Mother's Day Out

It was that dreaded time of the month again.

Looking back now, its impossible to believe that it had come so soon. Hadn’t the last time been so recent? It’s memory still fresh, having left an indelible scar on my rather fragile and impressionable mind. The gods were not looking down upon me kindly.

It was time to go shopping with my mother.

Fear is defined as panic or distress caused due to lack of knowledge of impending harmful occurrences. However, my fear of shopping with my mother stems from the fact that I have precise understanding as to what shall occur on the outing but am still helpless from redeeming myself from the unfolding of a sad chain of events.

My mother takes great pride in her Red Maruti Alto. And she should, it’s a beautiful car and with her at the wheel, the picture is near perfect. But my forlorn figure in the passenger seat cuts a rather sorry figure.

The drive to the market is only the beginning of an absolutely delightful day. Since, the car lacks proper pull, the air conditioning must be turned off every time my mother has any trouble in negotiating a steep road. Any delay on my part in this enterprise, earns me a few of my mother’s choicest insults on my rather laidback attitude as if I were personally responsible for the gears not functioning optimally. The windows are promptly rolled down and the Sun is invited in to take hold of new victims.

Ah, sweet summer sweat.

Parking the car in the mall is another experience in itself. A great deal of time is taken to find the “perfect” spot, even though the car shall stay there for only a maximum of a few hours. Then begins the war with the walls and the other cars to slide our car into the allotted space. The tune of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” is played repeatedly as my mom reverses the car. Finally, we manage to suavely slide into the parking space. My jubilant mother thanks the attendant vigorously for his support during the exercise leaving him rather perplexed and bemused.

The never-ending aisles of food and drink only mange to provide my dear mother with more options than required, requiring my expert assistance on which choice must be made.

“Should I buy Mr. Clean or Easy- off Bang?”

The names sounded as if they were characters or superpowers from a superhero movie. Since when did naming detergents become such a thought-out exercise? Any lack of enthusiasm on my part obviously meant that I was not being supportive enough and was making my mother take all the tough decisions of the house. My mother would further go on to tell me how I was conceived and how I had pained her for nine months and how disappointed she was that I had turned out this way.

Shopping done, it was time to stand in line and wait at the billing counter. But my clever and enterprising mother could not bear being made to wait. Customers ahead of us were told at which counters they could expect to be taken care of quicker and were strategically removed.

Count Dracula would be smiling in his grave.

As the bill is handed over, the clerk informs us that there is an extra charge of Rs. 4 for plastic bags. My mother just snorts. The scene is akin to the climax of a movie where the villain explains the whole enterprise to the protagonist and the hero smiles, having known about his game all along.

My mom removes cloth bags industrially concealed in her handbag and asks the clerk to pack the items in these instead. The clerk has obviously never dealt with my mother before.

The man just looked at us as if she had asked him for his kidney instead.

But a few years from now, when I shall be shopping alone in a foreign country unable to comprehend the stickers on the products, I shall miss the reassuring presence of my mother who has guided me through life despite her vast idiosyncrasies. It is this knowledge that inexplicably draws me to spending time with her…..even on her shopping trips!