I am not a shopper. I suppose I am too impatient to be one. I buy on an impulse and like to believe that most of the time I don't have to regret my choices. But weddings don't happen on an impulse and the shopping needs necessarily to be planned...and well ahead of time at that. This will be the one instance when I cannot pass off a fashion disaster with a toss of a head, claiming preference for the off-beat. My sari on the wedding day must be suitably opulent but not gaudy, elegantly subtle but not plain. Needless to say that long hours would be spent debating, arguing and sulking before a choice is finally made.
Fortunately, some decisions are easy. It would have to be a traditional kancheevaram sari at least on the D-day. The regal weave from the small town of Kancheevaram has always been the preferred choice of all brides from my home. The georgettes and chiffons make a dignified exit when it is time for us to be brides.
So, off we went, packed away with snacks and the compulsory flask of water that would sustain us through the two-hour drive from Chennai to Kancheevaram. I had dressed appropriately - a crisp blue salwar kameez with a lovely pair of white sandals. The sari connoisseurs at home have always advised me to be well dressed to a sari store. The service is (perceived to be?) better and the keen store assistants are likely to gauge your preferences more easily if your clothes highlight your tastes. Clearly they were referring to the Nallis, Pothys and Sundaris in singara Chennai which are happy to indulge these women with air conditioned rooms, cushioned seats, polite customer service and the welcome cup of filter coffee after the purchase - all resonant of the emerging (and rather delightful) urban phenomenon called retail stores.
A.S. Babu Sah, where we spent the day looking at over 300 saris turned out to be different. Very different. The store had a blue cloth to cover the entrance, much like the kirana stores we see in every corner of any Indian city. You leave your footwear at the door amidst a mound of shoes, while sending up a prayer that you will find both your shoes at the end of the expedition. Then you walk into a narrow corridor that opens into a massive room that looks much like Ranganathan street. When your eyes adjust to the scene, you realise that people are sitting in little circles and peeking over dozens of saris that are showcased by the store assistant who sits at the head of each circle.
Four hours later we decide to call it a day. The shopping list is still incomplete. But we are tired and our store assistant, by this time informal with us, is starting to show signs of fatigue. I leave my father and sister to attend to the bills and take charge of locating four pairs of shoes. I manage to retrieve all four pairs from under a massive pile. I feel gleeful relief that I will not have to walk barefoot to the car!
It's been a long but successful day. My sari looks stunning and meets approval by my team of shoppers. Questions and thoughts that run in my mind as we drive back:
1. No shopper seems to leave the place empty handed. The store assistants' skills are worth a study.
2. Why are store assistants in sari shops traditionally men? Saris often need to be semi-draped before they are bought and in a society where touching the opposite sex is taboo, it seems rather strange that women assistants have not replaced the men in large numbers.
3. What prompted a Gujarati business man to travel all the way down south to Kancheevaram to set up a sari shop? I understand its roaring business, but why not set up shop closer home?
4. Which leads me to the next question...what would be the average turn-over per day at A.S. Babu Sah?
Fortunately, some decisions are easy. It would have to be a traditional kancheevaram sari at least on the D-day. The regal weave from the small town of Kancheevaram has always been the preferred choice of all brides from my home. The georgettes and chiffons make a dignified exit when it is time for us to be brides.
So, off we went, packed away with snacks and the compulsory flask of water that would sustain us through the two-hour drive from Chennai to Kancheevaram. I had dressed appropriately - a crisp blue salwar kameez with a lovely pair of white sandals. The sari connoisseurs at home have always advised me to be well dressed to a sari store. The service is (perceived to be?) better and the keen store assistants are likely to gauge your preferences more easily if your clothes highlight your tastes. Clearly they were referring to the Nallis, Pothys and Sundaris in singara Chennai which are happy to indulge these women with air conditioned rooms, cushioned seats, polite customer service and the welcome cup of filter coffee after the purchase - all resonant of the emerging (and rather delightful) urban phenomenon called retail stores.
A.S. Babu Sah, where we spent the day looking at over 300 saris turned out to be different. Very different. The store had a blue cloth to cover the entrance, much like the kirana stores we see in every corner of any Indian city. You leave your footwear at the door amidst a mound of shoes, while sending up a prayer that you will find both your shoes at the end of the expedition. Then you walk into a narrow corridor that opens into a massive room that looks much like Ranganathan street. When your eyes adjust to the scene, you realise that people are sitting in little circles and peeking over dozens of saris that are showcased by the store assistant who sits at the head of each circle.
A.S. Babu Sah Store: Trust me the photograph makes it look nicer!
We squeeze past the crowds and manage to find one store assistant who is wrapping up the purchases in his circle. As the group leaves we try and get comfortable in a little circle while the store assistant attends to the bills of his earlier customers. The woman in the adjacent circle gives me an unpleasant look when I request her to move a little. I contain the impulse to exchange sharp words. At that moment, we are but potted plants fighting for space. The store assistant finally makes it back and then proceeds to give us his undivided attention. He is quick to know that we are shopping in bulk – saris not just for the bride but for the family and relatives and relatives of relatives. Stacks after stacks of saris arrive carried in by another assistant. I am fascinated by how efficiently each sari makes its way around the store until she finds a buyer at a circle. We envy the saris that our neighbors managed to bag before we did, inevitably wondering if they got the better store assistant. But the tables turn a few hours later, when we have selected a good number of saris and the circle next to ours is just starting out.
Four hours later we decide to call it a day. The shopping list is still incomplete. But we are tired and our store assistant, by this time informal with us, is starting to show signs of fatigue. I leave my father and sister to attend to the bills and take charge of locating four pairs of shoes. I manage to retrieve all four pairs from under a massive pile. I feel gleeful relief that I will not have to walk barefoot to the car!
It's been a long but successful day. My sari looks stunning and meets approval by my team of shoppers. Questions and thoughts that run in my mind as we drive back:
1. No shopper seems to leave the place empty handed. The store assistants' skills are worth a study.
2. Why are store assistants in sari shops traditionally men? Saris often need to be semi-draped before they are bought and in a society where touching the opposite sex is taboo, it seems rather strange that women assistants have not replaced the men in large numbers.
3. What prompted a Gujarati business man to travel all the way down south to Kancheevaram to set up a sari shop? I understand its roaring business, but why not set up shop closer home?
4. Which leads me to the next question...what would be the average turn-over per day at A.S. Babu Sah?
1. Indeed
ReplyDelete2. Guess men can do justice to the job with a sense of dispassion. ( Have not come across a woman whos does not check out another women's saree)
3. too much competition closer home, maybe ?
4. Average may tend to mislead. Peak versus off peak may be very different.
Thanks Pavan :) Your final point is nuanced in a way that only a Chartered Accountant can see things...stop showing off ;)
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