M was a sweetheart this evening and called up our driver, Jafar (I was like, “Like Aladdin’s Jafar?” and then giggled to myself) to take us to the nearest shopping mall. He knew I was bored and restless from being stuck in the apartment all day and grouchy from being sick.
We walked around some, I browsed tunics and snapped a quick photo only to be stopped by the store salesperson who told me no pictures. I’m usually not an argumentative person, at least with salespeople, but I just kept asking why. It’s my first time in an Indian department store shopping tunics and I wanted to take pictures, damn it! He didn’t have an answer for me, but I was respectful and only kept the one picture that I had taken already.
One thing I noticed was that all the female mannequins were dressed pretty “normal,” as in not very conservative, which is strange to me because I don’t think I’ll find any Indian girl or woman wearing one of the short dresses I saw on the dummy without leggings underneath and something to cover up the revealing top.
Dinner was served food court style. I saw KFC, Subway, McDonald’s, and Baskin Robbins, but of course turned up my nose at dining at any one of those chains. I can get a $5 foot-long back in the States thank you very much. Since I have no idea what any of the entree names meant other than paneer means “cheese,” I just pointed at the Veg section and asked the server which one I should get. Blank stares were exchanged, a lot of “uhmms…”, finally I just picked the Mixed Veg Chettinad.
“Is that a face of sadness or regret? Or both?”
He winced and looked at me sadly as he nodded. I told you so.