Not Today

Not today, not right now...
Don't ask me to smile.
I'd rather cry a tear,
Let a dark scream settle on my heart.
I'd rather the glass shattered,
The pieces scattered.
A thousand pin pricks on my soul.
Let me fall apart, crash, burn, toss, turn.
Just this once,
Let me be weak. Petty. Small.
I won't be a pillar... No... Not today. Or maybe not at all.

For her

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? – The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran

She was as radiant as the Sun itself. So beautiful, so elegant. Almost like a poet’s painting. Not almost, no. A poet’s painting. For when you stood in front of her, you just stood there, awed. I always did.

With didun, it felt like lilies, raindrops, chocolate cake – you know, those nice little things that just light up moments. Sunny Park visits meant happy conversations, lots and lots, AND LOTS of great food on the table, lots and lots of eating under didun’s supervision, and lots and lots of being loved.

I want her still to be a phone call away. I want her still to be treating us like grandmums treat grandkids – like grandkids. I want her still to call me and share her worries. I want her still to soothe me with her voice. I want to be selfish. I want her back, our didun.

Our didun. So rich in spirit. So divine. She was what I dream of becoming. What I can only dream of becoming.

But don’t worry didun, in a not-so-far-away time, we shall meet again, in another dream. And there, you can tell me the secret of becoming you. So long then.

[We lost didun on 25 October 2012. Another heartbreaking goodbye, another vaccum.]

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XLI

The boy who never grew up
And that wasn't really cute.

How would you feel if this sight greets you when you come home after a day at work?

A lanky 25-year-old boy/man, who thinks he's still fifteen, sprawled out on your sofa, in a pair of shorts that exposes three-quarters of his scraggly, hairy legs, in full control of your remote control – and of your life... well, almost.

Boy-man: "Hey, how was work?"
Me: "Hmmm... The boss thinks I'm not doing enough. She's a real..."
Boy-man: Had already turned away and was laughing at a disgustingly moronic Hindi sitcom.

WHICH 25-YEAR-OLD MAN WATCHES HINDI SITCOMS??? Apparently some do. At least this guy, who'd parked himself at our place, does. He, some junior from the husband’s college, had written, or should I say FBed the husband one night that he was coming to town. And would like to stay for a few days. Only a few, till his visa gets sorted. Visa? Oh, did he not say? His girlfriend's gone to Portugal and he wants to follow and it's much easier to get visas from here rather than from his city and hence the arrival. Also, it would be SO cool to catch up after ALL these years.

Now, let me tell you, the husband and I... us... we are pretty used to, and good to, guests. The guest room's ever ready for anyone to come and crash. And I! I am the most tolerant and amiable hostess ever. I make sure there's food on the table and water in the loos. A guest doesn't, couldn’t need anything more to subsist.

The problem in this case was that the stranger-to-me, junior-to-the-husband was the quintessence of a Bangali babu. I immediately became his boudi (as the husband was already a dada). And the moment you are designated a boudi, the brother-in-law weirdly gets a preordained right to act like a kid and demand undue pampering.

Boy/man: "Boudi, let's make a continental spread tonight. Please. Please please! Dada was saying how good you are with it. Maybe a quiche, and a meatloaf. Baked veggies, yum! Maybe a cheesecake to end with!" He went off into an orgasmic relish of imaginary food. I chose to glare at the husband, the silence meaning and even imploring, "do not ever dare tell him, or ANYONE, that I cook well. That I cook AT ALL". “Let’s make” obviously implied “you make, we all eat”. I let that pass. Just a night, god, just one night.

Not quite that easy. Bangali babu was used to being served a grand meal breakfast, lunch, dinner. Dal, something to go with the dal, sabzi, fish, and meat. And it being the remnant of the winter season, he needed his coffee, at 6, in bed.

Milk, bread, chocolates, cookies vanished from my food store. (For a lean fellow, he had a ravenous appetite.) His clothes piled in my laundry basket. The television rights gradually went to him. The laptop turned into a gaming machine. He read books halfway through, got bored and let them lie anywhere – I must define anywhere. The ledge on the balcony railing. Rim of the washbasin, precariously balanced. Kitchen cabinet. Under the sofa. In his dirty clothes pile inside the laundry basket.

