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Same reply: no supply
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SHOPPING Be warned of things to come (rather, not come!) when a shop owner says `no stock'
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Photo: Raju V.
OFF THE SHELVES: There is a familiar pattern to the gradual disappearance of a coveted object.
I have the power to make things vanish. From the market. The moment I develop a fondness for a brand it's like the kiss of death — the damn thing disappears from the city's shop shelves. This phenomenon is not new to the two of us; it has plagued our lives for a good number of years, snuffing out our choices across a spectrum of products both cosmetic and consumable. We have come to accept the sad reality that what we find superior quickly gets edged out of the market. Our favourites don't sell.
We first noticed this peculiarity when we chose a toothbrush two decades ago. Before I proceed, let me explain the method by which personal care products are chosen in this house. The Wise One dons the mantle of resident scientist and experiments on different brands as well as the complete range within each brand before settling on the one and only. After years of testing toothbrushes he singled out a sub-sect of a brand and pronounced it the most functional of all. It promptly grew rarer than edelweiss. I wrote an impassioned letter to the company (on his behalf, of course), extolling the virtues of the said toothbrush and urging them to administer 50 lashes to defaulters who refuse to replenish stocks. Or something of that nature. Really gripping stuff. Such was my eloquence that much to the embarrassment of the W.O. a representative landed up at his office in response to his (i.e. my letter) and gave him a set of toothbrushes with best compliments from the company.
If the toothbrush was Indian (in fact, it bore the name of an Indian man) my favourite jam was foreign.
Manufactured in a small neighbouring country, it had a name that sounded like a croaking frog but I loved it dearly. That was the fatal error. It began to make itself scarce. During my citywide search I entered a chain store and demanded an explanation for its absence. "We received complaints about it," the manager said. A barefaced lie, I was sure, since the store prominently displayed a rival brand with knocked-down prices. I was so incensed that I decided to inform the company of the evil plots being hatched against it. I looked up the address on my old jam bottle and dashed off a letter.
It winged its way across the hilly north-eastern boundary of our country but alas, drifted into oblivion. And I soon realised why. I read in the papers that the factory had shut down.
There is a familiar pattern to the gradual disappearance of the coveted object. I get the first warning when my neighbourhood shop owners say, "No stock, come next month." Next, the ominous "no supply from company". I start combing shops in other areas and drain the last drop from their racks. This keeps me going for a year if I'm lucky. Finally, I'm down to one or two shops in the city that still get a trickle of fresh goods.
And then the trickle dries up. I have lost many new favourites in this manner and even an old one — my toothpaste. It was a longstanding friend, lending patient support to my gums and never once frothing at the mouth (I happen to dislike foam).
It's the same with our deodorants. The Wise One picked a popular brand that was bound to last forever.
But then he made the mistake of fancying a particular fragrance in the brand's substantial range. You can guess what happened. Every single fragrance other than the one he wanted was freely available. It became my idée fixe. I would look for it wherever I went.
When a young friend dragged me to a mall I cast a disenchanted eye over the luxuries spread out before me but perked up when I spied the deo on the topmost floor. My own deodorant, by the way, has been playing hooky. After a weeklong hunt I pounced on a solitary can in a medical shop. It's heading for extinction — I can feel it in my bones. The ideal toothbrush continues to elude the W.O. He came across an excellent one six years ago.
It was even better than his long-lost favourite. I became a convert. Once the proprietor asked the salesgirl to give me a dozen toothbrushes. I protested but ended up buying six. I wish I'd bought 12, for the next time I went there he said, "The company has stopped supplying it."
One last example: the juice of the seabuckthorn berry, a product developed by Bangalore's Defence Research and Development Organisation. We had hardly discovered it when we read about a manufacturing hitch. Three months later, cartons began to roll down the conveyor belt once again, and I thought our jinx was broken at last.
But no, the brand had come up with other fruity concoctions. Berry juice was clearly going the way of all our other favourites. How sad. How berry berry sad.
C.K. MEENA
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