AMONG the greatest joys of our lives are our purchases. A swank car, a dream home, a fine suit or the musky, leathery fragrance of a purse – sweet dreams are made of these.
Our special buys become landmark events in our personal histories. A Swiss double-dial watch takes us to our first trip to Switzerland, a golden Dolce & Gabbana belt to a serendipitous sale in New York, handmade Bruno Magli shoes to a posh little village outside Rome. A Mont Blanc pen that has come down three generations. Or a Chanel jacket that was a gift from a favourite aunt. Our things are the repositories of our memories. They transport us to moments in time instantaneously.
I suspect this is why our hearts break a little when we lose an acquisition. One cannot gainsay the pretty price tag of the abovementioned isn’t a factor to be considered either. But when we lose something special, a sadness engulfs us.
Last year, three Prada replica handbags died on me. One’s lambskin leather just frayed, another’s handle broke into two and a third’s silk lining is so ripped it eats up what it’s carrying. Within months of each other, they decided to tell me their time had come.
I was crushed. This collective carnage caught me unprepared. I’m sure I cried but I won’t admit it if you ask me to my face. My memories were gone. And a lot of money too.
What does one do with purses when they are gone? I WhatsApped several friends with my metaphysical query. I received a mixed bag, obviously, of replies. One said she gave them away to younger cousins or nieces just as soon as she noticed the first sign of overuse. But I suspect the millennials barely care for Hermes today. Another said she offered them to the maids. My Maharashtrian fighter cats would return them to me with a “jhuna hain”. A third said she never let her replica bags come to that sort of death – she sends them to a handbag spa for re-moisturising and rejuvenation.
Sounds like the Austrian wonder resort that has sprinkled the elixir of life on Karan Johar and Sonam Kapoor.
The fourth category would be me. My purses are too worn to be gifted away. Their current condition won’t even allow me to take them to the bazaar to buy bhindi.
Statistics show women go through 111 replica handbags uk in their lifetime. At about Rs 3,000 for a bag, which is what an average middle-class person would pay, that’s the price of a small car. But if you like designer initials on your leather, these purses cost an average of Rs 1.20 lakh for a purse. A poll called onepoll. com states that a woman buys a fake handbag every three months.
The high prices we are willing to pay for our cashand-comb carriers has led to the birth of a handbag clinic. These are special dry cleaning services for leather replica bags and shoes that remove stains, re-stitch, re-fit and even correct colours.
I’ve never tried them, but a friend sent her Ferragamo tote to Zapato after spilling a whole glass of red wine on it. Rs 7,000 and a week later, her bag was as good as new. So clearly a treatment such as this is only worth your Zadig & Voltaire, not your Zara.
My over-loved Prada outlet sit at the bottom shelf of my wardrobe, in their labelled shrouds, awaiting a respectable burial. Which is the plastic-lined straw dustbin in my bedroom. It’s been a year, and I’m still mustering courage to let them pass.
I wonder if there’s a handbag heaven out there. Do they become stars after they have been taken away from us? Or will they be reborn and return to us, since I have been a good Hindu all my life.