Great Expectations

I was wearily wandering the aisles of our local supermarket. Not that you can really wander around – it’s rather small, with everything piled up and spilling over into the little spaces, and buyers simply push their way around, or use the red and blue baskets with broken handles to the same effect. It caters to just our apartment complex, so there’s no need for fancy stuff. Moreover, most people generally prefer to order home delivery, so that they are saved the exercise of walking home weighed down. Most people prefer community exercises instead, such as yoga at the clubhouse, or yoga at one of the resident’s apartments, or the top-notch gym nearby, or even the minimal gym within the complex. Or the final recourse when the community has failed in giving generously enough: the exercycles and treadmills in their homes.

Anyway, the thing is, this “supermarket” makes random purchases extremely easy. My parents always used to, and still persist in using the monthly grocery list to buy all that fall under the name of “sundries”. I have a sneaking suspicion that my sisters do the same thing, but have never dared to ask, for fear it will expose my own weakness of not having a monthly list at all. I did try: for three brave months, I sat dutifully and filled monthly lists online, and sacks and boxes were all miraculously delivered. Then I got cold feet. I sat amongst the piled-up remnants, and decided that, in order to preserve my sanity, I would deplete my inventory completely, and switch to Kanban instead.

So here I was, wearily wandering the aisles, looking up shelves to see if anything rang a bell, since I’ve now given up on To-Buy lists also. That’s when I saw it. It sat there, in a gleaming purplish box, and the words emblazoned on it beckoned me like a moth to the flame.

“Star Wars”, it said, in the typical lettering. There’s no point in explaining my weakness or fascination for Star Wars. You either understand it, or you don’t. It was a Kellogs Chocos box, with a huge light-saber streaking across. Now, I’ve completely stopped buying Kellogs for lil D, because of articles I read somewhere, long ago, about the nutritional value, which put me off.

Not to be beaten, Kellogs came back with an infallible carrot. “Star Wars”, it said on the package, and promised light-sabers within each pack. Collect all 6, it exhorted. Well, I’m not exactly that stupid – I didn’t buy 6 packs. What if they were all the same color? I bought one instead. The excitement was building up within me – I could hardly wait to get home, tear open the pack and swish the light-saber around dramatically, breathing audibly like Darth Vader.

Lil D was of course, simply excited to see me back at home, laden with what she most probably imagined were chips and chocolates. While I arduously prevented her from rummaging through the bags, I shouted out to DH.

“Open the chocos pack – there’s something free, which we can give lil D”. As if.

I waited impatiently, listening to the sounds of the rip of cardboard, the scissors biting through the packet, and the rustle of the chocos.

“Well?”

“There’s nothing in here”.

“What do you mean? How can that be?” I was hysterical. I abandoned lil D and rushed to the box. I peered in – zilch. I raked through the chocos in the packet – nada.

“What the hell! I’m calling up that guy right now!”

I marched over to the phone, and began hurling accusations at the supermarket guy at the other end.

“Madam, I think the free gift comes with the Rs. 225 pack…”

“No! It says here on the pack that you will find a free light-saber maze (maze? hmmm) INSIDE this pack!”

“Madam, then I will have to check with the manufacturers…”

Right on cue, a little plasticky thing surfaced. What was this? I picked it up, and read the fine print on the plastic cover: Light Saber Maze.

“Ummm…I think I found it – it was right inside…it’s ok”. I mumbled sheepishly, and kept the phone down.

I stared at the thing which could hardly have been more than 3 inches long. I could feel the disappointment beginning to drip inside. I ripped open the cover – there was some switch-like thing on the side that wouldn’t yield to pressing up or down – bah! a dummy switch! Then there was a little greenish plastic tube peeping out. After much twiddling, it finally shot out.

Wow! My very own 4.5 inch green light saber. With no glow. With a little ball and maze within. No swishing possible. The only thing possible was the Darth Vader breathing.

I gave it away disgustedly to lil D. She held it at the very edge, as if it were a delicate calligraphy instrument, and pronounced delightedly, “Dishoom!”

“Dishoom!” I replied gloomily.