“Lightyear-Long Bills & Broken Backs: The Sarcastic Tale of D-Mart Shopping”

The D-Mart Tragedy: When Grocery Shopping Becomes a Full-Fledged Kumbh Mela

Let me start with a warning: D-Mart is not a shopping destination. It is a black hole that swallows wallets, energy, patience, and the belief that you came here “just for bread and eggs.” If you thought grocery shopping was a boring task, think again. It’s nothing less than a tragedy, a circus, and a warzone rolled into one. And this time, I was the unfortunate soldier thrown into the battlefield.

The Great Entry

We walked in with three people (myself included), an empty stomach, and the bold, naïve dream of buying “just a few essentials.” The automatic glass doors slid open like the gates of destiny. The fluorescent lights hit us in the face. The smell of detergent, chips, and discounted shampoo filled the air. Somewhere in the distance, a child was crying, an uncle was bargaining with a floor manager, and a lady was questioning a poor staff member on why the “Buy 2, Get 1 Free” soap pack didn’t come with a fourth free bar.

This was not shopping; this was survival.

Cart No. 1: The Innocent Start

The first cart was respectful. It was humble. A few packets of bread, biscuits, rice, dal, and maybe a soap. “See, this won’t take long,” we told ourselves. We even whistled a little tune.

Then the aisles started calling us.

Shampoo: “Oh, look, family pack!”

Utensils: “We do need one more frying pan, right?”

Stationery: “Notebooks are never enough. Take five.”

Frozen section: “Pizza pockets at 15% off. Grab them before everyone else does.”

The cart filled up quickly. By the time we crossed the toiletries aisle, we were dragging it like an overloaded bullock cart.

Cart No. 2: The Downfall

One cart wasn’t enough. So, with the optimism of fools, we grabbed another. “This one’s only for hygiene and medicines,” we declared. Ha. What a joke.

Soon, the cart looked like a small medical store combined with a mini cosmetic counter. Toothpaste from three brands (because why not?), body washes in tropical, floral, and mystery scents, face creams we never knew existed, and enough Dettol to disinfect a small country.

We were losing control.

Cart No. 3: Rock Bottom

This was the point of no return. We got the third cart because the first two were begging for mercy. Into it went utensils, cleaning supplies, chips, more biscuits, and enough Maggi packets to run a college hostel.

By now, our faces looked like soldiers in war films—tired, sweaty, and determined.

The Bill Counter: The D-Mart Horror Story

We wheeled our three carts to the billing counter. Our cashier looked at us like a doctor looks at a patient who says, “It’s just a little chest pain.” He began scanning. Beep. Beep. Beep. A never-ending symphony of beeps.

The bill rolled out. It kept rolling. Honestly, NASA could have used it to measure a light year. People in other lines peered at us with horror and admiration, as if we were breaking some record for “Most Items Scanned in a Single Transaction.”

And then it flashed:

Total: ₹11,024

I could almost hear violins playing in the background. Someone behind us gasped. Somewhere nearby, an auntie fainted.

The Packing Tragedy

The staff packed everything into 9–10 bags. Correction: giant sacks. They looked less like shopping bags and more like we were smuggling potatoes for a wedding feast. Each bag felt as heavy as Jupiter.

Now, here comes the fun part: fitting all of this into one single autorickshaw.

Three people. Ten bags. Zero space.

We tried every combination imaginable. Bags on laps, bags under seats, and one person hugging a detergent pack like it was a long-lost lover. At one point, I thought someone would have to sit on the roof like Bollywood extras in the 90s.

The Auto Ride Home: A Tight Affair

The auto groaned under the weight. The driver looked back with the face of a man who has seen too much. Every speed bump tested our endurance. Every turn risked spilling flour, chips, or one of us out on the road.

Imagine sitting with your knees to your chin, a packet of rice poking your ribs, a bottle of toilet cleaner threatening to topple into your lap, and your friend holding a bag of onions like a newborn baby. That, my friends, was us.

The Aftermath

Getting home was not the end. Oh no. Then came the task of carrying the bags up the stairs. Nine bags. Four hands. Broken backs. At one point, I questioned all my life choices.

Unpacking was another nightmare. Suddenly we discovered duplicates. Three shampoos of the same type. Six packets of biscuits. Two toilet brushes (don’t ask). It felt like the bags were mocking us: “You thought you were shopping smart, didn’t you?”

Moral of the Story

Never—and I repeat—never go to D-Mart with the intention of buying “just a few things.” You will come out broke, exhausted, and questioning humanity. The store is designed like a clever maze: once you enter, you don’t come out until your wallet has cried and your auto has collapsed.

Next time, I’m making an oath. Bread and eggs = local kirana. Not D-Mart. Never again.

(Okay fine, maybe next month. When Surf Excel is on discount.)

Why D-Mart Is Basically an Amusement Park

Let’s be honest—D-Mart is less of a supermarket and more of a theme park for adults:

You pay at the gate (with your wallet).

You go on rollercoasters (the three-cart journey).

You scream (at the bill).

And you leave with souvenirs (enough groceries to start a ration shop).

So yes, grocery shopping at D-Mart isn’t shopping—it’s an adventure sport. Dangerous, exhausting, but oh-so memorable.

Final Thought

If NASA ever wants to train astronauts for long missions, they should just send them to D-Mart with ₹5,000 and the instruction to “buy only what you need.” That task alone will reveal who is truly fit for space exploration.

As for me, I’m still dealing with the emotional scars of that ₹11,000 bill. My auto driver is still recovering from back pain. And my house? It looks like a mini D-Mart branch.

But hey, at least we won’t run out of shampoo till 2030.