A Nail biting Saga

There have been a lot of arguments about whether or not organised retail in India would be a positive development. There's been a lot of vociferous argument about whether or not the retail market should be opened up to foreign direct investment, which would make it easy for the WalMarts of this world to set up shop here and sweep away the market. The Left has argued that this would be detrimental to the small shops and would upset the delicate balance of the retail market in India.

But I believe I have the best argument against FDI in retail in India yet.
Actually it's more of a story. It begins like this:

I woke up one morning and decided I needed a nailcutter. Because:



AND i was meeting this girl in the afternoon for the first time, and didn't want to go with toenails poking out of my sneakers.
And my mum has pushed off to US keeping all the nailcutters in the house in her desk and locking it up.
So I (rather unfairly) snapped at my Dad after which he told me irritably that I would get a nailcutter in 'any store'. I believed him.

So I go to Trinethra (was wondering whether I should mention names, but what the hell. They deserve it.) I ask for a nail cutter. The lady there listened carefully and then disappeared into the recesses of the store. And she came out with a tub of curd and planted it triumphantly on the counter.
Now this may sound loony but there is some degree of method in her madness. Just a few days back I had gone there and asked for a litre of curd (some party at home) and this lady had sent about twenty 15 ml boxes of curd, which a) wasn't enough, and b) was a pain in the ass to deal with. At the time I had given her hell about it, and now everytime I go there this lady will probably take out the curd.
Trinethra btw NEVER have anything. Basic things like bread, etc. which any other store would have.

And then I get back on my bike and drive through the streets, wondering where the hell I would get a nailcutter. I mean, where do you even begin?? Visions of signs that would say 'Nailcutters available here' danced before my eyes, but this just didn't translate into reality. This is a great city if you want to browse the net, or change dollars into rupees (or vice versa), but - and i hesitate to say it - the needs of prospective nail-cutter customers are just not addressed.

So then I reasoned that Lifestyle's Home Centre ought to do it. I mean, nailcutters do vaguely have something to do with the home don't they?

As a journalist, I have been put in many embarassing situations, where one has to put one's pride aside and confront the person concerned (doing the party page is a case in point - all these hep society babes looking at you with sneers on their faces as you put on a plastic smile and ask them if u can have picture).
But despite this rigorous training, on the threshhold of Lifestyle, I admit freely that I was intimidated. I mean how do you go to a store with the most opulent furniture, embroidered quilts and designer wall hangings - or whatever the hell else they sell at these stores - and ask for a nailcutter? I realised the thing was impossible.
And then on the road once again, and I spot this huge sign which says 'Saga Departmental Store'.

Now what would you think if you saw a sign like that? Maybe you're more clued in than I am, but my immediate association was with 'Kalyani Departmental Stores' which me and my cousins Vidyut and Nikhil used to frequent as kids, the type of store with huge gunny sacks filled with arisi and paruppu, where we used to drink Pepsi and 7up, collect Fido Dido stickers and run up tabs that would give our fathers blood pressure.
I park outside the store, after negotiating with the security personnel (reads yell back twice as loudly as they do, cos otherwise they'll make you park somewhere inside, where it would be physically impossible to take your vehicle out after you're done). I mean, what the FUCK is with these watchmen? They make life miserable for anyone who just wants to peacefully park his or her car or bike.
Anyways, I walked into this store, and about seven people descended upon me and asked me how they could help me. Maybe two of them were officially supposed to help customers, while the other five looked like the owners - they had the look of the typical North Indian businessmen - fair, well-dressed, with that slight inflexion of a Northie accent in their English. One of these owners - the head owner no doubt - came right up to me and said in a shocked accent 'Kumar, help this customer immediately! What is this nonsense?' Poor Kumar was anyway only two feet away from me and had already bawled 'How can I help you, saaar' into my ear. In accordance to this instruction from the boss, he shuffled two inches closer to me and yelled 'How can I help you, SAAAAR?' a little louder.
I was perplexed, and I took stock of my surroundings. The place was insane! There were tons of what I imagine to be salwar material - metres and metres of cloth of all colours, some statues of extremely buxom women (what is the DEAl with those? People seem obsessed with topless designer statues - anyway i'll save that for another post) that were obviously meant to be decorative, and some mannikins with some extremely chintzy designer costumes on them. I began to say "I need a n..." thought the better of it, stammered something about having come to the wrong place. The owner said between clenched teeth, "That's alright, sir" in the same tone that you or I would say, "Sod off, you piece of shit."

Despairing, I got on my bike again. And on the way to office, on the road just before Sathyam Theatre, I fancied I saw a ray of light shine upon one store and one store alone.




I went up and up and asked for a nailcutter, and after a few false alarms ("nailtuk a? enna nailtuk?") the owner of the store looked up from his accounts and gave me a very reassuring nod. And for the price of Rs 23, I achieved bliss. God bless P.K.A. stores, and may many more shops of this kind flourish for the good of humanity!