Grocery Shopping – Trauma Unlimited

Act 1, Scene 1

Friday Night, After having returned from the weekly dining out : Location – Bedroom

I am lying on my stomach, biting my nails, trying to finish off as many pages of QBVII before the inevitable statement “Ufff .. kotobaar eki boi porbe bolte paro ? Biyer por theke count korleow toh at least 4 times hobe. Friday night and you are reading”. And within moments the statement comes. Albeit differently. “Ei .. otho toh, otho. Come on. Start typing on your iPhone. Eto daam diye ghontaar jinish kinecho, make use of it. Lekho – Ami grocery list bolchi”. My whole world collapses. The sky falls on my head and I am rudely reminded that I have to go grocery shopping with her tomorrow.

Act 1, Scene 2

30 minutes later.

The list seems endless. Damn ! And shows no sign of nearing the finish line. Tap tap tap .. goes my finger, with a hasty sneak at Facebook and then back again Tap tap tap. The darned thing is so unwieldy. Am yet to figure out how to disable the ‘intelligent’ way the phone predicts the word. Jeera becomes ‘Jeers’, Dhonepata becomes ‘Shone Pata’, Moida becomes ‘Noida’. Give me my paper and pen any day.

Act 2, Scene 1

Wee hours of Saturday morning

At precisely 06.00 AM the alarm clock on my side of the bed (mind you, on my side of the bed) shrills itself to glory and I open one bleary eye, grope around and bang on the snooze button and go off to sleep. Peace. But only for the ensuing 5 minutes. And again the whistle blows. Again a bang on the snooze button. This time a little bit harder, after which I bury my face in(side) the pillow trying to join the shredded links to slumber and the wonderful dream of Monica Bellucci that I was having. Just when she has me tied up on the bed with her silk stockings and she is about to ravage me, another alarm goes off !! This time a little farther away, out of my reach, kept in the middle of the night by my wife, so that I am forced to wake up. Women !!

Act 2, Scene 2

30 minutes later, in the taxi, after asking her how long the shopping would take.

Kuurchi: “Why ? You have plans of going for tennis, is it ? Last weekend you promised that you would not this weekend.” And before I can even answer, “Chuck it. Why do you promise things when you cannot keep them ? You promised that you would be cooking the chicken today”

Wow !!! Double whammy !!

Me: “See ? I never said that I would go for tennis. I just wanted to know when we would be back as I wanted to have the chicken marinated for a longer time. That’s all. Ki bhaabe misconstrue koro amake dekhecho toh ?” (And I breathe a tiny sigh of relief, phew, that was a close one).

Kuurchi: “I am soooooo sorry Gampa. You really would be cooking today ? How sweet of you.”

Me: “Of course I would.” (Shit .. had I been a little tactful, I could have slithered out)

Kuurchi: “You can turn right and park in the Mustafa Taxi Stand please” (to the taxi driver).

Act 2, Scene 3

Some 45 minutes later, in Level 01 of Mustafa.

I stand. With the push cart in front of me. Beside the Revlon counter. Totally disoriented. She has come and asked me opinions on 4 different shades of lipstick and when I dutifully nodded the third time, she looks at me and says “Uuff .. etto confused keno tuumi ??? Ekta opinion dite paro na thik kore”. I meekly point out that all four of them had appeared similar and all four of them would look ravishing on her. She gives me the “give up” look and says “Plisss !! Give me a break. One was Coco Craving, the other was In The Red, the 3^rd one was Rosy and the last one was Really Red. Je jinish ta bojho na, sheta niye KENO matha ghamaaow ?”

Hey ! You were the one who asked me !

15 more minutes and yet not having decided the shade(s), "Chalo let's go up and finish off the groceries on Level 02 and on the way back would pick up one from here along with one for Boudi" (aaah trying to make up for the last spat that she had with her). Dutifully I push the cart into the lift and make the solitary mistake of hitting the wrong button. We end up on the basement.

"Offf ho. Ki je karona." And the very next second "Achha bhaloi hoyeche neeche eshe. I have to check out one thing". I wince. "one thing", from past experience, is an extremely fluid set of words and can range from anything to jewelry to a new ironing board.

