By Ratna Manucha
The other day, while holidaying in a popular tourist destination, I came across this quaint little store. Curiosity got the better of me and I wandered in to find myself surrounded by bags – of all shapes and sizes- for men and women, all with different international brand names emblazoned across them.
So, there were Louis Vuitton bags, Gucci, Prada, Dior, Chanel, Burberry, Hermes, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana…whew! The list was endless and mind boggling. Upon glancing at the price tags, I realised they were beautiful and affordable impersonations of the real thing.
For those of you who do want to hop on to the brand wagon, so to speak, but could not afford to, well here’s your chance! One could pick up as many as one wanted, at one twentieth the price! My eyes almost popped out of their sockets when I saw a Gucci bag just like one I had bought almost two years ago. Only difference being, this was a rip-off of the original, but one couldn’t really make out the difference. Those were the days when I wanted to join the ranks of the hundreds of walking–talking ambassadors of these brands.
Listen well while I tell you a story
Of a girl who loved branded bags so.
Her eyes lit up as she basked in their glory
And she wanted more and then some more.
In a store far away from the city
In a morning in May she was awed-
And her bright, starry eyes looked so pretty
That the world looking on smiled and said,
‘Ratna, how she loves her Chanel
And Prada and Gucci too
Ratna, how she loves Burberry
Their checks match her clothes so well!’
Boy…what an exercise it was to buy that elusive bag! After convincing Boss Man for almost two months and promising him that I wouldn’t shop for the next six months (that was all he could wrangle out of me… only I know how hard it was to make that promise) did he finally agree to accompany me to the store for a ‘viewing’ – that’s what they call plain old shopping.
Then began the endless rounds of phone calls for an appointment. No, I wasn’t going to the doctor – this was an appointment for going to the Gucci store. They seemed to be all booked for the next fortnight, and I was told they would call me back as soon as a slot opened. The next couple of days I walked around like a zombie, checking my phone if a call had come or if I had missed one…in fact I carried my phone around everywhere and soon the obvious happened …I dropped it and of course the glass screen had to break, which it did…two big cracks right across the screen…but the phone still worked, and I couldn’t be thinking of replacing the glass right now…no money. It was being saved up for something more important.
Finally, the great day dawned. I got the much-awaited phone call. Needless to say, I picked it up at the – no not first, the second ring, no need to seem too eager you see. Ta da! The date was fixed for the Saturday of the following week. Then began the sleepless nights…scrolling the Gucci site endlessly…to see which bag fit into my budget, which colour was available and so on.
Boss Man, on finding me so preoccupied asked rather solicitously, ‘Where exactly do you think you will carry this bag? You can’t take it to a restaurant, someone might spill something on it and, in any case, you will just place it on an empty chair and who’s looking at it anyway. You can’t obviously take it to work, cause then it will lie inside your locker and who will notice it then? You can’t take it to a party, ‘cause you can’t hold a glass with one hand and a bag in the other …you need one hand free for the hors d’ oeuvres, and what if you accidentally spill your drink on it?’
Heavens! His overthinking was seriously spiraling out of control! I needed to put brakes on it, so I just brushed him aside saying airily, ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I’m finally joining the ranks of the rich and famous, don’t dampen my spirits’, and went off to get dressed for the occasion.
Of course I had to dress fancy. After all we were going to this fancy schmancy stand-alone store ‘by appointment only’. After checking that Boss Man too was suitably attired, off we went.
We were greeted at the door by an officious looking lady dressed in black. She ushered us into the store where we were asked to wait a bit. No worries. Don’t we wait at the doctor’s clinic too? This was far more exciting! Surrounded by bags of all shapes and sizes, my head began to reel. Could life get any more interesting?
Of course it could, as I was soon to discover. Within minutes, another officious looking lady walked in, all smiles, dripping sugar and honey and asked us to follow her into the sanctum sanctorum. ‘This is where the limited-edition bags are placed,’ she said, by way of explanation. I was sold. I was in seventh heaven as I tripped along gaily after her. ‘Her smile is so sweet, I think we can be friends,’ I whispered to Boss Man. ‘She’s not here to make friends, but to ensure she empties my pockets,’ glared Boss Man at me. Silly man. He has to ruin my happiness. Always thinking negatively. Just doesn’t know how to be happy. If I could, I would have cheerfully left him outside the store, but I needed him for you know what, so I just had to take his grumpiness with a pinch of salt.
Anyway, back to the good stuff. Soon we were seated on plush sofas and handed a pair of gloves each. ‘These bags need to be treated gently, no scratches or marks on them, hence you wear the gloves before touching them,’ explained the bag lady softly. Uff, everthing was so classy, soft tones, gentle touches…if they could only see us in our original avatar, slamming doors, banging utensils, slanging matches galore, I’m sure she would have not sold me the bag. I was jolted back to reality, ‘This bag deserves a loving, caring home,’ she was whispering as she caressed the first bag. I held out my arms in excitement, eagerly waiting to touch it, feel it. ‘Wear the gloves first,’ she admonished me.
‘Does this mean you will have to wear gloves each time you take your bag out for an outing?’ whispered Boss Man with a smirk.
I pretended not to hear him as I ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over the successive bags that were brought out on trays, if you please, one at a time. By now my head was throbbing and what seemed suspiciously like a headache was beginning to make an appearance.
But I wasn’t going to go through with this rigmarole again, so I bravely soldiered on and finally decided on the bag that fitted my meagre budget …truth be told, there was a choice of just two. By now Boss Man was not of much help as he seemed to be dozing off intermittently…
Three hours later, I exited the store with a teeny tiny Gucci bag, which came with two pairs of gloves wrapped in tissue paper, packed inside a small cardboard box with the Gucci logo and packed into another gold trimmed cardboard box, which was then carefully placed inside a thick, leathery kind of paper bag.
It now lies in state in solitary splendour on the top shelf of my cupboard, which I had to empty as the box wouldn’t fit anywhere else.
‘Is this what I emptied my pockets for?’ asked Boss Man with a leer.
‘Where do I take it? The correct occasion just hasn’t presented itself,’ I replied, a tad irritably.
‘I don’t want to say I told you so, but I told you so,’ muttered Boss Man under his breath and made a hasty exit before I could fling the nearest object, anything, at his rapidly retreating back.
As I write this piece, news is doing the rounds that Prada is flouting the Indian Kolhapuri chappal at their latest summer collection at the fashion capital of the world – Milan, without giving due credit to the original Kolhapuri and charging Rs 1.2 lakhs for it!
There you have it! Divine justice. We copy bags from the west; they copy our Indian footwear!
Originals from Kolhapur?
Or fakes from Prada?
Or simply, Original Fakes!
(Ratna Manucha is an author and an educationaist)
