A year later, or perhaps a little more, the first taste of a bonus sweetened my financial palate—more than a month’s salary! During the ensuing Diwali, my mother graciously and unexpectedly gave me permission to buy two or three sets of clothes for myself. This was quite surprising because she always tried to distribute everything evenly among us. Here, I received a little extra share, especially About since my elder brother wasn’t around to compete!

My parents, who usually made the ultimate decision on what I could wear, suddenly found themselves granting me the freedom to buy my own clothes for the first time. But how would I go about doing that? I had never shopped for clothes or anything else for myself except the occasional medicines.

I asked a colleague to accompany me, though, unfortunately, he had even less interest in clothes than I did. But I had no one else to take. In Madras at the time, there were two popular places for shopping: Mount Road and Parry’s Corner. So off we went, clueless about where to look or how to shop for stylish clothes—or even what materials were available. We managed to buy something and were relieved to find that they were pant and shirt materials, not fabric for frocks or skirts! My colleague took me to a tailor in the area; after all, he was familiar with the locality and had heard of this tailor.

One of the shirting materials I picked was pure nylon, which, with the slightest spark, could ignite. But nylon was in fashion then, and this particular shirt was light pink—oh God! It was so light that it would balloon and move in the breeze or under a fan, a necessity in the sweltering heat of Chennai.

After that brief glimpse of freedom, my clothing choices returned to the old routine. On rare occasions, after much deliberation, my parents would decide when it was time for new clothes, and they would take on that responsibility. To be fair, I wasn’t too keen on shopping for clothes that wouldn’t fit me well anyway. Why go through the hassle? As long as I had something to wear, I was fine. It was no big deal—I was not like my elder brother.

However, the joy of the bonus didn’t last; it was soon replaced by a much smaller ex-gratia payment, far less than the bonus we had received earlier. No more extra funds for me to spend on my own.

This pattern continued until my marriage. The wedding itself deserves its own separate story. My elder brother came back to India for the first time since he had left, and he arrived even more stylishly dressed—with American-themed shirts, a distinct hairstyle, a confident gait, and even a hint of an accent. I felt even more belittled, but it didn’t bother me much. I had always been thick-skinned.

Given some partial freedom to shop for the wedding, I ventured out—but this time with my elder brother. So, the choices were very different. Instead of my parents, it was my brother who decided what I would buy, including the infamous wedding suit. A suit for a wedding in Chennai? That’s a story for another day.

He took me to a tailor reputed to stitch clothes for the erstwhile Maharajas of Southern India. I wore that suit only once, during the reception. It was nice, though when I tried it on a few years later—when did I ever need to wear it again? —I found that I had either outgrown it or it had shrunk.

And then came the experience of shopping after the wedding with my brand-new wife…

Continued in 87. Shopping and Hopping - Part 4