pink, thank you

I, invincible economy shopper, will venture into a store only if it says SALE, or if it is fridge-sized. Or, as I found out yesterday, if the shop is run my an old muslim man (long white beard mandatory).
He didn't need the pesky nephew stationed at the dupatta-camouflaged entrance to call out to passing people on the road: "Madam, skirts, bags, fashion tops. Naya style aaya hai madam." And as you walk on, "Just look, madam. Arey, dekhne me kya jaata hai madam?"

This old man just sat there sipping his tea, looking through his billbook. He looked up as I glanced in that direction. He waxed his wrinkly-eyed smile at me and asked almost apologetically, "Kuch chaahiye beta?" I managed to utter "bag" while still willing my insides to stop falling for this age-old trick. But I was already walking up the steps, following a tea-boy who had stuck his head in the direction of the shop, signaling me to walk with him.

He was already standing up by the time I got there. I got the feeling I'd just missed a swift dusting of wares.

"What would you like? Leather bags?"

Only when I tried to move my hand to point in answer, did I realize that someone had thrust a glass of tea there. Elaichi. By the lingering tang in the air, I knew he'd had ginger tea.

"No leather. Cloth you show me." But I just went ahead and touched around. I walked into what looked like the next section. Some other old muslim man approached me. "Oh, ye kisi aur ka hai?" I asked to the general direction of the old men. Oldman1 assured me that the shops were different, but I could look anyway. They'd settle accounts later.

After some pottering about, I confided in oldman1 that I was a journalist and was tired of people's jabs about the kurta and jhola stereotype. Could I have a cloth bag that was cheap and best, but not a jhola?

"Bunty aur Babli dikhaaoon?"

Now, I knew the DDLJ tunic. The Tridev bhandni Shroff scarf. The Kuch Kuch Hota Hai 'cool' chain. The Mr.India chiffon sari. The Chaalbaaz transparent raincoat. The Rangeela mini-sleeveless dress. The Pyar Tune Kya Kiya haircut. The Dil To Pagal Hai neckline and sports bra. But this was new. And suspicious. These new-fangled filmi clothes/accessories came with film industry gold weight. Their brand name and short-lived fanciness made them expensive. Economy aunt was yelling in my head.

But the old man had already slung a bright pink bag across his shoulder. "Full work (embroidery and chamki) on handle. Plain body. Rani pe accha tha, nei?" I frantically thought back on the movie...

http://www.indiafm.com/firstlook/buntyaurbabli.jpg

When he saw some recognition light up my face, he produced a full-length mirror from somewhere to show I could be a Rani too. "Par chamki hai," I said, screwing up my face. Then he fished out another pink, less bright than the previous, but Babli enough. I liked immediately.
So now, I have a Bunty aur Babli bag to take with me to the other world when I die. Maybe now I'll get Abhishek.