Moving with the mall rats

People Like Us

Point out that there's a difference between a hot beverage and a cold one, and he'll remind you with a steely look that there are others in the queue behind you.

You mutter a rude expletive, clutch your Rs 80 sandwich to your chest, and hope he fries in hell. "Have a nice day," he replies mechanically, obliterating the coarse remark from his memory.

Deciding what to have at Ruby Tuesday at the attached Centrestage mall, my son asks for a meal that, unfortunately, says the waiter, "is not available today". Nor, he comes back to tell us, is my starter. We make do with what he recommends instead.

Another day, same place, only we're at Subway, but "Sorry," the waiter tells my wife, "we don't have the chicken salad today". She switches to tuna, but hey, they don't have the bread I'd like for my footlong either, can they change it to something of their own preference?

"Do I have a choice?" I ask. "No," says the waiter. My daughter and her friend request Mountain Dew as thirst quenchers, but even though it's on the menu, you guessed it, it's not available "today".

And yet, the mall is Noida's star attraction, probably attracting more footfalls than the Taj Mahal. It's also the newest spot for a bit of romance, with no cops in sight to push apart necking couples who sit on the staircase gazing in fascination at each other's acne.

Teenagers on a date are more boisterous, and even though they hold hands according to prescribed behaviour in the courting manual, they're more wide-eyed about the branded goodies on display in the shop windows than over each other.

"Let's go on an educational tour," giggles my daughter's friend, and they set off on the escalators to try and tally their counts of moony-eyed lovers. When they come back, it is to report: "It's all right, nobody does any serious stuff here. They go to Lodi Gardens for that." We know.

Only the previous Sunday, on a picnic there, they'd decided to defiantly stare at couples doing things that would have been embarrassing even in the privacy of their homes. "Did you know that Indians kiss?" asks my daughter's friend. Instead of replying, I tell her to have a sandwich.

"They should ban these people from the malls," says my son, snobbishly pointing to the working class in their starched best, enjoying a day out in the realms of luxury ill-affordable for most, "or there should be a stiff entry charge, so everybody can't get in." I dish out my standard lecture on equal opportunities, but he's not listening.

"Let's go the Levi's store," he says, "so I can check the best bootcuts and colours." "But you have enough jeans," I protest. "Chill," says my son, "all I want is to check out the scene." "What for, it's such a wasted exercise," I say, warming to my theme of frittering away time.

"I want my uncle in the States to send me a pair as a gift," he says. "Why not choose your jeans and have him wire you the money for them instead," I suggest. My son looks at me appalled.

"This here is an Indian mall," he says, "which is alright for sightseeing, but my clothes," he continues importantly, "can only be from an overseas mall."