The husband silently slunk away and spent hours at work. That was the most tortuous part for me. I had nothing to say to boy-man. I was not interested in boy-man's juvenile tales. "When I was 10, we went to Bombay. Oops, must say Mumbai now, no? [Giggle giggle]... yap yap yap..." Dude, what's funny about that??

After an arduous three weeks, he told us he’d got the visa. His work in the city was done. (My) Inference: He’d be leaving the next day. I was so thrilled that I really did cook a huge Bengali meal to celebrate my liberation. He let out a nasty burp, and smiled at me indulgently as if at a cute but errant puppy, “It was all very well, boudi. Thank you. I just thought the ilish could’ve done with a little more salt. And of course, instead of the mishti doi from a shop, you could’ve easily made payesh yourself. No worries. Maybe tomorrow night, huh?”

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XL

Not quite without a hitch

Wedding bells, wedding bells, wedding all the way

I wasn't sure at which point I'd been sucked into the vortex of activity. I'd arrived
in my best clothes – well, not really, because I did not care – with my mother-in-law
at her friend's son's wedding. Well, this wasn't exactly the wedding. We were at the pre-wedding "party". There were about a couple of dozen senior citizens, all dashing
in their South silks and tussar kurtas, there was a hassled groom in his jeans and checkered shirt, and... I think that was about it. I plastered a polite smile on my face, stood in a corner, and generally tried to be inconspicuous. I was bored out of my wits. So what I did next was just to kill the boredom. I saw the groom's mother lugging a suitcase full of gifts for the bride's family.

"Uh, auntie, you need help?"

"Huh?"

I should've just left her in her dazed state.

"May I... help?"

Pause... pause... "So sweet of you beta! Yes, carry this upstairs. Keep it in the second bedroom, next to the smaller wardrobe. On the second rack of the bigger wardrobe, you'll see a blue silk stole. You'll find a tiny box of gold earrings wrapped in that stole. Bring the one with the emerald setting. But put the box inside the locker, I'd forgotten! There's so much to do na beta. What can I say! Bring the stole downstairs too. Tinkai [groom's warped Bengali-style nickname] will wear it for lunch. He needs to wear the silk kurta, I've been telling him since morning... Kids these days.... hmpf..." She walked off in a huff. I stood there, sipping my vodka. What just happened?
I hauled the heavy suitcase, plonked it where it was supposed to be plonked, and tried opening the wardrobe that had the blue stole and emerald earrings. I tugged. It was locked. No man!
Climb down flights of stairs to find groom's mom, only to find out she is in the "first bedroom" upstairs. Climb up, but oh, she's left the key with her husband downstairs. Get to her husband... Finally, I did get to the earrings, and the stole – none of which anyone wore.
All the running around had only one result – I got officially recognized as a "very useful person".
So next morning, I found myself making up a rubbish excuse for office, bunking work, and being at the beck and call of every conceivable person at the wedding venue.
A seven-year-old screamed, "Didi, where is my Ben 10 watch?" I ran to find the mama who had the purse that had the watch.
My purple saree had a blotch of haldi on it. My face, too, looked like it'd been dyed in turmeric paste. My heels made my ankles ache. I served tea, I sang songs, I patiently listened to tuneless aunts singing – in fact, I started feeling quite proud of myself!
I was so busy that I didn't quite realize when the day was nearly done and evening descended. I heard someone screaming, "Why aren't you dressed yet? Uff, women. The car can't wait for you all night! We were supposed to be at the bride's by now!"
This was some random uncle, and all the vitriol was intended for me of course. Then he turned to me, and dared to ask, "What were you doing all day???"
I slipped into a party dress – the most time-saving outfit – and slipped into the car. When we arrived at the wedding venue, I slipped to the corner that had the bar. Slipped myself a drink, I needed it to survive. And finally heard, "Girls these days. Acts all good-good in the morning. And look, now she's gone off to the men's corner, and... (sinister whisper) is drinking! Bhagwan!"

