Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against shopping. For us women, shopping is a secret cult, full of arcane rites and rituals, awakening ancient desires, and ever-soaring needs. So, rest assured, I am not going to tread the high moral ground in regard to this complicated, thoroughly enjoyable, addictive human activity. Animals take what they need, we stretch out for things beyond reach, whether it makes us happy or down in the dumps is entirely personal. The first shopping experience in my life took place when I was all of five. I hopped and skipped between my parents to Laitumkhrah market. There was a nip in the air. The stars twinkled in mischief. Church bells rang. A few cars glided along the quiet streets. I had in my hand a miniature basket. After my parents made their purchases, a red-cheeked kong beamed at me, took my basket, filled it with a piece of succulent rohu and a luscious red tomato. Then, with a little bow, she handed the basket back to me. I was so moved that I stopped hopping and skipping. A spontaneous transaction carried out with grace, generosity and an initiation of the five-year-old's entry into the world of shopping. Ever since then, the human element of shopping has continued to interest me. Time was when the shopkeeper at the corner grocery was almost like family. As was the wizened old crone who sold bananas under the lamp post. Interaction with these two was easy, free of clutter, even tinged with a dash of humour. But when you go higher up the ladder, to shiny showrooms and glitzy malls, there is no need for the human touch, for prices are fixed and brands assure you. But chatterbox that I am, I can't help but strike up brief, fleeting friendships with the sales people. They tell me of distant places where their homes are, the punishing hours they work, and how Guwahati is unknowable to them. A young girl from a hill State talked of her insurgent brother, slain in the dead of night, and how she grieves he will never see this world of bounty spread around her, the vaulted ceilings and the smooth escalators, the shoes, belts, jeans, T-shirts he would now never buy. As I left, she clasped into my hands a cosmetic pouch, my gift for listening. There is so much more to shopping than merely entering a store, picking up items, paying and leaving. Shopping is a cognitive process, with active use of your grey cells. Not only do you acquire information, but you have to interpret it and make decisions. All the senses are awakened as you ramble down the aisles. As for me, I am so receptive that I can almost taste the pickles in the bottles. Strangely though, men are sluggish shoppers, sloth bears bumbling along the aisles, having problems with brands and offers. When 9/11 happened, George W. Bush encouraged Americans to shop. At one level you would think he was being flippant, telling people to get over their blues with retail therapy. But what he looked for was that the great engine of the economy should keep running. More than in the developing world, in the West shopping is a way of living and understanding the world. We may flagellate consumerism but that is what keeps the world economy running. I go to malls, not necessarily only to buy, but to marvel at the skill, ingenuity and consummate artistry of people around the world, the painstaking effort and vision that goes into creating that heavenly Chanel, or the pair of exquisite Louboutins. Whether I can afford them or not doesn't faze me at all. I have had my feast of the senses and that suffices. Here's some good news for those clueless singletons who can't figure out women. Its simple, really. Take a woman out shopping. What she reveals about herself will be invaluable. She may be an impulsive buyer. She may not care about the fine print. She may prefer the cosmetics section to the groceries. She may go for fancy fruits like avocados and kiwis, instead of papayas. She may obsess over calories and refuse you the chocolate brownies you have been eyeing. If she is any or all of these, run for your life. A friend of mine always says shopping is less expensive than a psychiatrist. For years she has been trying to not be a shopaholic. Her psychiatrist, more interested in manic depressives and schizophrenics, took less and less interest in her, but continued to bill her. She has stopped visiting him and realises that therapy actually made her miserable and guilty, while all the colours and variety of a mall pepped her up like a pill. I am one of these people who go out shopping for brown bread and come back with sinful chocolates, a useless showpiece, rather than the house slippers I aimed for. Brown bread doesn't excite the imagination. It's message of healthy eating bores me to tears. But chocolate, ah, it is all fantasy, all sin. Never mind if it leads to a quicker death. If you are into shopping, this will sound familiar to you. Your head bursts with dopamine, endorphins, all the love and happiness chemicals when you see a certain dress. You look around, stricken by the thought some upstart will grab it before you. You quickly order it to be packed and pay the bill. The dress is borne home triumphantly, to be tried on and given pride of place in your closet. Imagine your shock when you unpack and reality hits you. The colour is hideous, the cut unflattering, the detailing tacky. One searing, accusatory sentence runs through your mind "What was I thinking?" "There's a package for you," says a voice on the phone. All of you who are into online shopping have heard this, and felt a quick rush of adrenaline. In my case the excitement is a notch higher because, forgetful that I am, I haven't the foggiest idea what I have ordered - a book, a bag, a dress, or toys for my granddaughter? So you see, not knowing what's there for me adds to the pleasure of online shopping. And about the embarrassing fact as to how I inadvertently order the same book twice, the less said the better. This then, is all I have to say for shopping. Shopping is getting easier, faster. The customer is spoilt for choice. When you've been to one mall, you've seen them all. But when you shop at Fancy Bazar, the blind beggar and the bhelpuri wallah make you feel its home, not just a market.

Indrani Raimedhi