INDImag – Contemporary fiction | Motivational short stories | Social stories | Short story criticism

I was sitting in my bedroom, reading a book when I heard a blood curdling scream, followed by wails of anguish.

I rushed toward the source of the scream and then stopped short. Instead of confronting the gruesome and bloody scene I had envisioned, I found my sister standing beside a foot-high pile of clothes on her bed holding a revolting frilly lavender coloured top in her hands.

I made a quick check. Everything was in place, cupboards safely closed, books neatly arranged, and my sister unmolested. Yes, everything, according to me at least, was just fine.

“What happened?” I asked anxiously, for I really couldn’t fathom why she had screamed.

It’s torn!” my sister, Gayu, howled, Holding up the blouse and looking at it distastefully. “And I haven’t even worn it yet!”

My brother Sunil came bounding into the room, and having overheard Gayu said laconically, “It was probably torn when you picked it up in the shop, you just didn’t look at it properly, and then added somewhat maliciously, “Or you tore it as you unpacked it.”

“No I didn’t!” Gayu said shrilly, looking at him contemptuously. “It is made of such terrible material that it just falls apart; and to think I paid two months’ allowance for…for this,” she said holding up the offending garment.

I fingered the material and said, “Yes, although, I object to the style rather than the material.”

“Can you even breathe with all those frills?” Sunil sniggered, earning a dirtier look from my sister than I’d got.

“This,” my sister informed us acidly, “happens to be the latest fashion. This was made in India , that’s why it’s so awful. If it was one of those imported pieces it would be so much better.”

“I doubt it,” said Sunil, glaring at the top with undisguised revulsion. “And don’t belittle Indian clothes. If not anything else, at least speak respectfully of your own country’s products.”

“When my own country makes things as awful as this, I think belittling it is perfectly okay,” Gayu said haughtily.

“Well, I suppose I shall have to buy a new blouse now,” she went on petulantly, “and maybe I can convince mum and dad to pay for it this time.” With that Gayu flounced out of the room, blouse in hand.

Suddenly she stopped and turned to look at me. I stood perfectly still, knowing what was coming. My sister could be extremely intimidating sometimes.

“Raji, you will come shopping with me,” she said imperiously, “it will be a learning experience for you.”

I looked at her with horror on my face. Shopping, with Gayu! It would be learning experience certainly, a learning experience in temper tantrums.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” she said. “Get dressed and we’ll leave shortly.”

With that, she went downstairs, to terrorize mum and dad until they gave her what she wanted.

“Shopping with Gayu!!!” I whispered in a strangled voice, looking down at my old, comfortable T-shirt and worn jeans.

“Oh, you’ll survive.” Sunil said, patting me good-naturedly on the shoulder. “It can’t be all that bad.”

“Its all right for you,” I moaned, “you won’t be going shopping with her.”

He shrugged, gave me a cheerful grin, and retreated from the room.

“So much for brotherly affection and support,” I thought wretchedly.

* * * * * * *
Six hours, twelve shops and a dozen tantrums later, Gayu finally found what in her opinion the perfect top was. We were in one of those fancy international boutiques in the mall, and Gayu had at last found a blouse identical to the one that had been torn that morning.

She held up the lavender monstrosity and squealed with delight, attracting several startled glances our way from other customers. Embarrassed I shrank behind the numerous shopping bags I was holding.

“This is exactly the same style!” she told me excitedly. “And the material is definitely superior. Of course, it has to be, it’s imported!” she said smugly

“Pack this please” she told the store assistant haughtily and went on to the next rack of clothes, leaving me to collect, and pay, for her expensive and completely disgusting blouse. The store assistant packed it carefully, treating it as though it was a priceless diamond and not a blouse.

After she had wrapped it to her satisfaction, she slipped it into a box and handed me a voucher.

“What’s this for?” I asked, holding up the small pink booklet.

“It’s the washing and maintenance instructions of course,” the assistant replied, her nose in the air as she looked down at me contemptuously.

“Oh!” I said as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. After receiving the oh-so-precious parcel, I went to look for Gayu, and finding her, with difficulty I dragged her away from another horrible piece of violent pink clothing and out of the store.

* * * * * * * *
Arriving home Gayu was ecstatic with her purchases and the chance of showing them off. She dragged my unwilling parents and an extremely indignant Sunil to the dining table and started displaying her purchases. When she got to the top, she was practically bouncing up and down like a kangaroo, she was so excited.

“And this” she announced, holding up the top, “is the best purchase I’ve made today. Yes, it was a bit expensive, but it is imported and will last me a long, long while.”

While my parents examined the top dubiously, Sunil and I read the voucher.

Suddenly, we both stopped, and turned to look at each other. We were both struggling not to burst into laughter.

“Gayu, you should take a look at this.” Sunil sniggered, waving the voucher in her face. I tried to take it away from him, but he easily held me at bay.

Gayu, unaware of what was in store for her, cheerfully took the little booklet and began to read it. I watched, fascinated, still trying not to laugh.

Gayu’s eyes widened, her face stiffened, she dropped the voucher, and stood there as if paralyzed.

My mother, puzzled, picked up the voucher and read it, trying to find out what had affected her daughter so dramatically.

There she saw, in small, black script, these instructions. “Please hand wash, to prevent loss of color. Also, only sun dry, for the material is very delicate. This top is made of pure cotton;” and then came the three words, “Made in India .”

We all burst into laughter as a mortified Gayu stormed out of the room.

Guest Post by Rajalakshmi Umapathy. Raji, say : “I’m here to write and let everybody knows I’m still living and I live life my way.”. She blogs at : http://attitudethatneverfails.blogspot.com

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