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXIX

A dangerous game

Kids at play can get on your nerves, and land you in trouble

Summer holidays. Of course not for me! For the cackling kids around the colony. The calm that usually descends in the society after six in the evening – except for the occasional screams from mums at the appalling state of their kids' knowledge levels -- had been plundered. The first few days were tolerable. In fact the giggles and chatter drifting around in waves were a pleasant change from the solemn, pretentious silence that I encounter every day when I return from office. I think I even said this cheesy line to the husband one evening: "Aren't they like little birds chirping? How sweeeeeet... hmmmm (sigh sigh)."

The days wore on, the novelty factor wore off. The constant prattle from the playgrounds below became like a machine droning somewhere far away, but not quite far enough. Or a mosquito buzzing in your ear. Or a spluttering radio trying to catch a signal. And cricket balls started landing in our balcony til way after sunset, sweaty kids running up the stairs to fetch the ball and ask for "auntie water", and then indignantly "auntieeee, COLD water". "Auntie five minutes cartoon network", "auntie chocolate biscuits", "auntie you are BAKING? Mmmmmm!", "auntie angry birds on your phone, pliss pliss pliss pliss, waaaan time, one time only!" – the entreaties became more demanding with the passing days, days that passed real slow.

I wanted to say "Shoo!" Don't pretend, you would too if it became a nagging everyday thing. But they are neighbours' kids. Only once I told a kid not to bring her dusty shoes on my carpet and made her stand outside. She went and squealed! Asha, the mother of course, caught me at the supermarket the next day and gave me a lecture, cynicism dripping off each word – "Oh, I am soooo sorry my little Nikki walked into your home in her three-grand Gucci pairs [ya, like I would've died if she hadn't given me that piece of information]. Your poor carpet, is it Cashmere?" "Cashmere"??? Who says "Cashmere"? And yes, I got her point. She might as well have pinched and drawn blood from me. My carpet is a Delhi Haat buy, in which even your bare feet won't sink in. Definitely cheaper than the three-grand over-top-top footwear that a five-year-old spoilt girl was sporting.

From then on, I've been super careful. Just supply the pesky things with anything they want. From helping them do potty in my place to letting them play with my Swarovski decoration pieces. I greet them with sugary sweet smiles. Supply them food at regular intervals. Even buyt them cricket balls! And then...

Admonition: "You gave my hunny bunny banana walnut cake? He is allergic to banana! You have to be careful, no?"
Condescension: "I know you don't have a kid yet, I understand. But, um, you should know, that much cold water has given Rajat a soar throat."
Outrage: "That woman gets these kids the damn cricket balls to break our windows! Why do you have to get involved in their silly games??? ARE YOU NOT OLD ENOUGH????"

ME? GET INVOLVED? You've got to be kidding!

When will these summer holidays end?

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVIII

Leaving on a, well, aeroplane

In this day and age of globalisation, I would have never imagined someone moving to the US could be such breaking news

There was a sudden flurry of activity in our colony. The news caused a massive stir the moment it arrived; in fact, the very manner and method of its arrival was quite dramatic. It was like an anthill shaken out of its stupor by the first droplets of monsoon, and then, the little insects, with something bigger to do (read, talk about), were running helter-skelter, stopping to exchange a few hurried exclamatory sentences when they bumped into one another, quickly moving on to the next gossip columnist.
Phones had started ringing every few seconds across the complex — Mrs. Bhasin to Sushila auntie; from there to Latika auntie, then to Sujata auntie to Shefali bhabi to Meenakshi. Even the men, huffing and puffing in their shorts during their extremely short evening walks, were heard discussing the matter. "Hmmm... my Mrs was saying... you have heard?" From this cryptic dialogue by Binoy uncle, Mr. Bhasin gathered all the world's knowledge. "Oh yes yes... A-25's news you are talking about, right?" (Yes, like in prison, in our complex, families are labelled by their flat numbers.)
My phone and doorbell had rung simultaneously that evening. I had returned at eight after a particularly horrific day at work. The cellphone displayed "Shefali bhabi A-16". I squirmed. "There goes a good 45 minutes of my life," I thought. I answered the phone while attending to the door. And two shrill, shrieking voices swamped me at the same time -- the phone one excited, the doorbell one indignant.

