Trying times at a trial room

Trying times at a trial room

If you are born in a country of one billion, you learn to wait for your turn for every little thing. So, waiting for my turn to use trial room was not unusual. We are born to wait. We learn to wait. We are forced to wait. We are conditioned to wait. But, this waiting was taking away all my training and patience that has gone into preparing me to be a denizen, perpetually in waiting. This was exceptional, for, it gave me a new insight into changing paradigms of relationships in a market economy, where everyone is trying to get the best out of a deal. Even from a no deal. Everybody is consuming at the cost of others, at whatever price.

Ms Saaru was in the trial room and her boy friend was selecting outfits for her. She already carried about half a dozen of these in the trial room. Every time Ms Saaru tried a new outfit, she would open the door and her boy friend would click her picture on his cell phone. This went on. After she had exhausted those outfits, her boyfriend selected a few more randomly, jumping around like a happy monkey with such electrifying swiftness that would put any smart salesperson to shame. Again, pictures were clicked and Ms Sarru’s boy friend again returned with his happily hunted apparels. Ms Saaru and her boy friend had the democratic right to select as many outfits as they pleased. I had to wait with my middle class patience that was going through testing times. I began to feel that the happy hunting boy friend sensed my unease and simmering yet unexpressed anger and picked more shirts and kurtis for her to model for his cheap cell phone camera.
If he had the democratic right to make me simmer, I wonder, why couldn’t I have the right to give him a hard slap for violating his rights as a shopper. A trial room is not meant for clicking pictures. I’m sure the lover boy knew this, but, in times when no one respects anything, shamelessness becomes a virtue. I took it because we are used to taking so much nonsense in our day to day life, that, we can swallow anything.

My rescue came from Ms Saaru. Her boyfriend brought one more shipment of clothes, but she refused to change into those. “ I am tired, …you !” Growled a tiny barely four feet ten inches petite Ms Saaru as she emerged in her old jeans and top. I gave a sadistic smile to the cell phone wielding lover boy. After all, how many changes one need to like oneself in a mirror.
He didn’t buy a single outfit she had tried, trying my patience.

Flickr/Untitled/ Annie Wants…the photographer too clicks her own pictures in expensive outfits, she cannot afford to buy, on a camera phone in the privacy of trial room!