Mrs Goody Two Shoes V

Battling the brochures

I salute the salesmanship of my colleagues. And I envy their ability to make some extra money, that too, at my cost

I had had to cook a thousand dishes for the guests who were coming in the evening, skip breakfast in the process, wear crumpled clothes and, after this morning saga of bedlam, barely managed to reach office on time. There were a million, zillion things on my mind, not least of them being how to keep the Boss happy (for yet another day, trust me, it is quite a daily challenge). I was just catching my breath and leafing through my daily planner to see where all in the city my job I needed me to be during the day. So, it wasn't the best of times to be accosted by the mini businessmen (and women) who seem to be omnipresent in office premises across sectors, and who somehow manage to find time out of their regular office schedule to make that extra dough.
Rupali, a senior in the reporting section, swooped in on me. "Look at these gorgeous little sparklers hon'." I cringed. It was nine in the morning. I was starving. In another 20 minutes I had to drive miles for an interview. It took a good ten-second pause before I could turn around and fathom what she was talking about. "Great range of colours, and 10% discount for my special customers."
If you still haven't inferred what the fuss was all about, it was a lipstick range from one of those companies -- Avon, Oriflame, Amway -- which prefer to build an army of representatives to beleaguer innocents like me instead making their products sit pretty on some supermarket shelf. And the business acumen of the soldiers, of whom Rupali is one, would be exemplary for any small-scale industry model.
"Uh, Rupali, I am somewhat hard pressed for time now, so if we could talk about this later?"
"Oh come on! Just take one look. These babies are so gorgeous (she needs more adjectives) they'll make you drool." It is just appalling how everyone wants instant gratification, kind of like it is merely an extension of instant coffee. She thrust the booklet at my face, and left with a "Just mark which ones you want, I'll get them tomorrow." How presumptuous! I hadn't even committed to anything.
Truth be told, I did not need to commit. They just know their war is won the moment they have slyly slipped the brochures into my hands. I am not avaricious, no. But, either to please the battalion of seniors or to act like the benefactor of the whining bundle of juniors, I have bought everything from Tupperware glasses, bowls, bottles to orange lipsticks and green nail shades. So, I am a 'special customer' all right, beguiled every time, and, at the end of the day, staring in horror at the pile of junk that just keeps getting bigger.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes IV

So much for being polite

Some female rituals can be quite frightening -- kitty parties, for example

It was my first time. I was stepping into uncharted territory and I was super conscious about doing things right. I had been wondering the whole of last week if I fit into the demographics at all or not, but nonetheless, as in the many other things, I had already made the commitment and been dragged into the orgy of pink lipsticks and heavy jewellery, of chiffons and silks.
I blame my extremely good upbringing for this. I mean, for the fact that I had landed myself in this mess of all things I propose to stand against. What had conspired was simple. The bell rang one evening and Mrs Bhasin made an entry with aplomb. We looked such an anti-thesis to each other -- she in her over-dressed plumpness, a thick fog of perfume hanging around, and me looking like a scraggly alley cat, lying on the sofa like a recluse munching on a leftover piece of chocolate, devouring Ralph Fiennes in the '92 version of 'Wuthering Heights'.
Mrs Bhasin's conversations never have introductions, her questions are mostly rhetorical. She swooped in on me, "You don't have any friends, no? Nothing to do in the evenings? Oh ho, why I hadn't thought of that before?" "That's not really true and I don't see why you have to even bother thinking about that," is what I had hoped I could say, but instead, I gave her that well-remembered Puss in Boots look from 'Shrek'.
"You have to, have to come this Saturday evening to my kitty party. I have organised a big thing, you know? And I am taking out my best dinner set also!" she was full of glee. I so wanted to get her out of the house, and because of my erstwhile mentioned upbringing, the "Of course" just slipped out.
That Saturday, I was in the sets of one of the Ekta Kapoor serials. Or something grander. The ladies were dressed to kill (you would die if you actually saw the heavy coating of foundation, matching bag-shoe-sari-eyeshadow).
Shriek: "Ooooh! Mr Bhasin is soooo romantic. He gave you heart-shaped diamond locket for birthday?"
Gloating: "New shoes, Latika? But I have told my husband's (no name taking and all) big brother to get me Manolos."
Drawl: "I am so bored with the Mercedes, I'm going in for an Audi this month."
They made it all sound like grocery, and I couldn't, of course. Their only other topic was Hindi serials, in which I couldn't participate, of course.So, at the end of the ritual, my head was in a tizzy. Clueless in a gang of raving females, with no diamonds or Audis in sight of my life for miles, I was being smothered. I think I even muttered in a very filmy fashion, "Mein kaun hoon? Mein kahan hoon?"