Shefali bhabi (phone): Have you heard?/Meenakshi (door): Am I the first to tell you?

Phone: Our little Sheila and Rahul... (Ahem, little?)/Door: That Rahul and Sheila, hrrrmpf...

Phone: ...the sweet lovely husband and wife.../Door: ...the silly, idiotic wife and husband...

Phone: ...are taking aeroplane to go and live in America!!!!/Door: ...have landed a gig in the US!!!

Phone: Praise God!/Door: Fuckin' Lord!

Well, to be very honest, the crescendo to which everyone's excitement had risen, I had expected something bigger. Massive, in fact. This was kind of a dampener. Who does not go the States nowadays? Actually, I was quite happy for them, maybe even thrilled -- perhaps a bit tired to assess the level of my exuberance. But I could understand where all this was coming from. The auntie clan had something new to discuss, and they still were in awe of AMERICA. And I should think, they were also making lists of gifts they wanted from there every time the couple would visit home. For Meenakshi, exactly the opposite. Rahul is the oiled-hair, roti-sabzi eating, never-overspending, good-boy engineer. Sheila is the stay-at-home, sometimes-gym-visiting, saas-bahu watching, incapable-of-doing-anything-worthwhile wife. So, it pinched Meenakshi. I understood.
The next evening, dutifully, I went to Sheila's house to congratulate the couple, with flowers, pastries et al. Rahul opened the door, the oil from his head seemingly dripping on his cheeks, he was glowing so much. Sheila was -- well, I think I can safely say I was blinded by the dazzle of all the yellow and golden. She was draped in a shiny South Indian silk and was wearing at least half of her wedding jewellery. She was surrounded by a bevy of not-so-beautiful but also grossly overdressed aunties.
I entered with a Cheshire grin. However, the moment their gazes turned to me, the scene froze, for a good two minutes. I got a curt, “Oh, you. Um, come, sit”, (with an implied “if you must”) from Sheila’s mum-in-law. I tried to dodge a few dirty glances from the rest of the troupe. Still trying to figure out what I had done wrong, or rather, what I hadn’t done right, I turned to Sheila, “Hey, grea news, congratu….” I was cut-off by the oozing-with-pride mum-in-law, “Did you not get news yesterday?”’
“Um, yes, I did…” I trailed off, desperate to say, “It was hard NOT to get it, the way you guys had sounded the drumroll.”
“Meenakshi came yesterday only,” mum-in-law snidely added. WHAT?
“Even Rinku came, after college and all,” announced Mrs. Bhasin. (Rinku’s her daughter, and her affair with Ronnie was still hot by the way.) College? COLLEGE? I WORK!
Suddenly, the Queen Bee, Sheila herself, looked at me with a smug, arrogant expression. “It’s okay everyone. What will she know of America? She only knows Indian Standard Time, no?” Everyone cracked up, guffawing like this insipid line was the best joke ever cracked. I stood there sheepishly. And, to my shame, even gave a guilty chuckle.

In Memory of the Woman Who Loved Sweets

Mornings in our home started with Mini – scraggly stray tomcat we had adopted from somewhere – tapping on the kitchen door, and thakuma making a concoction of mashed bread, milk, and water (only a little) for him. This was accompanied by thakuma’s threats “I won’t give you anything to eat from tomorrow” or “you dirty cat, I will throw you out”. Mini was unruffled.
Because she knew, none of those words mattered. Thakuma would come downstairs early next morning, lay out the food on a plastic milk packet, and make sure Mini finished the last morsel.

Then she launched into the garden, with her flower basket, plucking flowers for puja. I loved watching her sweep the puja room with water in a tiny bucket, and then lay out the flowers diligently for every deity. But we actually waited for the next bit – the long meditation she used to plunge into. That meant, we could raid her cupboard for the extremely tempting mint and orange toffees she used to store. Well, she knew, of course. We couldn’t blame Mini of the fast emptying glass jars. But she never said anything. She just made sure the jar got refilled.

