltdown because he wanted a shirt like the many he already has, while mamma was trying to con him into a brilliantly styled hoodie. And when mamma was trying to control flailing mass of flesh and bones, she looked up to see two glamazons at the cash counter, buying kiddy clothes, and was suddenly acutely aware of blackpullover pulled over hastily over home tee, hair scraped back into nondescript ponytail, no make up, except for lipgloss, and spectacles completing the vision of beauty. And then it struck mamma. That was Mini Mathur. Her of the ex MTV VJ fame. Now of the Indian Idol fame. And Shaheen Abbas. Of the jewellery designing fame. In wonderfully casual chic. Toned bodies. Perfect hair. Perfect skin. Perfect nails. Perfect shoes. Tis okay. Page 3 ites are meant to be glamazons. Mamma cum personal lackeys aren’t, she consoled self and continued with the arm wrestling and body lock tactics on the floor of the store.
Needless to say, nothing was bought from said mall. Despite the 60 per cent sale signs. Except a Barbie remote controlled car. In Pink. The husband is walking around with a very furrowed brow.