I am not someone who frequents showrooms, and it is for a rather simple but unusual reason: something about them makes me feel inadequate.
The proportion-perfect mannequins staring out from the storefronts clad in immaculate fashion; the room-sized posters of spectacularly sculpted models flashing their pearly teeth; the squeaky clean, tiled floor polished to a slippery shine; the mechanical attendants tailing you around the aisles armed with the most refined brand of courteousness; the soul-stripping dressing rooms reflecting every flaw back at you; the sophisticated shoppers who go about with an air of elegance, sifting through the displays and making witty remarks about the materials; the invasive smile on the face of the cashier judging your every purchase.
I shop cheap and had been doing so unapologetically for as long as I can remember.
There was this new showroom in PR Hill, which opened a month ago to much fanfare – the proprietor had bought a full-page spread in all the local dailies for a full week prior to the opening day. The showroom – one giant building with four floors – sold high-end, branded apparel and footwear with hefty price tags.
In the evenings when I go out to buy groceries from the merry Lotha women seated in rows under one of the overbridges, I would pass by the showroom, the evening sun reflecting off the storefront, always swarming with shoppers. During one such evening, I saw a queue starting from its wide entrance and spilling out onto the sidewalk. Plastered over the storefront were posters in bright red – SALE: 50% OFF.
The queue moved in lurches, and with the entry of each person, the metal detector positioned in front of the glass swing door emitted a loud beep. The frequency of the beeps and the subsequent shuffling of feet lent a strange rhythm to the whole thing.
I remember having this weird dream about walking into the showroom with all my uncivilised manners and being the lone soul inside, running from one long aisle to another like a rat caught in a maze, desperate to get out. I woke up screaming, and after it dawned on me that it was just a nightmare, I laid on my bed and laughed like a madman till my mouth started to hurt. The next day as I passed by the showroom, a cold, stabbing fear took hold of me and I felt an inexplicable urge to run away from it.
In the office during lunch, as I was unpacking my tiffin – inside it the usual rice, dal and alu fry – I saw a paper carry bag with the logo of the showroom laid on the table of my had with him over the span of a year working together, he seemed like a nice chap: the kind this workplace chews up and spits out in a nauseous cycle by the dozens. It’s a surprise that he still somehow managed to bring in every morning an outlook of optimism, with no visible signs of fatigue, even though he was drawing a pittance of a salary. I suppose some people are either just too easy to please or good at pretending to be content. Either way, that is an issue of no immediate bearing on me. I pointed at the paper bag and said in a flat tone:
“That paper bag…” Well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.
“Yes, paper bag?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.
“Bought something at the new showroom?” I asked.
“Nothing special. Just a pullover. It was on sale.” He reached for the bag.
“You wanna see?”
“Well, if you insist.”
I could hear a chuckle running down my throat.
I ran my fingers across the fine details of the bag: the extra-large, eye-catching logo in the brightest red known to science; the noisy texture of its print; the crispy thickness of the paper material; the sharp creases formed under pressure that gave it some semblance of a character. I had little to no interest in the contents of the bag: one grey sweatshirt with the repulsive aesthetics of an old coal miner’s sweat after a long day of work. In that moment, I pictured myself walking out of the showroom – without a hint of apprehension – with a similar bag, waving it gleefully in a tribal celebration of pure triumph. I was so intrigued that I decided to make my showroom shopping debut in a week.
“It’s the best-looking sweatshirt I have seen in my life.” A bold lie, of course. I handed back the paper bag without looking at him. “But you barely even opened it,” he said. “I know quality when I see it.” Another shameless lie. I was, without any doubt, the best liar in the whole damn office.
The following days, I ran probable scenarios – mostly favourable – inside my head about the big debut. I rehearsed them diligently before sleep and in the early morning; every line I could say to the attendants on that fateful day was put under scrutiny like lines from an esoteric play. I also made contingency plans in case a moment slipped past me unaware and jeopardised my laboured sense of routine. I made a mental map from images collected online of the showroom, of its many aisles and counters. I was prepped like a soldier embarking on a secret world-saving mission. Now the only thing needed to push me into action was a dab of courage, and perhaps a shot of vodka.
My sentences start to drag out into a comical stutter when I am nervous, and alcohol, on many occasions, seems to help the case by keeping my conversation lean. The only shortcoming is that I tend to lose grip on reality, and civilised predisposition when under the influence of alcohol. The thought of having my uncouth aggression captured on one of those tiny CCTVs inside made alcohol strongly a non-option – also my monthly budget was in shambles and made a decent drink unaffordable.
One evening while I was returning with a bag of edible silkworms – a pay-day extravaganza – I happened to pass by the showroom and was gripped by this sudden urge to walk in. I stood still for a moment to assess the place. The usual traffic swarming the place was amiss, which further intensified my desire. I walked up the flight of stairs leading to the entrance and stood two steps away from the metal detector. The watch-woman, upon seeing me, motioned at me from behind the glass door to step through the metal detector. A loud beep, a swing of the door, a delightful smile from the watch-woman, and I was inside, facing a labyrinth of aisles, carrying a blue polythene bag with shifting, live silkworms inside. A cold shiver of panic crawled down my spine.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Showroom’ in A Kite of Farewells: Stories from Nagaland, O Jungio, Rupa Publications.