I cannot think of anyone else telling us the story of Alibaba and the Forty Thieves in a more colourful manner than her. Chiching phak”, she said very sweetly. I liked my lunch a little better on the days it was accompanied with this story. I do not know of any other thakuma running around the courtyard and playing “lock and key” with her grandchildren. I wonder how many thakumas are caught redhanded at the sweet shop, mouth stuffed with roshogolla, when her diabetes report had, yet again, warned her to stay away from sugar.

This winter, my visit home will be different. There will be no more dressing up for wedding parties half an hour earlier than I need to because thakuma would want to see me all decked up and chat about the sari before I leave. I wouldn’t be watching Bama Khyapa while she very nearly dozes off in front of the TV. I won’t even need to wake up on time to run upstairs before her morning siesta begins.

Things change. But memories don’t. Love, certainly, doesn’t. And I love you, thakuma.

[Thakuma passed away on November 20,2010.]

Chill

Just made myself a vodka - a dash of lemon, a broken green chilli, just the way I like it. Nothing to romanticise. It's just to beat the cold that's creeping up through my toes, and settling down on my nose tip. It's not exactly as I had pictured such a night as a teen. Then, there would be a soft-glow neon light and Chopin, I would be in something silky, skimpy - certainly not in blue socks and cheetah pajamas - and my job would be way better. I guess dreams (the day kinds) come true in a warped way. The two things that are same are the glass of vodka and the slight tipsy-typing on the comp. Except that, back then, I was penning (read typing) a story, a classic. In reality, I am still not in bed because the sheets will be so cold that I'm scared, and because, for the third day in a row I had dinner alone.
Which should also be fine, because in that beautiful imaginative picture, too, I was on my own. As of now, I don't fancy that so much as I did in my head. So, a little while ago, I stood out on the balcony, feeling all mystical staring out at the fog blanket. Got bitten by a few mosquitos, and froze. Decided that fog looks sexy in Wuthering Heights and Harry Potter. And faraway flickering flames lit by someone trying his best to beat the cold - they look awesome, spellbinding - just would've been better without the smoke drift.
To be honest, I love it all. The smoke that chokes me, the chill that scares me, the fog that can cause traffic delays, the icy bedsheets (not so much the mosquitos). Together, they make a crazy mosaic of life. Soft wool, socks with five toes, hot chocolate, dashing in and out of the shower, tracking the dropping temperature graph, sudden peek of the sun usualy once a week, an odd drizzle that sends the mercury zipping down even more.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVII

Waka waka… whew it’s over!

Off-the-field action gets as exciting, and as tiring, as the real game

It’s all quiet on the home front. Suddenly the remote control lies abandoned, a little lost, and confused about what is expected of it now. The husband and the brother-in-law look equally lost, hovering around a bit aimlessly. There is a sudden lull and a few beer cans are chilling in the refrigerator, untouched. I wonder if something has gone amiss, and although I put up a “yes-I-TOTALLY-understand” kind of glum face, the moment I turn my back to them in the kitchen, I am smiling and humming a happy tune. Albeit softly. But humming nonetheless.
The curtains are down on one of the most spectacular sporting events of the world, which features some of the best-looking men of the world, and yes, the world has changed since. After a month of planning our days and nights around FIFA World Cup 2010, our lives suddenly seem goalless. Umm… you have to excuse the obvious pun. Tell me, who wouldn’t be tempted, and who can avoid talking in soccer lingo after an intensive crash course on everything from corner kicks to the Cruyff turn?
What did you think? My life was untouched by the “Beautiful” Game? My life was thrown out of gear, massacred, hijacked. I began noticing the little things in the first week itself.

Me: “Listen, we have to go for groceries today, in the evening.”
Husband (in dramatic, exclamatory tone, indicating I had said something sacrilegious): “Uh… What? I mean, how?”

