Before I went to Goa, due to a series of unfortunate incidents, I ended up entering a Jockey showroom. This sentence itself sounds wrong.
A man going to Goa should be focusing on beaches, sunglasses, shorts, sunscreen, etc., but I went to Marina Mall and entered the Jockey showroom even though I didn’t want to.
Here is what happened.
My son Ritwik’s shoes needed replacement, and because Decathlon there is one of the best places to buy children’s shoes without feeling like you have to take a personal loan, we went to Marina Mall.
After buying a nice pair of shoes, as we were walking back to the elevator, a young, determined kid approached us to sell Club Mahindra vacations.
Don’t get me wrong, I can say “no” when I want to. I have learnt from Rekha, who knows how to say NO in capitals. Especially if my question is, “Do you think we can get together today?”
But then, it was a young kid, and I didn’t want to demotivate him, so I decided to hear his sales pitch for a minute, give him my email ID so that he could meet his targets, and then walk away.
But the kid was determined to make a sale right there. This is the problem with sales training sessions that start with, “If you are a really skilled salesperson, you can sell ice to an Eskimo!”
No, you can’t. That just sounds good in training.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, the determined kid just wouldn’t let me leave. When I started walking away, he also walked beside me, extolling the benefits of taking vacations.
And that’s when I realised we were standing right next to the Jockey store and decided that stepping in was the only way to escape the boy. So I said, “Listen, boy, I need to shop now…catch you later,” and walked in.
After Rekha and I pretended to look for T-shirts for a bit, we looked back and the boy was still standing there.
“Why is he still standing there?” I asked.
“Maybe because you used the phrase ‘catch you later,’” Rekha said.
Now, when I had said “catch you later,” I meant “I am done with you,” but the boy figured that I would be back for the discussion after I finished shopping at Jockey.
That’s when I decided that today I was going to show him what we Rajans are made of — vibranium.
And like every plan a Rajan makes, it was simple yet effective. My plan was to spend 10-15 minutes inside the store so that the sales boy would run out of patience and decide to sell Mahindra holiday packages to other shoppers.
By now, the Jockey salesman was standing close by, watching our every move.
“This one would look good on you, sir!” he said.
I just nodded and moved on. But soon enough, we ran out of T-shirts to see. Then the rows of shorts started, which we explored.
But before we could get through the full row, the Jockey sales rep asked, “Liked any shorts, sir?”
Any other man would have buckled under the pressure of two salespeople – one outside the door and another inside – but not a Rajan.
I held my ground.
“No, these are not the kind I usually wear,” I said, and looked around the store to buy more time.
Through the corner of my eye, I could see that the boy was still standing there, waiting for me to finish and step out so that he could continue his sales pitch.
They say that when the going gets tough, the tough get going.
So I turned towards the salesperson and said, “What else do you have in your store?”
The Jockey salesman’s eyes lit up, and he let out the sentence he must have practised a thousand times before.
With a flourish, he announced, “Did you know that we may be a 150-year-old company, but we have been selling our iconic Y-front briefs for only 92 years?”
I faked interest and played along. “Ohh, wow…really?”
He spotted my fake interest and decided to play along too. “So shall I show you some of our best underwear, sir?”
Now, let me tell you one thing about me – I am old school. I am from the generation of men who still keep a handkerchief in the pocket. This is a proper white kerchief, folded and sometimes even ironed – just that I never had a chance to hand it over to a crying woman.
A man who carries a kerchief cannot be adventurous in underwear, which is why I belong to the black-blue-grey underwear school of thought.
For me, black underwear means business, blue means dependability, and grey means confidence. That’s it. No other colour matters.
But the sales rep showed me white underwear first. White briefs for men? Why? I first wondered, and then decided to ask the salesman.
“What kind of confidence is this? Do men really buy white underwear?”
“Yes, sir, sometimes,” he replied.
I turned towards Rekha and said, “Isn’t it like buying a white sofa when you have children at home?”
She didn’t have a comment. She was too busy looking at the kid who was still standing just outside the Jockey store entrance.
But white was only the beginning, because next, the salesman showed me some really strange colours. On the table in front of us, he laid out men’s innerwear in olive, purple, teal, wine, orange, maroon, khaki, and cream.
I stood there confused. Can men really recognise so many colours? If Jockey were smart, they would have men’s underwear in the three basic colours – red, blue, green – and black for those special occasions.
Who is asking for this variety? Which man woke up in the morning and said, “My life is fine, but what is missing is teal underwear”?
When the Jockey salesman saw me standing there confused, he decided to up the game.
He said, “If you are interested, we have multicoloured underwear as well.”
This completely finished me. At that moment, I was ready to walk out of the store and face the kid from Mahindra Holidays.
Nobody looks at underwear and says, “Solid colour is too formal. I need something with more personality.”
There is nothing inside a man’s pants that requires coloured pattern work!
I tried to wonder about the target audience for multicoloured underwear. And then it occurred to me that it must be men who are worried about staining them. On a solid colour, a stain will definitely be visible.
“Rekha, now I understand. These multicoloured ones are for men who like to camouflage their stains…like soldiers in a forest.”
My wife wasn’t amused. She said, “I am sorry, but if someone’s underwear needs camouflage, they have bigger issues. Maybe they need to visit a doctor.”
As I stood there looking at a patterned brief, I realised that while I was living under a rock, underwear had become fashion.
In my childhood, underwear was underwear. People bought it without much fanfare, washed it secretly, and dried it discreetly.
If guests came home and underwear was drying on the clothesline, my mother would remove it with the speed she reserved only for such occasions.
My train of thought was disturbed by the Jockey salesman, probably because he wanted to close the sale with me and then move on to the other customers.
He said, “Briefs, trunks, or boxer briefs, sir?”
Even though I had heard of trunks and boxer briefs, I had never had a liking for those. For me, a brief is the Maruti 800 of underwear.
So I pointed towards a black brief and said, “This is perfect for me. It is safe, reliable, and has no drama.”
“Are you sure, sir?” the sales rep asked.
And I have to be honest…this is how the big brands get us.
Because when he asked if I was sure, I started wondering if my current life was not enough.
I looked at the black brief again and wondered, “Have I been living too cautiously?”
But then, remember that I am a Rajan…and we Rajans don’t change our positions often. Once I decide, it takes a bulldozer or Rekha to dislodge us from our beliefs.
So I finally bought my colours – black, blue, and grey. I like to call it the holy trinity of Indian male underwear.
As Rekha and I walked out of the store, Rekha looked at the packet and said, “What colours did you buy?”
To her credit, she was exploring the women’s section all this while so didn’t know what I had opted for.
I said, “Black, blue, and grey.”
She said, “Why such serious colours?”
This is the problem with marriage.
If I buy purple, she will say, “What happened to you?”
If I buy black, she will say, “Why so serious?”
A husband can never win.
As a pissed-off me walked beside Rekha towards the elevator, the Club Mahindra sales rep, whom we had forgotten but who had been waiting all this while, made an appearance again.
“Sir, wouldn’t you and ma’am want to escape to one of the Club Mahindra properties every three months?”
I looked back at him and then said, “I don’t even know who this woman is. Why would I go with her to Club Mahindra?” and kept walking.
The boy was stunned enough for us to vanish inside the Marina Mall elevator.