MALL CULTURE

Are you ok? About time you picked up! We could see you half dead in a ditch somewhere! Mom’s voice fills up the room through my cell phone and I'd like to capture it in a jar and store it next to my pillow. I pretend to be insulted. Oh mother! I yell back. She can’t see my smile, but she knows it’s there. I completely ignore her concern and move on to whatever else I can think of. I tell her about the mini bananas sold on the street that are as sweet as candy. They don’t taste like that in any supermarket back home. What I’m really craving though is apples; that's a fruit I haven't seen sold on the streets.

I let mom know that my Delhi colleagues take turn to check my wrist for fever and report back my status to anyone around as if they were all in medical school. I tell her that the Director brought me a big pink ribbon bouquet of feel-better flowers. I reveal that the CEO is taking me to her daughter's guarded residential area just outside of Delhi, and we'll go to the best chicken restaurant in town. I'll get to meet her granddaughter too. And if that wasn't enough, I'm invited to the CEO's house later this week for lunch to meet the rest of her family. Before we hang up I strategically finish by saying that I, the daughter to this shopaholic of a woman, is going to India’s biggest shopping complex on the next day off. I will have a driver for the day. She’s relieved for now. Anything related to shopping always makes her feel a bit better. Then we kiss goodbyes.

Vikram is my driver for the day. He is dressed in starched blue pants and matching shirt. The car model is a white Maruti Suzuki with tinted windows. He’s a Christian; I see the cross made out of blue plastic pearls hanging from the rear view mirror. No Madame. Not in backseat. I release the safety belt. Vikram locks his seat belt in the front. Police, he says and refers to the front seat only rule, as if the purpose of seat belts was some unnecessary car accessory the police forced drivers to wear in lack of something else to monitor. I check the backseat and realize that although there is a seat belt here, there is no locking device. I never got that rule. If we make a full frontal, I’m the only flying out the window—all the way from the seat behind Vikram. I decide to sit back and relax. I don’t think this is the right time and place to discuss this.

Vikram adjusts the radio frequency (all the way downtown to the mall - a 45 minutes drive) by bending the antenna between two fingers, as if he's playing a musical instrument. South Delhi is less condense. The wealthiest people live here. The neighborhoods are ornamented with beautiful flowers and tall trees. Gates surround mansions and endless gardens. Guards stroll up and down sidewalks. Most signs are in English here. Luxury cars shine bright in the sun and cast patterns of light on my face.

The security guard electrocutes flies on a stick and kicks them out through the sliding doors. I order a medium vanilla latte, no cream, and rest my chin in my hand. I sit by the window with my back to the shopping mania. It’s raining outside. I watch palm trees getting soaking wet. I have one bag beside me. It’s not a new shirt or a perfume. In the bag is another bag of apples…also a bag of pears… and milk chocolate… with hazelnuts… I’ll enjoy the fruits and the chocolate back at the guest house. Mall culture is the same anywhere. I feel like I’m back in Queens Mall. The same stores. The same food courts. The cinema complex. People here are dressed in designer jeans and high heels. Kids scream for more donuts. Teenage girls come out of the bathroom with makeup. Men in turbans laugh on their cells, leaving behind scents of Oscar de la Renta. I see henna-colored hands tightly gripping Prada bags with manicure nails. Couples hold hands and eat from the same plate of Nachos Deluxe.

Most of the day I walk up and down India’s first ranked shopping experience (third year in a row) without any care for any of the stores. Mango... Guess... Aldo... Nikey... Now I’m sitting here, close to the pouring rain, enjoying a latte to get away from it all. Mall culture… Is this progress? I look at my phone. Vikram is waiting in the underground parking lot. Vikram? Yes, I’m ready to go back now. As we exit the gates a boy in dirty shorts and naked chest is walking down the street, mid traffic, not any taller than car tires. He looks at the world as if it is empty.