Show and Tell is a typical kindergarten activity in many countries where toddlers get an item from home, show it to the class and tell them about it. In India, we have our adult version, as we love to show (off) and tell everyone about the cool, expensive brands we are wearing. Being a poor nation has never deterred us from our brand love, if anything, with our spirit of ‘jugaad’, we have been showing and telling with pride and impunity, our counterfeits paraded as luxury.
My favourite story of counterfeits goes as far back as the time I was born. Which is very far.
At the dawn of 1980s or thereabouts, my U.S. returned aunt lovingly got my little elder brother a Tommy Hilfiger jump-suit, and gloated to the lesser mortals of the family that she was dressing her nephew in legendary brands. Barely born then, yet with a discerning eye, I didn’t think much of the dress or the brand. I suppose that was more to do with evolving feelings of sibling rivalry than evolved preferences (read The Fallen Woman for more on sibling torture). But I shouldn't digress. So, the pale yellow jumpsuit had a happy yellow mango on the breast pocket with deep green leaves jutting out. Our very Bengali household started referring to it as the 'AAM PANT'. (If only it had survived, my brother could have been the original Aam Aadmi, I rue now).
The brother was made to wear it you could say, almost daily, probably to recover its brand value. But it was due to my sharp abilities as I learnt the letter that I spelt it carefully (and in as booming a voice as my tender tonsils would allow) as T.O.N.N.Y. H.I.L.F.I.G.E.R. Everyone promptly gathered around the degraded 'AAM PANT' to catch red-handed, the ns cleverly joined as ms. Consequently, I earned the aunt’s lifetime wrath and my brother lost rights to the 'AAM PANT'. Ignominiously stripped of its brand value, the 'AAM PANT' thereafter, must have donned various hats of a household duster, swab or had a persistently leaking nose wiped on it by a helper's boy.
I recollected this anecdote while reading an article on Counterfeit Luxury Products at the Economic Times Retail blog. The writer well-versed with the business of fakes, rightly assigns the mindset of desiring otherwise unaffordable brands, as the primary reason for brandishing counterfeits. He also provides a – ‘Spot the genuine from the fake for dummies’ guide in the article. All done, luxury brand custodians have a difficult task cut out in a country where fakes are mass produced & consumed, to the extent that you often have hilarious encounters with counterfeit 'brand'ishers.
Few years back when I moved into a newly constructed apartment complex in South Delhi, I rang the neighbour’s doorbell to ask for, I can’t remember what now. What I remember clearly, was a gaunt and bony ‘Abercrombie & Feech’ sweeping the floor, humming merrily, ‘Tumse milne ki tamanna hai...pyaar ka irada hai...’ as I stared aghast.
Another time, I was witness to a dare-devil Michael Koarse joy-riding on a busy street, coarsely braking his Activa in time to save himself from becoming road kill. Fairly regularly, I have spotted comforting lunches of alu-puri come out of Guchhi jute bags or some lady in the restroom pouting for a coat of her Macx lipstick.
If you are the elite-type who has passed elementary school spelling tests, there is another set of 'elitist-fake' wares in the market called 'True Copy', which is comparatively expensive, probably to cover for proof reading. I spotted these recently, on a visit to a local designer, whose assistant paraded various fakes of Givenchy, Cartier, LV and what not, proudly claiming those were 'Original True Copies'!
(The icing on the cake was this - on feeling up a particularly soft overcoat, I asked 'Faux fur?' The assistant replied with some pride "Yes. Absolutely. Fox Fur. Very hot.”
“Lomdi?” I asked again helpfully. She nodded vigorously).
There is little you can do to tame a nation that loves its aspirations, jugaad, salesmanship and shows off its fakes while telling the world – We are like this only!
My favourite story of counterfeits goes as far back as the time I was born. Which is very far.
At the dawn of 1980s or thereabouts, my U.S. returned aunt lovingly got my little elder brother a Tommy Hilfiger jump-suit, and gloated to the lesser mortals of the family that she was dressing her nephew in legendary brands. Barely born then, yet with a discerning eye, I didn’t think much of the dress or the brand. I suppose that was more to do with evolving feelings of sibling rivalry than evolved preferences (read The Fallen Woman for more on sibling torture). But I shouldn't digress. So, the pale yellow jumpsuit had a happy yellow mango on the breast pocket with deep green leaves jutting out. Our very Bengali household started referring to it as the 'AAM PANT'. (If only it had survived, my brother could have been the original Aam Aadmi, I rue now).
The brother was made to wear it you could say, almost daily, probably to recover its brand value. But it was due to my sharp abilities as I learnt the letter that I spelt it carefully (and in as booming a voice as my tender tonsils would allow) as T.O.N.N.Y. H.I.L.F.I.G.E.R. Everyone promptly gathered around the degraded 'AAM PANT' to catch red-handed, the ns cleverly joined as ms. Consequently, I earned the aunt’s lifetime wrath and my brother lost rights to the 'AAM PANT'. Ignominiously stripped of its brand value, the 'AAM PANT' thereafter, must have donned various hats of a household duster, swab or had a persistently leaking nose wiped on it by a helper's boy.
Few years back when I moved into a newly constructed apartment complex in South Delhi, I rang the neighbour’s doorbell to ask for, I can’t remember what now. What I remember clearly, was a gaunt and bony ‘Abercrombie & Feech’ sweeping the floor, humming merrily, ‘Tumse milne ki tamanna hai...pyaar ka irada hai...’ as I stared aghast.
Another time, I was witness to a dare-devil Michael Koarse joy-riding on a busy street, coarsely braking his Activa in time to save himself from becoming road kill. Fairly regularly, I have spotted comforting lunches of alu-puri come out of Guchhi jute bags or some lady in the restroom pouting for a coat of her Macx lipstick.
If you are the elite-type who has passed elementary school spelling tests, there is another set of 'elitist-fake' wares in the market called 'True Copy', which is comparatively expensive, probably to cover for proof reading. I spotted these recently, on a visit to a local designer, whose assistant paraded various fakes of Givenchy, Cartier, LV and what not, proudly claiming those were 'Original True Copies'!
(The icing on the cake was this - on feeling up a particularly soft overcoat, I asked 'Faux fur?' The assistant replied with some pride "Yes. Absolutely. Fox Fur. Very hot.”
“Lomdi?” I asked again helpfully. She nodded vigorously).
There is little you can do to tame a nation that loves its aspirations, jugaad, salesmanship and shows off its fakes while telling the world – We are like this only!
