Some time ago, a scholar in my department argued that we were leading lives when every bit of information about us was being garnered through the World Wide Web. At that juncture, I dismissed it as paranoia that had gripped youngsters. However, I too became part of it, though a little reluctantly; when I had to leave home for a year on a fellowship, I took precautions to install security cameras. In a way, I probably had succumbed to this game of surveillance. These incidents faded away and I was rudely brought back to it when I had to shop.
Shopping, for me, is an enjoyable activity as I feel that in some way it is a sensory experience. The colourful variations of detergents, the aroma of different teas, the innovative names of incense sticks — these and many such create a sense of exploration. Besides this, the human drama unfolding in the shops engross me: children cleverly manipulating their parents to get a coveted toy or treat, elders exasperated by the new choices, young couples beginning to navigate their shared togetherness, and young men or women trying to get the needed groceries for home.
This enjoyment recently turned sour when I went to the store for buying groceries. The attendant at the door had already sized me up and he had I suppose been trained to think that all shoppers were dishonest. The all-in-one attendant-cum-doorkeeper-cum-security man wanted me to deposit my bags which I was relieved to do so. The crossfire between us began when he insisted that I leave my small handbag containing my purse, my debit cards, and my cellphone. He thought that I could juggle these around in my hands. At first, I was just annoyed but slowly anger seeped in when he kept repeating that these were the instructions from the management. I realised that instead of browsing and enjoying the shopping experience, I had to juggle things in my hand. I also became enlightened about how my browsing was not to be enjoyable. With great reluctance, I allowed him to place a plastic chain and thereby tether the bag, a manifestation of the net of suspicion that had been created.
Things did not get better as I entered the shop. The aisles were cluttered with employees rearranging the shelves making it difficult to manoeuvre my trolley. Intensifying this discomfort, I had employees watching every move I made as I browsed the aisles and a couple of them even urging me to buy certain products I was not interested in. To compound matters, I noticed that a young girl was also shadowing me and when I queried, I was informed that she was supposed to keep an eye on customers. When my phone started ringing, I could not respond as it was safely tucked away inside my bag. At the checkout, the card machine malfunctioned, forcing me to pay in cash and emptying my purse entirely.
That day, the joy of shopping evaporated entirely. The human connection, the sensory experience, all replaced by a gagging sense of surveillance. It dawned on me that customers were no longer valued patrons, but potential threats to be monitored, surveyed, and controlled.
Now I have shifted to online shopping where I can sit at home and browse through a plenitude of products with no spying and surveillance and buy what I want with no one peeping over my shoulder. The only thing missing is the human factor.
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