Give me my local tiny corner shop any day!
So, that’s it then.
Walmart, Tesco, Carrefour will soon be here in our cities, offering us - what ? - 14 varieties of ketchup, and imported jam, and other stuff that we never knew we needed until they tempted us.
I may well be a product of the west, but having lived away from Blighty for many more years then I lived there, I regard the west now with affectionate amazement. Supermarkets and, even worse hypermarkets, overwhelm me. They fill me with disbelief at the rampant consumerism of the west.
Just how much choice does a person need? Seriously. Even the tiny mini-marts in England offer you a confusing choice of something as basic as milk. Full, skimmed, semi-skimmed, half cream, full cream. Yes, yes, yes, I’m all for choice, but must everything be a multiple choice question ?
Give me my local tiny, jam-packed shop in my scruffy market any day.
Not only do these little desi mom-and-pop stores stock an astonishing variety of goods, if they don’t have exactly what you want, they will send out for it in a jiffy – from the mom-and-pop joint across the street, more often than not.
It always fascinates me how the task of shopping can be made so utterly simple in India. My local kirana shop is underground. No shop window, no frontage, just steps down into a basement which is always deliciously cool, even in the height of a Delhi summer. The friendly owner sits behind the counter, and if you cannot be bothered to walk up and down his minuscule aisles, all you need to do is ask him and he will tell one of his employees to get your stuff. You can stand there like a lazy pasha, and someone else will rootle through the stacked shelves for you.
Though rootling and fossicking in the tiny shop is one of life’s pleasures, with that delicious, distinctive oh-so-Indian aroma of spices and God knows what.
The staff all know where every last little thing is, even if your particular brand of shampoo is triple-stacked and completely hidden.
Toothbrushes are hugger-mugger with batteries that are stacked next to imported breakfast cereals which have packets of yeast balancing on top of them – you never know what you will find.
Then there are the fascinating one-offs, slightly squashed and battered things that people have obviously bought overseas, stuffed in their suitcases and then sold onto the kirana store. There will be a stray, slightly crumpled box of Tesco’s mince pies (hah, Tesco, take that). Conditioner with the price in Thai Baht. Ridiculous looking breakfast cereals with American $ price tags on, all evidence of a much more exotic food supply chain than Walmart or Carrefour could ever dream of.
And then, of course, there is the standard 20 per cent discount we regulars at the underground store get. I reckon it’s because the owner doesn’t have expensive rates nor rent to pay (not having a shop window, you understand) and so he thoughtfully passes some of the benefit onto us.
And never forget the interest-free credit he gives. If you end up buying more Thai conditioner than planned, or you forget your wallet, koi bat nahi, he notes down the amount and breezily trusts you till next time.
And if there’s too much stuff to carry, or it’s heavy, it all gets delivered. Free. I once walked home chatting to the bloke carrying my shopping in a cardboard box balanced on his head.
And when we run out of something but are feeling too lazy to walk the 500 yards down the road to the underground store, you call up and they deliver. Free.
So please tell me, why on earth would I get in my car (which costs money, never forget) and drive through Delhi’s lunatic traffic (which is uber-stressful and time-consuming) to shop at a Tesco or a Walmart or a Carrefour in impersonal, antiseptic surroundings, pushing a trolley, and then having to decide which of 17 varieties of mustard I want ?
Count me out.
And I bet you the cashiers at these brand new supermarkets won’t chat with customers about the weather nor moan about the government or the cricket, will they? Nor will they have Hindi serials playing quietly in the background.
Give me my tiny, cramped local store any day.