Me : “No !! I am not going to turn right. The push cart can be taken only till the lingerie section. Ami okhaane wait korbo na. Last time I felt humiliated !”

Kuurchi : “Ore baba. Just 5 minutes. And don’t act as if you don’t peep into the racks. Who was it that told me about the Triumph Zero Gap ?”

For my sins I am made to stay put. And that too bang in front of the same section. 5 minutes creep onto become 25. Women pass by. Giving me dirty looks. But naturally. I am the lone guy standing amidst the multitude of garters, hoses and the other un-mentionables.

At the stoke of half an hour, she comes back. Empty handed, but with resolution writ large on her face. On seeing my questioning look, she says that she was checking out some swim suits, which she intends to wear when (and if) she loses weight. I say nothing. She says “Tumi bujhbe na. Ami nijeke motivate korchilaam roga howaar jonno. Chalo !!! Ha kore dariye ki dekhcho charidike. Shobaai pervert bolbe”.

Act 2, Scene 4

Level 02 – Grocery Section (at last)

A veritable sea of humanity. I trudge along in the line, pushing the cart. She picks up stuff from the racks. Sometimes doing the vanishing act (How I wish the state stays put) and reappearing with armloads of stuff. Time comes to a standstill. I try to do a juggling act, between managing the cart and tapping on the phone to read out the list, inevitably punctuated by “Dekhle !! Dekhle !! Ekhon bolcho Ginger Paste. Aaage bolte parle na ? Now who would go back all the way ?”. I grin and bear it and make my way to the vegetables section, where in addition to pushing the cart, tapping the phone, my job description includes tearing off the plastic bags from the rolls, fighting with each of them to have them opened up and handing them over to the wife to put the vegetables in.

I pull out the iPod and plug it in to my ears. Selecting the song / album is a function of the number of pushes that I get from a similar unfortunate guy behind me with a push cart and an equally traumatic look on his face.

Kuurchi : "Ki gaan shuncho ? Tomar pishir record kora Bangaal bhashaay gaan ? Uuff !! Repulsive. Tomra Bangaal ra etto uncooth. Class bole jinish tar je ki obhaab .... Oomma !! Koyel!! Kemon acho go tumi ? Kaawtodeeeeeen dekhi na. Oma ! Ki shundor kurti ta porecho go ? Ekhankaar Fab theke kinecho bujhi ? .. Tomaake Shoptomi r din oi kalo Dhaakai shari ta pore je ki aaawshaaadhaaron lagchilo na .. ki bolbo !! Uufff .. Shameek toh shob shomoy bole je you look the best in a saree"... (a few seconds pause) .. "Achha shono amra egoi .. Baba ! Arek joner ja mejaj .. ekhuni hoyto bole uthbe je koro tuumi shopping, ami gelaam. Eei .. phone koro. And do let's catch for lunch one of these days."

I give a keshto-hashi and move on. For a change my wife is alongside me (instead of marching ahead). She looks furtively back and whispers in my ear "Maaaggo !! Ki disgusting. Khuuki sheje boshe r koto din thakbe. Bhor belaay shobji kinte esheche, othocho dekho mukh ta jeno pancake. Nyaaaka. Shojhho korte paari na."

I keep mum (have realised the hard way that's the safest thing to do)

15 minutes later and all vegetables bought. The ordeal is nearing its end.

Kuurchi: “Shono, line up on the weighing counter and have the stuff weighed. And please Shameek, PLEASE ensure that EVERYTHING is weighed. Don’t do it like the last time. Ami fruits niye aschi.”

Another serpentine queue. Reminds me of the Holocaust movies that I have watched. And 7 minutes later,

Kuurchi : (Daaat chepe; every alternate human in Mustafa is a Bong) “Gaawd !! Duudh er bottle weigh korcho keno. Are you mad ! !?”

Me: “Oh ho. Sorry mumma. I was just distracted, thinking if I should cook Chicken Do Piyaza naaki normal Murgir jhol”

A streak of sunshine and the words “Shotti ? Omma how sweet. Golu ekta tuuumi.”

Yeah, if only she could read my mind. A few more of recurrences and I would be buying a one way ticket to the loony-bin.