As I write this, the girls on the table next to me have been talking about shopping for close to an hour. Their language reveals a growing comfort with consumerism. We no longer buy, but “pick up things” nonchalantly as if there were no monetary transaction involved. I am currently rendered anxious by my wardrobe and this extreme fashionalisation. But I am the overthinking sort who is discomfited by a bank’s coercion that allocates personal loans to shop for shoes. I go into a rant if someone says, “2013 was the year of trapezium bags” or “happiness is a pair of perfect nude heels”.

I like pretty things as much as the next aesthete, but this trivialisation of true happiness and contentment really troubles me. My Twitter and Facebook feed (clearly a reflection of my preferences) shows Instagram filtered photos of curated looks, shoes, jewellery and make-up mastery and store updates of things funnelled from Thailand and China.

I’ve been through all stages of consumerism, ASOS.com OD, credit card debt, hoarding (four Mary Janes of the same make and colour; six pieces of Cotton World’s 2011 “le marinière” tees), trend reactions, purges through garage sales and outof- character buys, high-street fatigue and treating them as outward expression of my internal self (“this is so ME!” Shut up, Mitali. The only thing so you is your abnormally high level of testosterone). Now I crave to fall in love, to be taken by surprise, to find that perfect amalgamation of fabric, print, quality, detail, silhouette and craftsmanship all under R350.

What I mourn is the loss of the process of acquisition and thus the pleasure of conquest. Then there’s the discipline of not reacting to a sale, trend or infatuation and putting some space between you and the object. Dreaming and planning for it. The ingenuity of making a trend your own, by having it tailored with these sleeves, in that fabric (Thakur cutpiece on Hill Road buys surplus of the fabrics printed for designers) and with that neckline. And the creativity and satisfaction of wearing a top again and again till it is threadbare.

These days, I am made happy by the quirk of smallscale independent designers. Kolhapuris with woollen pompoms by Aprajita Toor; the mindful details of Viari bags (key tag, mirror inside the flap); and the thoughtful whimsy of Runaway Bicycle dresses (lining, pockets, below-the-knee hemlines). My men are treated to club collars from The Stiff Collar (.com), chinos from Stall D1 on Fashion Street, ethical tees from No Nasties and dandy shirts and blazers from Crash Boom Bang and H20 (Pali Naka). I exchange old silver at Silver Streak in Bandra and accumulate indigenous jewellery as travel mementoes (Roman glass jewellery from Israel). There is a thrill of discovering ethical labels from other cities (translate: I saw you at Kala Ghoda and can’t stop thinking about us together) or the Ikat sandals from Sole Sisters.

I have always delighted (and built a career) on the scavenger’s high, having scoured places like the shops outside Vile Parle Station, Stall No 66 on Fashion Street for silk sample pieces (where I once spotted an exquisite beaded wedding gown for R1,200) and Pax in Colaba Causeway for samples of bags. For comfortable sandals in luxurious brown, the vendors on the corner of Amrut Sagar on Hill Road (Bandra) are my friends. I shop democratically – pants and blazers from the Men’s section, flowy dresses from Maternity wear and kaftans and maxis meant for bed. Only, I stop and ask myself – “do I love this?” It helps separate what my heart wants from what everyone is telling me I should want. Because even though fashion magazines say otherwise, my lifestyle does not need high heels. And of course, despite all the memes, happiness is not a cute dress. It is being able to eat, dance, sit on the floor with a puppy and laugh with your friends in that outfit till you’ve exhausted it with affection.