We have gone from one extreme to another. When we first arrived, we did all of our shopping in the big malls: Lulus, the Phenix Palassio. Not through choice exactly, but it did not appear that we had much alternative. Our apartment is in the diplomatic area, and though we have discovered that it is not all that far from a busy part of the city, the heat (and potential torrential downpour – this is the monsoon season) means that we thought we would need to engage the services of our driver (and an air-conditioned car) to get the basics we needed daily. But then, I turned right out of the apartment block, instead of left…
The first discovery I made was that there were stalls on the street, just a stone’s throw away, which could supply us with both fruit and vegetables. I could maybe have done with rather nicer apples than the ones I tried to make a crumble with, but otherwise they had all that we could need.
But exploring just a little further brought me to a small shop. Val tells me we had walked past it already, but we had virtually disregarded it, as it seemed at first glance to offer only packets of sweets. It was only when I saw, during an early morning foray, a crate full of plastic containers of milk (!) that had just been delivered, that I realised it might prove more valuable than I had thought. Today I went there to buy some milk, and returned also with bread, eggs, matches… And on the shelf behind the admittedly extremely rude man running the place – he virtually flung packets of whatever at his customers – there was tea (the same brand we knew we liked), tins of vegetables (virtually unobtainable in Lulus hypermarket), and far more.
There was also the opportunity for an interesting encounter. I knew from experience that someone would attempt to push past me at the counter (this was not a shop that one entered), and I was prepared. When the elderly Sikh man also came to the counter and tried to buy something, I reached across. “No!” I said firmly, indicating he should wait his turn behind me. I anticipated some resistance, but he was all apologies, and happened to speak very good English. He was 66, he told me, which I was easily able to trump. And when I told him I was teaching at CMS, he (like so many others I have met) was able to tell me of his personal involvement with the Gandhi family. (That’s my Gandhis, not the Mahatma’s, nor the Indira’s.) So I got to have a short, but most pleasant, conversation.
On my walk home, I passed one of the stalls offering tailoring and ironing, and stopped to check whether they might be able to take up the hem of the trousers I was wearing. I did not receive the unequivocal yes I had hoped for, but the usual Indian rock of the head, which means anything they want it to mean, but was clearly not negative. So I hurried home, changed into shorts, and took the trousers back to them. Using the ancient iron, the lady pressed the bottom of each leg, and turned it up the desired amount. “One day,” I told her, and hoped we both understood. If it works, a service Lulus cannot provide. Time will tell.
And all this just a stone’s throw away.
