The Mustafa maze

I've begun to notice, in recent times, that roughly once a week, around the weekend, our household runs out of stuff that we require to keep it going. As we gaze at the empty shelves inside the refrigerator, we slowly realize that now's as good a time as  any to grab our trolley and head out to Mustafa Center to stock up. This scene plays out simultaneously  across every Indian home and, in a few hours, a sea of humanity and shopping trolleys descend on Syed Alwi  Road. Mustafa center, the giant Indian shopping center that carries everything from gold to garam masala  and whatever goes inbetween, is located in the Little India belt in Singapore and spans across 2 city  blocks, 4 floors and 3 time zones (all of them running late) and still growing. In fact, NASA recently  confirmed that this store is now visible from Jupiter because it IS the size of Jupiter. They also  confirmed that since this store started expanding, earth's spin has slowed down and they've had to add a  few seconds to the year (OK, I made this up.) In other words, this is a cross between your local Nadar  store and a Burma Bazaar shop. Except, the kid is on steroids (I did not make this up.)

Entry into this monstrosity, with a tastefully done exterior matched only by the aesthetic appeal of the  interiors, is strictly monitored. One cannot carry any bags or containers inside unless they have been  secured with a nylon tie wrap. They couldn't quite figure out how to secure the wide lid of my lunch box  and hence put one right across the strap, for whatever worth it was. You then proceed past two watchful  security guards that can catch the slightest of inappropriety in your carry on items, also have an eye on  what the shoppers carry out, while still catching up on each other's lives back home in India. If you  possess any object that doesn't pass their standards, you will need to deposit that, and your DNA sample  (for matching the owner), with two burlesque guys at the entrance. In return you will be handed a security  tag with an alphanumeric code on it. It may take anywhere between 8 to 12 hours from when you reach the  store entrance to when you actually step inside. To put things into perspective, without a prior  appointment, it takes a little under 30 minutes to get a private audience with the Pope, at the Vatican on  a Sunday. 

Not to discourage propsective shoppers that might be contemplating heading elsewhere, there is a display  at the entrance that assures them that the total occupancy is a benign and manageable 97 at a time when  there is barely elbow room within. A more accurate number would be the display number times 38 plus 12,400  (the ever present floating population a.k.a Mustafa's constant) minus one (That is, if you are still  outside.)

The store is laid out in such a way that no matter how long (or short) your shopping list is, it takes you  roughly 3 hours to pick out the stuff. A fraction of this time, upwards of 96%, is spent in navigating  through the aisles which are comfortably wide enough for a worm. Some parents firmly believe that if there  was one place to teach their kids life's lessons, it would be the aisles of Mustafa's. With their shopping  carts firmly Wedged between two shelves, blocking everybody, they will let their kid pick out the 500gm  packet of chana dal from amidst a maddening array of all kinds of dals known to mankind - a test that Chef  Sanjeev Kapoor failed. Twice. 

Then there are the folks who are in the store because it is their idea of a leisurely evening stroll. They  float at nearly 2kmpy (kilo microns per year) past shelf after shelf, pushing their near-empty cart,  inspecting everything that comes in their line of sight. Then there is the sleep-walking tourist, usually  on a layover at Changi on his way to India, who, upon setting foot into the store, will enter an excited  state and will try to be at all sections at the same time and appears as a blur to the others. I also have fond memories of waiting for the only elevator, my fingers turning blue from the loaded plastic bags that I'm carrying, while a set of parents encourage their daughter, all of 24 inches and 25  months, to reach out to press the elevator button. The girl turns around and beams at her dad after  pressing the wrong button. The dad, ever the patient teacher, gently chides her, "Chotu, we need to go  uuuup (finger pointing upwards). But you pressed the dooooown (finger pointing downwards) button. Try  again!" without the slightest hint of urgency. 

After negotiating the maze of aisles and the crowds multiple times (we shop from a list committed to  memory), I join the billing line, the end of which is actually in a different postal code. At this time,  the shopper needs to be aware of two rules. 

Rule 1: The person ahead of you in the line will be billing 3 cart loads of stuff as you wait with your  single shopping basket.

Rule 2: Roughly 12 (24 in the weekends) people will rush to take up positions ahead of you when you locate  a counter with a slightly short line. 

In the event that the above incidents don't happen and its the turn of the seemingly innocent person with  just a single basket standing before you in the line, members of his family, till then occupying positions  in other lines will materialize, with a cart each, to satisfy rules 1 and 2. Jumping lines (with carts),  now considered a human rights violation by the UN, can be such a painful experience that I don't realize  that the store stacker just parked a loaded cart of Malaysian pineapples with a wheel sitting on my left  foot. After billing and collecting my groceries, neatly packed in plastic bags that can accommodate a  sedan, we walk out triumphantly, relieved at having survived this sadomasochistic ordeal, and make our way  to the train station, forgetting the items we had left at the security desk, the security tag dangling  from my pocket, and the cart of pineapples still stuck to my foot. 

(Image courtesy: http://farm3.static.flickr.com)