The first time I wore spectacles was an eerie, unsettling experience. Going from low vision to near-normal vision was a challenge; my brain had to adapt to this new way of seeing the world. When I looked down, the floor appeared like a series of "valleys and mountains," full of ups and downs, and I cried out in fear. The optician and my parents reassured me that my vision would adjust in a few days, and it did. Suddenly, I could see a new world with sharper colors, clearer faces, and the writing on blackboards and in books. So, my first real shopping memory is a mixed one, but it ended on a positive note.

I remember another occasion when we were taken to a shop near Gol Market, where we bought copies of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and Ripley’s Believe It or Not, along with some clothes. In Delhi, shopping usually meant a trip to Connaught Place—by no means close by, it was more of an outing than a simple shopping trip. Another distinct memory is visiting a tailor approved by the school to have uniforms stitched. For regular clothes, I have no recollection at all, even after trying my best to remember. It’s clear that my parents handled clothing purchases for us—there were no choices for kids back then, and we wore whatever was given to us.

It might sound funny now, but clothing purchases were essentially an annual event. School uniforms were bought once a year. New clothes for birthdays? Annually, once. And for Diwali? Yes, once a year. That was it. Even my elder and younger sisters had only a few dresses. The youngest sister was just a baby before we left Delhi.

I should mention my sartorial inclinations and preferences—or rather, the lack of them. I had none. My elder brother, on the other hand, was always neatly dressed, with his shirt properly tucked in and his belt perfectly positioned. He had a keen eye for dressing well. As for me, my shirts were often poorly tucked, loose in some places and tight in others, with my belt at an odd angle and the buckle rarely centered. Old photographs confirm this. My elder brother took after my father, who was always impeccably dressed, even in old age. His pants and shirts were neatly ironed, and his dhotis were always spotlessly white and crisp.

It’s curious how my elder brother and I, raised in the same household with the same father and a mother who made sure we had clean clothes, turned out so differently in our dressing habits. To this day, I remain somewhat the same, though perhaps I’ve improved a bit due to external influences. I might explore this in more detail later.

Continued in 85B. Shopping Hopping - Part 2