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The Sunday Island continues its serialization, of articles from Nalin Fernando’s hilarious, book "Village Funerals Are Fun and Other Trivia" published by Vijitha Yapa.
Introduction
This article first appeared in a morning English daily on 7 July 1983 less than a year after Cornel Perera, a courageous entrepreneur, who pioneered the supermarket concept in Sri Lanka, opened the first ever city supermarket in Colpetty.
Readers will note that I use the word "Colpetty" and not Kollupitiya. The reason is that the latter word was never used when talking about or referring to Cornel’s Supermarket two and half decades ago. The sweaty common and garden people bought their groceries, meats and vegetables at the Kollupitiya market. The elite shopped, for the first time ever, in air-conditioned comfort at Cornel’s Supermarket in Colpetty.
Shopping at Cornel’s on a Saturday morning became a status symbol of that era , like going to the races at the Ceylon Turf Club on a Saturday afternoon in August before the Sport of Kings was gradually eased out of existence.
And just as bejewelled and well dressed women at the races did their best to be seen betting money that they could ill afford at the high stake tote windows, the smart women at the supermarket were buying goodies that they neither wanted, used or ate to keep up with the de Silvas’, Pereras’ or Fernandos’ next door.
Fortunately this type of buying frenzy at supermarkets does not exist in this day and age. Nor is it of status value to be seen shopping at a supermarket.
The exclusiveness of the old Cornel’s Supermarket in Colpetty is no longer there with hundreds of grocery stores and corner "kades" having usurped the super title. The biggies also do not care whether the customers have style or not as long as they have the cash.
"For heaven’s sake, chile, there are now shoppers at supermarkets dressed like ayahs in cloth and jacket who enquire about the price in Sinhala. And Percy told me that when he went to buy his Scotch the other day, he ran into his office peon buying his provisions on his way home on his bicycle."
by Nalin Fernando
I had walked directly to the meat counter at Cornelis’s, looking neither to the left nor to the right lest I be tempted to buy well-displayed goodies I did not want and could not afford. I then ordered a kilo of pet food for Butzi, my pet Irish Terrier.
The next moment I heard a female voice of the same timbre as that of a Negombo fisher woman telling a neighbour not to make eyes at her husband saying; "Nalin, so this is what you make your bola cutlis with for your drinks party."
I stiffened and looked around. There she was – the woman who years ago had cast me aside like a banana skin for a company director merely because I had surreptitiously slipped a piece of ripe dry fish into her handbag at a wedding reception.
Her decision had paid good dividends – she was dressed elegantly, as most women are for the Cornelis Super Saturday Parade, and her heavily laden shopping cart was being pushed by the company chauffeur in a uniform akin to that of a sanitary inspector.
Her mischievous remark had drawn the attention of every other Saturday shopper around the meat counter-- Colombo 3, 5 and 7 social climbers, diplomatic wives, wealthy Borah men and richer Sindhi women, heavily made-up spouses of duty-free shop owners, smugglers and bookmakers turned and looked at me as if I was wearing only an amude.
I never bandy words with humourless Jezebels. I muttered a cultured "dammit" under my breath and walked away clutching my packet of dog food. Come next Saturday, I thought to myself, I was going to beat them all.
Last Saturday I was there dressed to the zenith of sartorial elegance for a late morning. I had with me, Velu, my broken-English speaking cook who flings the roti on to my plate over his bare-bodied shoulder. That morning he was dressed for the occasion in a milk-white bottle-coat with brass buttons and was the epitome of the butler in high class household, a vanishing tribe who serviced similarly disappearing families. He was caddying the shopping cart three paces to my rear.
On North 1st Avenue I had Velu load up with three packets of jumbo-sized cornflakes, wheat bran and six other cereals and on South 2nd I got a good-looking frying pan and a kitchen knife.
Turning into North 3rd, I did not spare the tinned food. I took enough Campbell cans to feed me for three months. Two of every type of Heinz. Corned beef and meat loaf were transferred easily to my cart.
On South 4th, I got all the things I liked but could never afford. A dozen bottles each of pickled onions and red cabbage, olives, stuffed or otherwise, and green peppers in vinegar. I was just about warming up.
That was when I noticed my fellow shoppers. They were not to be outdone. A FTC industrialist’s wife of nodding acquaintance took six bottles of pickled fish although she and her husband were strict vegetarians. A woman shopping with her grabbed eight bottles of the same.
When I got to North 5th I was warmed up. I pointed out to Velu assorted bottles of spices, including oregano, rosemary, thyme and flaked garlic. He looked concerned and said; "Very expensive, sir. Thuna paha, sudulunu much cheaper at Pushpa Stores".
"Velu", I cut in, louder than the piped-in music, and audible to those near me, "don’t worry about your July salary. Local things are for peasants. Not for me."
Once again we were on our way. At South 6th I loaded up with biscuits of imported marks and on North 7th I took in enough cans of soup to last a year. I had hit peak form.
By now all the shoppers following me were in a frenzy of the supermarket syndrome akin to sharks in bloodied water. They were biting left and right into the shelves, loading up tins, packets, bottles and tubes. Money, whether they had it or not, was of no consequence.
It was with an overloaded cart that I approached the meat counter where I had been made to look like a creepy, crawly thing not long before.
"Son", I told the young man behind, "give me two kilos of top soil".
"Top side, sar," interjected Velu, to which I muttered a cursory "yes, yes, I know" and gave him a withering look.
"No top side today, sir", said the counter chappie.
"Well, well, then give me a kilo of mutton mullet and five hundred grams of peacock tongue", I replied, facetiously.
What I thought was smart crack did not register on the meat vendor’s face. He looked at me blankly. That was when Velu gave tongue again.
"There is no meat for the dog, sar", he whispered. I had not rehearsed him for that whisper but he gave me the cue to one-up them all.
"Velu", I bellowed, "if there is no meat for the dog from Cornelis, we will give the dog cake from Green Cabin".
When I turned around I knew I had won the Saturday Supermarket Stakes by a street. Everybody was standing frozen and gazing at me in awe.
I then nodded at Velu and said; "Ah, I forgot. Get about six packets of Camembert, Velu, at the cheese shelf, far end".
This part of the program I had rehearsed with Velu. He knew what to do.
He turned the shopping cart and backtracked. Moving fast, he took a skid-turn into an avenue and surreptitiously ditched the over-laden cart between the shelves. He glanced around and seeing the avenue was empty, he walked on sans cart.
I overtook him and went to the first checking counter that was free of traffic. I took a packet of Hubba Bubba from the rack by the cash register, smiled at Geetha with the exact amount needed, which was seven fifty, and walked out quickly with Velu at my heels.
My dignity as a supermarket shopper had been restored.
