That Four Lettered Word…

sale.jpgAt the risk of sounding like someone firmly entrenched in a stereotypical patriarchal society, I’d say that this is one trait peculiar only to the females of our species.

You can bury us alive if you want, or threaten us with a million misfortunes if you will, but you can’t keep us enchained. The world appears all rosy and there appears by magic, wings on our feet – when those four letters (no, not ‘Love’! Read on you impatient git) ‘S-A-L-E’ go up in the air. It does not matter if your aunty has just sent bags full of clothes, cosmetics, and shoes from Canada. It does not matter if your Daddy and Mummy are saving up for a trip to Singapore. (“Why not post-pone your shopping till then, beta?”) Shopping, when the sale is on, is as essential as smoking when you’re low; drinking, when you party; and in case you still haven’t got my point, let me just say – humming, when you’re happy.

For those of you struggling to fathom the charms of this experience, (mostly Rohans and Rahuls, who I believe, squirm in agony every time their girlfriends plead with them to ‘go shopping’) I will provide a glimpse.

It all starts with the colourful squares in the newspapers screaming out ‘Sale’, from all possible corners of the newspaper. This one indication and the female human being begins to divulge her true colours. (Never mind the feminists who turn frigid seeing their years of ‘campaign for equality’ go down the drain). Leaving all responsibilities, duties and prior appointments aside, we head for the mall/market farthest from our place. (A law that Murphy forgot to state was, “The market that’s closest to your house is also necessarily the pottiest”).

Once the desired destination is reached, there begins the actual endeavour. It comes as a surprise, how we never realized, that we had wanted a skirt, exactly like the one on display – all our lives! Ditto for the sexy black pumps. The pink strappy top (which by the way, mum will forbid us to put on, the instant she sees it) at this price is nothing short of a wonder. Jeans, as we all know never go waste; an extra pair (let it be the ninth such one) always comes in handy. Thus the articles pile on, cash reserve deplete. And finally when the last hundred (saved for that emergency metro recharge) has been exhausted, you can hear a deep sigh. If you are keen on believing that it is the return of guilt and conscience to restore your faith in womankind, I can only click my tongue in disappointment. For, the sigh is inevitably followed by, “I feel so good!”

Mitia Nath