It has been a while since I ran into somebody I knew. As much as I want to say this, I can’t, for the many Dolmens and The Malls that have sprung up in our city have not only brought with themselves a fresh supply of I-will-have-to-sell-a-kidney-to-get-things-from-here brands but also a million opportunities for one to run into all sorts of people. Now avoiding Sunday Bazaar like the plague doesn’t cut it. Gone are the days when you could roam around window shopping with an iPod hanging by your neck (not in the way you just pictured) sporting last night’s slept-in PJs. The non-brushed ponytail look can suck it for not only are the likelihood of you running into someone you know increases disproportionally to how ancient you appear but even just lazing looking around shops and trying new shoes get you nasty stares from the shop-keepers.
“I may look homeless, but I do have a job, hello!” (Or probably the only reason I look homeless is because I have one.)
Since I refuse to mend my ways until I absolutely, completely have to, it was just last night that I found myself going around the same shop in circles to run away from an estranged ex-employer only to end up running headlong into a friend’s bhaabhi (brother’s wife). For someone who doesn’t even know the names of their own extended relatives, stopping to exchange pleasantries with someone else’s is a moment that calls on you to undertake an intense episode of self-reflection.
And then, the cherry on top goes to the designer bag sporting thirteen year olds, texting away with their groupies and roaming around with cream dripping cupcakes making you feel like you are the only one figuring life out while others are busy living it.
When all is said and done, maybe one can bring themselves around to wearing iron-pressed clothes when they go out but getting yourself to laugh at the “a relative, school friend and ex walk into a mall” jokes is surely going to take a while.