Just before the wedding, having been promoted to an “officer’s” category with a slightly thicker wallet and my brother having been in the USA for over five years, the elusive savings still eluded us. However, we could now spend a little more freely—not extravagantly, but enough to buy an extra outfit here and there. Shopping slowly became a more fun-filled adventure. My mother was still the one managing the family finances, and her habit of evenly distributing funds among everyone continued. There were no separate shopping trips for individuals, and even my parents rarely splurged on clothes for themselves. Almost every time, we would go shopping together as a family, primarily for Diwali, one of the most celebrated festivals, or for birthdays and wedding anniversaries.

Parry’s Corner had lost some of its charm for my parents, and Mount Road became our new shopping destination. We frequented shops like Bombay Dyeing—still thriving, don’t worry—Mafatlal, Calico, and others. Mount Road was also home to one of the oldest textile shops, “India Silk House,” which we rarely visited because it seemed expensive to us. My brother, however, liked shopping there during his visits.

The entire family would head out in the afternoon, post-lunch, and hop from shop to shop, searching for items that caught each person’s eye. Did we visit ten shops or fifteen? I’ve lost count. Personally, I wasn’t fond of this unending parade, but I had to endure it. My choices were usually made by my mother or my wife since I’m partially color-blind. I simply accepted whatever they said looked good, eager to end my part of the shopping. Once done, I would sit back, relax, and even doze off while the rest of the family continued their hunt, sifting through thousands of clothes and sarees just to pick one for each. By nighttime, we would wrap up with a dinner at an Udipi restaurant—those deserve a write-up of their own.

When my elder of the younger sisters got married, our family shopping group shrank, making these outings a bit quieter, if they could still be called sprees.

Ready-made clothes were a rarity back then, and the men often had to find a tailor. No tailor ever seemed to meet anyone’s expectations, mine included. But since I never emphasized perfect fits or style, tailors didn’t matter much to me.

Similar efforts went into shopping for crackers, though my father usually took charge of that task, enjoying the act of bursting crackers more than anyone else.

After my younger sister also got married, I was transferred to Central India. Just before leaving, I indulged in a small luxury: I bought a couple of ready-made shirts, which required a special trip to Mylapore.

And after that, did I ever shop for myself again?

Continued in 88. Shopping Hopping - Part 5