ENCOUNTERS
Profusion of plenty
SADAF SIDDIQUE
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The American dream is all about the freedom to choose. In a supermarket setting, that can be paralysing to those used to the simpler sabzi mandis.
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Photo : R. Eswarraj
Sorely missed: The hustle and bustle of a sabzi mandi…
My first trip to shop for grocery was a particularly fruitless exercise. Well, OK, I got some exercise since I had to walk there (you may now pick your jaw off the floor. Some people in suburban U.S. actually do walk), but there were no fruits to be had.
Impossible, you say? This is the land of plenty! That it is. The land of about 345 types of milk and 486 kinds of honey. So when I was faced with a dizzying array of about 250 varieties of fruit, I panicked and was numbed into inaction.
Initially I was struck by how neat, orderly and colourful the produce was. There were kiwis, plums, strawberries, melons! As I picked up my basket and made for the rows of bananas, I froze. There were no fewer than 50 shades of yellow to choose from. Did I want the Cavendish, Manzano, Dwarf, Baby, Mexican hand-picked or organic ones from Guatemala? And these weren’t normal sized, mind you, like the speckled browning bite-sized ones you buy from Lallaji’s store (or insert name of latest neighbourhood invading store here). These were the size of boomerangs.
Cricket and volley balls
I tentatively backed away to the more familiar vegetable section. There too, in neat little rows propped up in their crates to give you the feeling of a “real market place” stood a profusion of potatoes (Yukon Gold, Russet, Idaho, White rose...) the size of cricket balls rivalled only by the volleyball-sized onions (Vidalia, Walla Walla, Texas 1015...). Backing further away to the dairy freezer, I encountered rivers of milk (whole, low-fat, organic, non-fat, non-growth hormone, non-pasteurised, soy...) and eggs (organic, cage-free, conventional...). I slowly dropped my basket and inched towards the nearest exit.
Being battle hardened in the trenches of many a sabzi mandi, I always strode with confidence amid the chaos, skipped over garbage, hidden gutters, chose the freshest chickoos and could hold my end of a mean bargain (Thanks Mom!). But put me in a generic U.S. supermarket with orderly aisles brimming over and a not-so-orderly trolley and my confident bargaining chops gets sucked through the ventilated air conditioning and dissipates into the smog-free air.
I am plagued by shopping self-doubts: Will I wrong my digestive tract if I choose the jumbo AA eggs over the cage-free organic AAA ones? Is the two-percent fat free non-growth hormone milk really better for my (non-existent) arthritis or should I opt for the fat-free conventional variety? Do I need my detailed 378-paged (and counting!) research spreadsheet just to think about breakfast?
And then, there was the time I tried to buy coffee. In India, when good old filter kappi was replaced by the cappuccinos, lattes and mochas, you could still get by ordering the coffee drink by name. Here, when I tried to get my fix of chocolate-induced coffee goodness, also known as a mocha, I was barraged by a series of unfamiliar questions –
Whole, non-fat or fat free milk?
Tall, grande or vendi?
Single shot or double?
You want whipped cream with that?
For here or to go?
Needless to say, I headed for the nearest exit.
Freedom to choose. It’s what the American dream is all about, but this profusion of plenty is also amazingly paralyzing. However, since I have to eat to live and can’t always find the nearest exit, I did what any caffeine-deprived desi would do — I immersed myself in an anthropological study of my surroundings. In other words, I copied.
I hung around observing the natives, unloaded their grocery bags and sneaked a peek into their refrigerators, helped prepare dinner and poked around in the pantry. All the while, jotting mental notes to self and emblazoning brand names in my brain. While I was far from being a pro in speed shopping as some desi wives are ( http://www.thehindu.com/mag/2008/07/06/stories/2008070650160400.htm
), I got by decently at first barring one incident where I mistakenly ordered a pork sandwich. (Don’t worry Ma, I didn’t eat it.) Now I can confidently order my chai-tea latte (tall, non-fat, extra hot, no foam) and breeze through the supermarket and not blink while picking up cucumbers the size of my arms.
Another enlightening stalking...er, sorry, I mean exploring expedition with the natives revealed to me nothing short of nirvana – desi stores! They had everything! Lijjat papad, garam masala, Margo saabun, Maggi and Kurkure! Also, and more importantly, chaotic crowed aisles, strewn vegetable peels, fights for the freshest bhindi, long lines and disorderly desis! And if I tried hard enough, I could even score a bargain! Just like home.
Choice is good
After that, I realised that this cornucopia of choice isn’t just a bad thing. Having many options allows you to actually choose and make an informed decision. So while you enjoy your all American pancakes and apple pie breakfast, followed by a sushi lunch and good old dal-chawaal for dinner, you also marvel at the fact that people from all corners of the globe call America home. The local library stocks not only the latest Salman Rushdie but also works of Kazuo Ishiguro, Fatima Mernissi, Jorge Luis Borges and Chimamanda Adichie.
Choice also extends in many ways to the ability to reinvent oneself. After a lifetime of suppressing their real interests, many desis find themselves reinvigorated as they explore a penchant for physics and photography, engage with engineering and ecology or mediate on medicine and mass media.
This new sense of discovery makes them look proudly at their progeny, the next desi generation (or so they mistakenly believe) loudly proclaiming that their toddlers will have the freedom to pursue their dreams! To paint, write and create! Till of course, they are veered towards more meaningful pursuits such as math quizzes and spelling bees and finally faced with an array of career choices — medicine, engineering, and unacceptable.
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