When I first got my hands on a credit card in 2000, after moving from Madurai to Chennai, I didn’t fully understand how credit cards worked. So I behaved like a man who had accidentally discovered oil in his backyard.
I bought ColorPlus shirts and trousers as if there was no tomorrow. One shirt and one pair of trousers would cost around Rs 4,000, which was a bold financial strategy considering my salary was slightly under Rs 20,000 a month.
But youth is a beautiful thing. At 25, if you have a credit card, one good shirt, a pair of jeans, Brylcreem, and a Yamaha, you think life is under control.
Eventually, though, something changed. Maybe it is something about Indian men. Somewhere along the way, we stop buying things for ourselves.
I remember my father during Diwali. While my mother and all of us kids would have brand-new clothes kept before the Goddess for puja, my father would quietly place one white vest and one lungi.
That’s it. As if his ambitions had retired before he did. Today, I have become the same.
Honestly, I can wear my company T-shirt every day of the week – a black tee with ‘Firestorm Internet’ written on it. That’s all. I think…I have reached that dangerous stage in a man’s life where comfort has defeated style.
But Rekha…she belongs to another species altogether when it comes to shopping.
At least once every day, she will show me the Myntra app and ask: “How is this, Rajan?”
If you are newly married, listen carefully. This is not a question.
This is an entrance exam.
And the correct answer is always: “Wow… this will look really nice on you.”
Never reject anything your wife shows you. That is not your responsibility.
Given enough time, she herself will reject it, shortlist another three dresses, eliminate two, bring back the original option, reject it yet again, and then finally order something completely unrelated.
Your only role is emotional support.
Never ask: “What happened to the dress you showed yesterday?”
Brother… don’t go there. That road has no U-turn.
And God forbid Rekha finally decides to place an order. Because one dress is never ordered.
The dress will arrive in two colours and two sizes. Which means four packets arrive at home looking like Myntra has opened a warehouse in our flat.
The real drama begins after delivery, usually during breakfast…because for some reason, women try out new clothes only after taking a bath.
I will be peacefully eating dosa with coconut chutney when suddenly Rekha will emerge from the bedroom wearing skirt version 1.
Now, amateur husbands immediately make mistakes here.
They say things like: “This is awesome…go for it.”
Wrong. Very wrong. You are not supposed to conclude the process before the process concludes itself.
Marriage has taught me that women don’t always want decisions. They want participation.
The correct answer is: “This looks very nice… but why don’t you also try the other colour once?”
That’s when she will give you “the loving look” and turn dramatically and walk back into the bedroom.
At this point, I suggest husbands take deep breaths, drink water, and mentally prepare for Round 2.
Now here is the secret.
By the time Rekha opened the packet itself, she had already decided which colour she liked more. The second dress she wears is almost always the winner.
The first one is just to include you in the decision-making process – after all, India is a democracy.
So when she walks out wearing Colour Number 2, that is your cue.
Tilt your head slightly, narrow your eyes thoughtfully like a Fashion TV judge, and say: “Hmmm… I think this may actually be better.”
And immediately add: “But honestly, you’re looking beautiful in both.”
This last sentence is not romance. It is insurance.
Once the colour is finalized, the next battle is size, and thankfully, here we husbands have no role.
Because women stand in front of the mirror evaluating size, the way ISRO scientists evaluate rocket alignment.
Never say that the dress is too tight or too loose, because before you can blink, the conversation can reach the weighing scale.
At the end of this entire exercise, out of the four dresses that arrived from Myntra, three were returned.
Men, on the other hand, shop very differently.
No man has ever said, “If this trouser was available in maroon, it will suit me” or “Ohh, I love this mauve, I don’t have anything in this color.”
Six years back, I bought a few USPA T-shirts online. They were grey, blue, and black. They fit well, felt comfortable, and most importantly, they required no thinking.
So every time one of them starts fading, stretching, or looks like it has been in a 20-year old marriage, I simply go back to my old Myntra orders, find the same T-shirt, and order the same colour again.
At any point in time, I usually have three versions of the same T-shirt in circulation – one in ‘good condition,’ one in ‘faded condition,’ and the third one in ‘get into the bedroom to change if anyone comes home’ condition.
If you see the photo attached, my daughter and I are wearing two of the three versions of the gray t-shirts.
That is how men shop. No experiments. No emotional investment.
Which is why I used to wonder: “How does Myntra even make money?” among all the returns.
But then I open Rekha’s wardrobe and get all the answers.
Inside are dresses with tags still attached, kurtas waiting for “the right occasion,” sarees that have only attended one wedding, and tops that are there for “after I have lost two kilos.”
That’s when I realize – Myntra isn’t surviving because of women like Rekha. It is built because of women like Rekha.
Moral of the story: Me thinks…women shop to find out who they are, and men shop to remain exactly who they were.