In the early days of my career, I made it a point to bring something for my better half from every tour. As my suitcase was being packed for the Calcutta trip, she told me to bring her two Calcutta saris.
"Two?" I asked.
"Yes" she said, "one is for my younger sister. But don't try to choose them by yourself, you don't understand the difference between a Banarasi and a Calcutta sari, take your colleague's wife with you."

On reaching Calcutta, I enquired if Majumdar could request his wife to accompany me for a shopping trip.
"Sorry Boss," said Dada. "Bondona has gone to her mother's place."
I clarified that I wanted Mrs. Vandana Majumdar to accompany me, to which he replied that Bondona was away.
"Bhai?" he asked.
It took me some time to realize that he meant 'why'. I explained about the need to purchase two saris.
"I bill come bith you, I am export on sorries."
Rather than continue this difficult discussion, I agreed.

The massive power cut in Shyam Bazaar complicated in our mission and we were looking at a million saris by the candlelight. I have been told never to select a sari by anything other than sunlight, though the logic was not clear. The most beautiful saris are worn for parties, which are held in the evening and night; hence saris should be selected under similar lighting conditions. Dada added to my misery by pointing out that the shopkeepers are notorious for changing the selected sari while packing it.

Apparently it happens so in Shyam Bazaar. You select a blue sari worth Rs.900 and while you are paying for it, they pack a Rs.200 worth green sari. Alerted to this I chalked out a plan: select a sari and get it packed and put it in the briefcase immediately, without letting the attention move to the beautiful lady selecting saris some paces away. Then repeat the process for the second sari. This accomplished I could concentrate on the lady who had by then moved a few paces closer.

All hell broke loose as the second packet was opened in my home, on my return. To my utter surprise both saris were of the same colour and design. The difference was in the thread used for the embroidery on the border.
"How could you do this?" my better half was aghast.
I acted nonchalant, "One is for you and the other for your sister, matching I mean."
"But they are identical!"
Never begin a sentence with 'but', Miss D'Souza had taught me thirty years ago. She would have been pained to hear my better half, but not as much as me.
"I think every man of my age in Mumbai has a white shirt exactly like mine!" I said.
"No!" she was adamant "My sister and I cannot have identical saris. What if we were to wear the same sari on the same day?"
"Probably the world will crash! So let's do like this, you keep one and we give one to my sister."
This masterstroke of mine was met with another glare.
"What if we happen to wear these at a family function?"
Farsighted lady, I must concede. My last suggestion to give it to my secretary, since she does not attend our family functions, was considered unworthy of a reply.

To this day I do not know what happened to the other sari, not that I was ever keen to broach the subject. For nearly ten years after that, before leaving on a tour my wife would say, "Can you get…" and leave the sentence halfway through. This was rather hurtful, but better to swallow it than face the headaches later.

Then came the day of departure for Aurangabad. While leaving she told me to bring one sari of Aurangabad silk, colour light blue with a delicate design. She also specified the price. Our trip to Aurangabad was quite different from my regular tours. Our company was opening a new plant near Aurangabad and we were there for the inauguration. An air-conditioned bus had been hired to carry thirty senior executives for the ceremony. It was almost a picnic, and we were in a great mood as the bus hurtled towards Aurangabad.

My colleague Bhate sat next to me and we were pleasantly discussing the new secretary of the Director, when he said, "I have to buy some bedsheets in Aurangabad."
"I have to buy a sari," I said.
"Is Aurangabad famous for saris?"
"It appears so," I said
The word got around and over lunch almost everyone agreed that it would be wonderful to take back a sari or two.

The next day was spent at the function and by the time we returned to the hotel, there was little time before we got down to the serious business of cocktails. The next day we were totally free. The swimming pool was crowded with our friends, as it appeared that the entire hotel had been booked for our group. Towards the afternoon the gin got the better of us, and most of us disappeared to our rooms for a nap. Suddenly the thought of the saris occurred to one. There was immediately an argument as to how to go about the purchase in an efficient ISO certified manner.

The assistant purchase manager was called. Subramaniam had been holed up in his room since the morning. Non-smoker, non-drinker, Subbu did not even gamble. In fact, he was not very good company. The purchase manager told Subbu, "Go to the market Subbu, we need 46 Aurangabad silk saris."
Subbu was a real soldier, never one to question an order.
"What colour, Sir?"
"Light blue, delicate design," I added and also told him the price range.
"But bargain like hell," his boss added.

Later as we settled down in the bus for the homeward journey, Subbu went around handing packets of saris, checking against his list: 'One for Dr. Ghooi. Two for Bhate. One for Kulkarni. One for Dandekar…' He also collected the money which was around half of what my wife had told me. When you buy 46 saris without harassing the salesman even for a minute, you do get bargains and Subbu was a mean guy to deal with, many of our suppliers had told us.

This time all was quiet when the packet was opened, it was appreciated, though the compliment was backhanded: "For the first time...sensible choice…"
I ignored the uncomplimentary parts. All in all, the sari was accepted in the fold without further ado.

A fortnight later, I told my wife, "We have been invited to a dinner this Sunday."
"Company dinner?" asked my wife. "But I have no sari to wear!"
With two cupboards full of saris I wonder how she could say that. This time, I was able to beat her at the game.
"What about the Aurangabad sari?"
That ended the argument.

Sunday evening was pleasant and the hotel was very nice. The snacks were tasty and plentiful, the drinks just fine, but gloom was cast over the gathering. The men gathered in knots while 18 women dressed in light blue saris of identical design glared at each other and their husbands, turn by turn. Mohan was having a gala time. Being a bachelor he had brought a sari, but that was for his sister and she was not at the party.

My wife hissed at me, but no words came forth. Later in the solitude of the bedroom there would be many, but she was silent for the evening. Mohan came around trying to make small talk.
"Beautiful sari, Bhabhi," and for once my wife did not acknowledge the compliment.
I pulled him aside, "We are in for a tough time tonight, I wonder what to say!"
"Say very Sari dear," said Mohan with a mischievous smile.