Me: “We have to go meet Rina and Sumit at Khan Market for…”
Husband (in a soft but incredulous tone, indicating I was a poor looney woman): “How darling, just tell me how?”

Me (on a Saturday evening): “Hon’, can we go for a movie tonight?”
Husband: “WHAT?” (I think you know THAT tone.)

So I knew, mornings are all work, and evenings, all play. And with play came the appendages. I had to sever ties with my television. I had to almost sever ties with the husband (almost because I had to be at his beck and call.) The boys littered the sitting room with beer cans and bottles till the wee hours; I woke up to the stale beer smell and started gathering up the empty containers and the leftovers of the snacks that I had to serve them like a good little wife should. Well, these, you will say, are part and parcel. What else should I expect during the WORLD CUP?
I know! And I am not complaining! I, too, love the game! I am not an airhead who doesn’t follow sports; I follow, when I want to. But then there was more. Somebody got a free Jabulani. So of course we had to rush to that person’s house. So what if you have come back tired and sweaty from work and hadn’t had time to change and have to wake up early next morning?
Somebody supports the same team as your husband does. So of course you have to pack yourself up and journey halfway across town for two hours to watch a 90-minute match and then drag yourself back with a grouchy husband because the team lost.
Some people support a rival team, so the group piles themselves at our home because the match “gets more interesting” when people break out in fights, with a shower of expletives (I got to learn some very interesting ones, I think some of them got coined there) raining around.
These, as you say, are repeat telecast at every tournament. I was living with them, resignedly. Football fever kept rising and one early morning, 6 a.m. it was, I found the husband all awake. I got worried. Something must be terribly wrong! Or was I hallucinating? Was the clock running right? It was. "Hey, could you make some tea? For all of us?" Okay, so whatever grogginess I had was gone. "All of us?"
"Yeah, the football team," he said casually as if it's the most natural thing that happens to us every morning.
In our drawing room were lined up about twelve boys -- age ranging from ten to forty. All in sneakers and shorts displaying not so appealing legs. I thought to myself, "You guys are no Forlan or Messi or Villa or Casillas or..." Ahhhh, now THOSE are men.
Anyway, I fed them tea and toast, and a friend generously said, "Why don't you come and watch? You may even join us," he winked at someone random. WTF! He thinks I can't play or what? Ego bruised, I trooped out with them to prove a point. World female footballers are thousand times better than their Indian male counterparts.
On the field. "The ball's gone out of the line, can you please fetch it?"
"I am really thirsty. Can you go make us some lemonade?"
"Shanky's got a bad cut. Run and get the Dettol. Hurry!"
"Just stand at the sidelines and kick the ball in when it rolls that way." [Pause] "You can kick, right?"
That was all my participation in the "match".
And then, BAM! I was lying on the ground. "Oops, sorry, happens. Don't worry boys, she'll be fine." Taking a hit from a muddy, smelly football isn't my idea of enjoying the game, and much as I love the adrenalin-rushing, minimal adverts game, I think I won't miss it so much for another four years.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVI

"JUNIOR! Run! Fetch!"

If you are somewhere near the bottom of the stairs... well, heaven save you!

