On a crisp winter day, a friend gave me an appointment to show off NCR?s famous, sophisticated shopping pattern. My hired car driver took me to a shopping mall in the indicated area, but I found nothing exceptional. After making pertinent inquiries, I realised it was another adjacent mall. Arriving at the mall?s entry point, I immediately understood why my driver was not familiar with it, he drives only a lowly Corolla! My friend called to apologise; she?s running late. So, I utilised her delay by watching a stunning catwalk display of shoppers as they sashayed into the mall like models alighting from premium to super luxury cars. It was spectacular.
An aerodynamic, yellow Porsche Crossover glided to a stop. The driver, looking confident like he was the owner, went to open the back passenger door. A 45-year-old gentleman donning expensive sunshades emerged with a stylish swish. His trousers were glossy, hairstyle quite like Mr Casanova. The driver brought out a jacket covered in a hanger. Very delicately the owner extracted and wore it. He walked exactly like an Italian machismo in a southern Italy beach in summer. When he crossed me, a strong whiff of perfume overtook an air pocket, lingering on in my nose for at least a couple of minutes. What amazed me was his preference of being chauffeured like royalty; my Porsche-owning western friends would never sacrifice the pleasure of driving a Porsche.
Now, a power-exuding white Audi Q7 made its presence felt. An elegant woman, weighing perhaps 200 kilos, came out wearing a colourful dupatta, gold Cartier cat?s eye glasses, shoes from Jimmy Choo?s collection, her handbag had Louis Vuitton printed on it. The driver who?d held the door for her was in a white uniform with a captain?s hat. A thin girl got out from the other door. Her caretaker status quickly became apparent as she took Madame?s big Louis Vuitton from her hand. A tall, thin girl seated in front came out wearing denims and extremely high stilettos, most probably Christian Louboutin, the French shoemaker. On this young woman?s neck I recognised the signature orange Hermes foulard (scarf) and a very modern orange Hermes clutch bag. Can you picture the splendid catwalk? Grandmom?s footfall was in step with young granddaughter, followed by the caretaker, all approaching me at the entrance. I felt I was in Grasse, south of France, which has the world?s biggest perfume industry.
Soon, a black BMW X5 drove in, its third row seating removed to accommodate a velvety-silk textured, humongous German Shepherd. Wearing a black and gray suit, the driver opened the second row door for a petite woman. Her black, gray and brown dress looked very haute couture, with muted embroidery, no violent colour. Before the driver could fully lift the dicky door, the beige dog, panting impatiently, tumbled out. Madame was caressing and kissing the responsive dog, almost as tall as her on two legs, a lot of koochy-koochy-koo love words were exchanged. Finally, the dog had to return to the boot. As though to compensate her height, with her subtle dress she wore bright blue high heels, which went click-click-click past me into the mall.
Now, it was the turn of an incredible red horse. All eyes around the driveway were riveted to this horse as it deafeningly screeched to a halt. You can surely imagine what this red animal could be. Both the driver and passenger sat in front. Contrasting that speedy stop, the driver came out languorously, in casual clothes, curling, gelled hair brushed back. His flambouyant attitude made it clear he was the owner, not an employee. When the woman stood up from her low-slung seat, you could have easily mistaken her for a fashion model, she being six-feet tall. Her bright gold top looked sophisticated with violet slacks. Her slinky strides in golden shoes were better than any pouting ramp walker. Her companion returned after parking the red horse, a Ferrari.
Oh la la! Here was a longish white palace with straight grille coming in front of me. You couldn?t see anything inside, the windows totally black-shaded inspite of the government?s ban on it. It?s true, money can buy everything, even darkness. The khaki safari-suited driver was chewing paan. Very discreetly, he walked a little away to spit out red juice, before opening the door of this totally new Rolls-Royce. A 65-year-old disembarked, his three-piece suit was perhaps from Armani. His thick, black coiffured mane with middle parting was probably a wig. His driver brought out a Louis Vuitton briefcase from the front passenger seat and placed it atop the limousine?s bonnet. The gentleman took another Louis Vuitton from it, a pocket wallet; the driver then shut the briefcase and put it back. As this well-built, not flabby, man approached, strong ittar smell wafted towards me. Affluence had migrated his taste to European luxury, but in perfumery and his driver, he retained his authentic Indian style.
My hour-long observation of the opulence catwalk was indeed remarkable. More so as this recently opened urbane mall was amidst totally underdeveloped environs. Construction was underway everywhere. Starkly in the middle was this Monte Carlo-kind-of-luxury ambience surrounded by shopping areas for the masses. In Paris, Milan or London, luxury shopping is housed in heritage establishments reflecting traditional and gorgeous authentic flair. To this artificially created ambience in India?s capital have flocked the most luxurious European brands, as though to a circus pavilion to extract big sales from relevant sophisticated customers. The ritual here is to flaunt wealth. The experience of showing off is more important than appreciation of connoisseurship. This is India?s new upper class; not nouveau riche, I call them flaunting-richesse. Luckily for me, I spied upon this opulence catwalk, quite unnoticed.
Shombit is an international consultant to top management on
differentiating business strategy with execution excellence
(www.shiningconsulting.com)
