JOKERTALK

BY KAVITA KANE


Versace –pronounced any way your tongue would like it to roll – would not have realized that he has been causing unnecessary grief for many; and me in particular. That buying a pair of shades could become a performance of sorts , sparkling with dramatic histrionics was an experience I wish never to live through again.
I flippantly meandered into a shades shoppe with an honest, straightforward, uncomplicated intention to window shop. Different ‘shades’ of pinks, violets, greens peered down at me sneeringly through the glossy glass towers and I looked up at them, a little confused but completely fascinated. Primly assuming that glares could be either dark or light in blacks, browns or at the most a daring blue, I was getting swiftly educated by the noisy young man with the sugary grin.
“There’s a whole range of colours, I promise you – pick any!” he wheedled winsomely, strewing the counter with a distracting display of the tiny temptations. I preferred checking out the price tags instead.
“Rs 3,500!” I shrieked aloud, watching the young man jump back to almost crash into the very row of shades he was intending to put to elaborate view.
“But they’re Chanel’s and that’s just the starting price!” his syrupy smile turning suspiciously sour now. I firmly removed them from sight.
“How about these?” the impertinent young man whipped up an Armani purple. I looked through them, deliberately ignoring the triangular tag dangling daintily but screaming for attention.
“Or these?” he persisted, thrusting a huge pair of Guess ebony blacks, right below my astonished eye. “Too boring!” I dismissed, hoping that I seemed assertively stuck-up.
“You would like a soothing brown?” he just about barked.
“No!!!” I flashed defiantly.
“Here’s another!” he fiercely brandished a slim RayBans, dangerously close to smashing them in his furious fist.
“Too small for my face,” I waved them off airily to turn and bravely continued my aimless search through the roomy room. I thought I heard a gnashing sound of clenched teeth behind me.
“How about this…?” I asked myself, picking a shimmering pair of Gucci. He suddenly seemed weak, feeble and defeated. “They are for Rs 7,700,” he whined imploringly and slowly put them away.
“And what about these?” I trilled at a glitzy Versace, glittering invitingly, each dazzling white stone at the slender stem, twinkling mischievously.
“Rs 10,500!” he croaked, staring down at the haute eye wear, scattered like the wounded in a battlefield.
“You accept credit cards?” I sang merrily, thumping one in his frozen, incredulous fingers, and snatching the gleaming black leather case and the encashed card, sailed out of the stunned room.
The next day I returned to refresh my shopping skills with an eager friend. The noisy young man was nowhere to be seen.