What a shopping experience last night!

Rugmini is intent on finding me a saree to wear to school on my last day at Kendriya Vidyalya Kanjikode- her school. So we headed to the textile store in the heart of the old town. Ready-made clothing is this place’s specialty.

First, the conveyance: auto rickshaw. These are essentially nothing more than covered scooters equipped with a back seat that holds three Indians comfortably or two Indians and an American tightly. Add packages, and it’s a very comfy arrangement.

But it’s the ride that is the best- or worst- part. Not designed for the faint of heart, this little bug beats walking in the heat but is a full-fledged nuisance. Pedestrians beware! These little critters are everywhere, beeping their sneaky little presence and weaving in and out among walkers, buses and the small autos that compete for every square inch of road. I have figured out that drivers use the left side of the road, but that is the only law I can discern.

We arrived at the store, an upscale kind of place with custom order fabrics on the main level, so we immediately headed to the elevator. Upstairs, one look at me, and the size 0 clerks politely pointed to the next floor up, and then down, as each salesgirl considered what size I might possibly take. Finally, I put an end to their mystification and began to select garments for my students to wear at the Asian Fair. We chose several cotton tops on level three and then took the elevator down to the second floor to choose the pants to coordinate. Eleven-year-old Shweta says the tight leggings are the coolest, so we asked about those, but this store does not handle them. Now, we were off to find a saree.

Rugmini told me when I first arrived that she owned more than 200 sarees, so I should not have been surprised, I suppose, to find every color imaginable, and all with seemingly different prints. Eager to make the sale, two young salesclerks began pulling out color after color of synthetic fabric. How to decide? I knew that I wanted a color that I would enjoy wearing, so that put the rusts and greens easily out of competition. Between Rugmini’s groans and Shweta’s turned up nose, I could tell which ones were not even to be considered. Fuddy duddy-ish must be a universal trait: I agreed with their estimation at first glance, too. Anyway, the dark blues and reds were more my inclination, so we found a lovely print with subtle sequin embellishment and decided on it. It was synthetic, but I brushed that concern aside, reasoning that style is much more important that practicality. Besides, I won’t have to iron a synthetic one, as I would one made of cotton. Dozens of sarees lay scattered across the racks and counters, evidence of my finicky nature and the salesgirls’ eagerness to please.

Then what to do about the blouse. Saree fabric comes with about an extra ¾ yard unprinted to use to make the blouse that goes underneath. You know, the one that is very tight-fitting and shows the belly, the one I would just as soon never be caught dead in.

Well, I know a universal expression of doubt when I see one, and I saw several on the faces of the girls in the shop as they all discussed the blouse situation with Rugmini in their mother tongue.

Off again to the main level, where we would select matching fabric for the blouse and an underskirt that would be custom –made by a tailor. At least I had read about this possibility for Americans who want Indian clothing but do not comply with the sizes available. So it wasn’t as if I were the only person so large that a tailor had to be called in, right?

Next, the best news of the entire trip: Tomorrow I would be measured by the tailor for the blouse. We will return to the store, and he, I presume, will begin to make the blouse for me.

At this point, I was ready to give up all dignity, cut my loss of pride, and just accept that the humiliation would continue. There was no way out.

But wait a minute, I thought. With all the embarrassment and self consciousness of the shopping trip and the fun of the measuring yet to come from the tailor, why not just make the most of it? I decided to ask the tailor to make me a salwar-kimeez (pantsuit) as well. Now there’s something I could wear without exposing too much.

Exhausted from the decision making, we were off to have a fashionably late Indian dinner at Shweta’s favorite fried chicken fast food joint… Big Chick.

No kidding.