Hierarchy. A word that seniors love to drop in here and there. And just about everywhere. “Don’t worry, we don’t believe in hierarchy in this organization.” Or something like, “The hierarchy is just like steps. You can always climb up, and always reach the one at the top.” Or even, “We are all friends here. What’s hierarchy?” In the guise of assuring us that there is no pecking order, they make sure the word hierarchy is drilled into us. So that we never forget where we stand, and never dare to cross over.
So I never questioned my role and ‘their’ preoccupations during – photo shoots, tours, assignments, food reviews. So when my boss brought her 10-year-old son, seven-year-old nephew, and 80-year-old aunt to a dinner that was supposed to be for media only, and then started ordering specific food for her guests because “Bittu does not like chicken” and “aunt cannot digest mutton”, I dared not even think that it was improper. But one day, when I took my mum to one small lunch, she hauled me up at office. “since when have we started taking family to business lunches? Have you ever seen any of us doing it?” “Umm…” But she was rattling off in one breath, “Don’t you think you should ask me, who’s hierarchically above you, for permission at least? You cannot breach…” So that is how it is.
Then came my first photo shoot. Don’t get me shot. I wasn’t the lucky one to be wearing great clothes and brilliant make-up. I was the one who carried the juice to the model, got yelled at if the proper outfits did not arrive on time, if the weather was hot and the soup was cold. Anything that anyone else may have been responsible for did not count. They had to glare or shout at me. For my first shoot I was up at 4 am. I had to pick up my boss, then the senior photographer, and another colleague, who was, fortunately, at par with me, hierarchically.
I reached my boss’ home at 4.30 am. Someone shouted from the window, “She’s getting ready.” The clock ticked, 10 minutes, 20, half an hour, 45 minutes. My phone had started ringing. ‘Senior photographer calling’, it screamed at me. “Yes sir. We are on our way sir. Actually sir (please note, sir is like the necessary punctuation marks when you are speaking to the man with the expensive camera), I am waiting outside ma’am’s home.” I desperately wanted to add, that witch had not even called me in for a cup of tea. My emotions dug a grave for themselves and dived in when Mr Sir shouted, “Why are you waiting outside? Don’t you have a responsibility? Get in there and drag her out if you have to.” “But sir…”
Somehow, we reached our destination, 300km away from the city, more or less on schedule. From then to sundown, I was on my toes, getting breakfast, fetching the towel for the model, taking the sweaty towel back, and every kind of job possible. The junior photographer had to oblige to everyone’s whims and whines.
What were the bosses doing all the while? My ‘ma’am’ had brought her manicurist along. She had also booked herself in a bungalow, for the afternoon lunch and siesta. She needs to look beautiful, doesn’t she? And the photographer sir – well, he had cocktails ready and was “briefing” the model throughout, sitting by her all day, under the shade of the fancy umbrella.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXV

Can I take your order, please?

Waitressing has been added to the "skill set" on my resume

When I had asked my team of about thirty people if I could bring coffee for anybody, I was being nice. And I had thought that this bunch of ‘adults’ would know that. Have they not learnt to read the tone of politeness for the sake of politeness? I was actually heading off to CCD in the ten-minute break I had got since I was super bored with my office canteen’s version of the hot beverage. So I asked, “Guys, anyone needs anything?”
“You’re going? Cool! Sweetie, can you please get me a latte? And a brownie? Oh, and it would be reeeeeally nice if you could get a box of cookies too. (Turning to her best friend) You know, I had promised my daughter I will bring a box for her, but never got time. (Turning to me) That’s all.” This was one of the seniors. ‘That’s all’? It sounded like a monthly grocery list to me. All I could do is bite my tongue. I had asked for it after all.
I got up from my seat all grumpy faced. Almost out of the door and I heard a scream, “Stop, stop!” I thought someone wanted to come with me. A smile of relief had just started to make an appearance, when, “Just get me a mocha…” Well, there’s no point in listing the items.
Straddled with more orders, I arrived at CCD. After rattling on the long list, I was asked to wait for “at least half an hour for your order ma’am”. So my ten-minute break extended, and not to half an hour but forty minutes. I came back, precariously balancing coffees and sandwiches and cakes. My boss gave me a nasty look, “We come here to work, not to party.” His mood worsened when he realized that there was all this food with nothing for him. His thunderous look suggested I was going to have a very unpleasant time. Quickly, I handed him the sandwich I had bought for myself.
“I got this for you, sir.”
“Is that chicken?”
I froze. He was a vegetarian. “Um, well…” my mind was racing, it had to find a good excuse, “It is soya, actually, made into a paste.” He was gullible enough, or perhaps greedy enough, to fall for it.
My day was somewhat saved. But I hadn’t seen what was coming. My boss came to think it my job role entailed buying food for him, at least whenever I went out for food, or even a cup of tea in the canteen. In the initial days, he would add a please at the end of his demanding tone. The please vanished gradually, and even specific instructions went away. By the end of a week it was, “Get me something.” And by the end of two, it was just a look.
The seniors took his cue too. They would not even wait for me to go somewhere, but blatantly order. “Girl, get some butter chicken and rotis for lunch, okay?” was the first instruction I would receive in the morning. It went on and on. They even told me what I should cook at home and bring.
So now, I am the official waitress-cum-bearer-cum-cook in the office. And no, I do not get extra pay for it.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXIV

Fever pitch

I fall sick. I need care. And he gets all the attention!

