If there's one stunning similarity that I've found between the United States and India during my time here thus far, it's an overwhelming culture of commercialism in both countries. However, as with any other infiltration of Western influence, commericalism has very much taken on a new form here through "Indianization." Each of Hyderabad's streets is like a miniature Times Square, complete with Bollywood actress endorsements for everything from kitchen tiles to skin creams, advertisements painted as murals directly on the side of buildings, posters plastered onto every form of public transportation imaginable, and an array of neon signs and string lights that burst into color from the moment dusk begins to fall. Indians have taken the concept of the shopping mall to a new level -- literally. In Hyderabad city alone there are about six shopping malls, most of which are between three and five stories. Practically tiny, self-contained neighborhoods in themselves, they've got everything from parking garages to kids'playgrounds to rooftop nightclubs.
The act of shopping itself is also more intense here. For one, there's a lot more human interaction. India's overpopulation issue, especially evident in an urban environment like that of Hyderabad, lends itself to both more shoppers, and more employees. Walk into a clothing store and you're likely to be surrounded on all sides by your fellow customers and an army of attendants eager to offer help you likely don't need, whether it's simply pulling a hanger off a rack or refolding a pair of pants. There's a massive, ever present labor force here, with a demand for jobs that creates positions in the service industry which seem highly unnecessary, and which can be a little stifling to a Westerner.
The mothership of all shopping experiences, however, is found when one is on the market for some Indian formal wear. I've already accumulated nearly a full wardrobe of casual Indian salwar khameez to wear on campus, but as a self-described shopaholic and slave to fashion, I knew I couldn't leave India without purchasing at least one glittery, shimmering formal outfit to take home with me. Luckily, two of my friends were also on the lookout for some sequins and silk, so we set out together on a quest for the perfect dresses.
I was vaguely familiar with the process of buying Desi formal wear from my Indian friends at GW -- or so I thought. There is a rich and skilled tradition of needlework and tailoring in India, and because of the labor surplus it's all at a relatively low cost. Because of this, it's extremely commonplace to have part or all of an outfit custom fit by a seamstress and made just for you. I had envisioned that my outing to buy a ghagra (a style of Indian formal wear that includes a floor length flared skirt, a cropped blouse, and a long scarf called a dupatta) would look something like this: traveling to some small, cramped tailor's shop, gazing at rows and rows of fabric choices stacked from floor to ceiling, explaining my vision for my ghagra, giving my measurements, and getting out. Easy, convenient, and customizable.
However, that wasn't quite the case. Instead, one Sunday afternoon, weighed down by a heavy midday meal of dosa and sambar, I found myself squeezed into the backseat of the family car with my friend Sara and my two homestay aunties. Luckily my aunties are shopping experts in their own right, so Sara and I didn't have to navigate the process completely on our own. We were relieved to have experienced guides to lead the way. But it wasn't until we actually arrived at the Chennai Shopping Mall that we realized just how completely lost we would have been without them.
Chennai Shopping Mall isn't a mall in the American sense -- rather, it's a massive, five story formal wear shop with its own underground parking garage, floor to ceiling glass windows, and a massive garland of what must have been 200 or so fresh flowers strung around its doorway. Auntie led us inside with the poise and concentration of a military leader. As Sara and I shuffled along nervously behind her tiny frame, which seemed to glide over the shiny lacquered floors underneath all those silky sari folds, Auntie strutted straight up to the nearest worker, rattled off what we were interested in buying, and waved her hand for us to follow her into a tiny glass elevator. The four of us crammed in, soft Bollywood elevator music jangling overhead; I felt like Charlie in Willy Wonka's Chocolate factory as I watched the different levels of the store glide past through the glass doors, each with its own array of colors and textures that caught the eye.
The elevator jerked to a halt and the glass doors slid open, depositing us in a room with white marble tiles and mahogany shelving units lining the walls from floor to ceiling, with layer upon layer of decadent silks and velvets in every hue imaginable stacked upon each other. Within seconds an attendant burst forth from behind a rack of elaborate gowns and ushered us towards a glittering white countertop and some plush looking chairs. I was incredibly amazed, and also incredibly confused. Why were we sitting? Where were the tailors with their sketchpads waiting to transform our dreams into reality? What about the bolts of satin and silk lined up to be made into saris and skirts?
"Sit!" Auntie patted the seats next to her and Sara and I nervously plopped down. Three salesmen instantly hovered over us, looking at us expectantly with nothing to say but "Yes, madam?" Auntie explained our desired fashions: for Sara, an anarkali (a below the knee, flared dress with a pair of matching satin leggings), and for me, a ghagra choli. The salesmen whipped around and started snatching plastic bags filled with brightly colored folded fabrics off the shelves. They flung the plastic blags aside and snapped the dresses and skirts out in front of us like vibrant, shiny whips; we found ourselves lurching backwards a few times to avoid being hit in the face by various kinds of baubles and sequins.
Fastforward three hours later, by which point the two of us had been shown dozens of options, each more elaborate and breathtaking than the next. Naturally, there were a few strange combinations that reminded us of the cultural differences in taste between our home and India, like the lace and tulle layered anarkali in hues of pink and chocolate brown that reminded us of an old feather duster, or the blindingly bright ghagras that contained purple, magenta, silver, green, canary yellow, and sapphire satin all at once. Auntie got frustrated trying to emphasize for the thousandth time that there was no way they'd ever get me into a bubblegum pink and royal blue ghagra (apparently the it-girl color combination this year in India), and that Sara was looking for pastels, not neons (apparently not a distinction that is often made here). Most difficult of all for us rookie shoppers, however, was the act of refusal. Sitting there with gown after gown being flung in front of me, the expectant gaze of the salesmen burning into my skull, I legitimately felt a sense of anxiety and dread. Any time I saw them reaching for a folded set in a color I knew I had no interest in, I tensed up, waving my arms about wildly so that they wouldn't disrupt the elaborate folding that had been done just to get the thing into its plastic bag. Of course, it was to know avail. By the end of the process a stack of velvet and satin about eight inches thick lay on the counter in front of me, and I was mentally exhausted.
But that's all part of the experience. By unnecessarily ruining the neat folding of a dress, a new job is created for someone else in the store who does nothing but restore the clothing to its neat and tidy state with polished speed. With every dress that I had to vehemently shake my head at in distaste, a salesmen gave an order to someone whose job consisted only of running to the next shelf to pull another option out for view. I often feel uncomfortable in India as I am waited on hand and foot, followed by shop attendants, have my food spooned onto my plate for me, and am even offered complementary tea or coffee while I sit and refuse gown after gaudy gown. But it's less about treating the more privileged classes like royalty and more about a system that somehow enables India to function despite its overpopulation issue. So while I may feel uncomfortable and I may want to wave off the girl taking clothes off the hangers for me at the mall, or the boy who unfolds my napkin and drapes it over my lap, if I did so I'd be robbing them of their sense of purpose and pride, and hindering the well-oiled machine that the Indian economy has become.
Despite all the service and constant attention, however, shopping for Indian formal wear is not for the faint of heart. It's a high stress situation, and should only be undertaken by foreigners with a well-trained and highly experienced Indian auntie to navigate bargaining and the newest trends for them. If you can make it through the chaos, though, the end results are absolutely breathtaking, and you'll always have a piece of India to wear close to your heart.