Dystopian shopping heaven

Aradhika  Sharma

My friend, Pinky (yes, I do have a friend with that name), who now lives in Australia and who studied in Chandigarh about three decades ago, was, along with her daughter, Seher, planning a visit to the City Beautiful. In her long, animated emails, she expressed the wish to revisit her old haunts — Sector 17 and Sector 22 — reminiscing, with fondness and delight, about her shopping sprees there.

The very next day of her arrival, she prepared a visitation to her old hunting grounds. “I can’t wait to show Seher my best loved shopping places in the world!” she exclaimed. “You know Seher, Sector 22 was a great place for cheap rip-offs. We would purchase all our à la mode wardrobe from there, but we’d pretend that we’d bought them from the expensive and upmarket Sector 17. We would dress up trendily whenever we went there in case we ran into a snooty girl from college, or a ‘hep’ boy that we liked.” 

“Kewl!” drawled her daughter. “Can’t wait, mom!”

“Well, things do tend to change,” I demurred, not wishing to burst their rosy bubble. “The gilt has a nasty way of wearing off the golden childhood memories, you know.”

“You’ve been corrupted by the mall culture, dear. That’s why you don’t appreciate the old-world, elegant charm of strolling in the plaza. You should learn to value your traditions, not trash them,” Pinky volunteered her uncalled for advice. “Le Corbusier designed such an elegant space for you people. You should learn to appreciate it.”

Thus judged, I decided to sit back and allow her rose-tinted spectacles to be ripped off by reality.

Shortly thereafter, we headed to Sector 17. I had barely parked when Pinky jumped out and looked around eagerly, trying to catch a glimpse of the shopping paradise of her halcyon days.

“Listen, haven’t we come to the wrong place? This can’t be Sector 17,” she cried in dismay, staring at the legions of street vendors proudly hawking their motely wares.

“Oh yes, here’s your old-world, elegant charm in all its glory,” I responded.

“This is Sector 17, Mom? But where are the shops?” Seher finally stepped out from the car. “They’re still here.” I said “You just have to wade through the street merchandise to reach them. Let’s walk around and try and recapture your old memories, Pinky.”

Gingerly, we stepped around mounds of belts, foul-smelling rubber chappals, cheap purses, jeans, and even heaps of fruit and almonds. 

“What’s that man selling out of the steel pot there?” Asked Seher pointing to a populated spot. “Ah! The ubiquitous momos and soup-wallah! Next to him is the chaat and golgappe-wallah rubbing shoulders with noodle-manchurian-wallah. Want to have some?” 

She shuddered: “No thanks!”

Pinky looked dazed: “How could they ruin the heritage of the city? They don’t deserve a legacy like this.”

Brutally practical, as the young are, Seher asked impatiently: “Mom, can we just go to the mall?”

Pinky looked around one last time and then slowly said: “Yes, I think we’d better!”