All the work that I was doing (or the very thought of them) in the maid’s absence got to me, and finally, the thermometer declared it was time I took some good rest. My temperature was quite in tune with the weather outside, but in a way, I was quite glad that the mercury had risen. Fever always translates into two things – holiday and pampering. At least, with my mum and dad around, that was the story of my life. One little sneeze and they ran to me with chicken soup and ginger tea, and tucked me in with new comics. This kind of royal treatment lasted even when I was in university.
So that Friday I happily jumped into bed, pulled a light blanket over me, made a puppy face and looked at the husband with sad eyes. “I don’t think I can manage to go to work today. I’ve got fever,” I said in a whisper. “What? You aren’t going? Wow! Lucky girl!” Naturally, I was shocked by this response. It took me a few seconds only to flare up. “You think I enjoy this?” I roared. Well, I did but what right had he to know that? He was tamed in an instant. “You must be feeling so bad. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”
With that, he was out. No asking me what I needed -- whether he should brew a cup of tea for me, or get me a glass of water even. So basically I had to fend for myself. I scraped a salad lunch for myself with leftover vegetables. When the husband returned, he came in with a huge box, and a huge smile. “I’ve got biryani. You don’t have to cook.” My face fell. Biryani in this condition? He saw my face, and promptly added, “I mean, for me and James. Did I not tell you he’s coming over? It’s Friday after all.”
I had no words left. I was missing mum. I stayed awake most of the night, with alternating cold and heat waves. My whining woke up the husband a number of times. Once, or maybe twice, he asked if I was all right. By the time I could tell him I would be grateful if he could fetch me an aspirin with lukewarm water, he was asleep.
Next morning, Bhasin auntie came for a visit. Hearing about my illness, she patted my husband on his head. As if he was a kindergarten kid. “Oh son, you must be feeling so sad. Have you had anything to eat? You must have stayed awake all night. How can a man manage if the woman of the house lies down? I will send you food beta.”
My husband caught my glare and quickly said bye to her. From then on, we had a stream of visitors during the whole day, asking how my husband was doing. They brought all kinds of food, absolutely unfit for a patient. I may have recovered faster, but my temper, and my temperature, hit the roof. I packed a suitcase, and went off to my parents’ house. The first question my mum posed to me was, “But with you here, how will he manage? I feel so sorry for poor boy.”
Aaaaaaaargh!!!

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXIII

Terms and conditions

I haven't been to a more taxing interview. Ever.

For the first few days after my maid left me, and left me with an inferiority complex, I went into mourning. So down was I that I started overeating – pizzas, ice creams, chips, chocolates, biryani, and pasta were only some of the things I was gorging on. I blame it all on the blues and not on my lethargy for stepping into the kitchen; ask any psychiatrist and he’ll tell you how thousands of people globally go on a food binge as a reaction to depression.
I wasn’t unhappy with the food, and I don’t think the husband was either. Actually, it often got quite romantic as we were going out for dinner almost every other night (never mind the bickering about where to go and what to eat that preceded the outing). Or we were ordering in food and watching movies together. Needless to say, we were watching it only after a quarrel on which one to see.
To quote the oft-repeated and hence tiring phrase penned by Charles Dickens, it was indeed the best of times and the worst of times for us. We were gradually learning to deal with the emptiness that the maid had left behind, resigned to our fate. I even cooked a few dishes on a weekend.
And they started coming, in hordes. The doorbell rang incessantly. Jobseekers. When the first one arrived, we were elated. We greeted her like a long-lost friend. We were having our morning tea, so I decided to offer her a cup too before getting into the terms and conditions and then sealing the contract. I had foolishly thought that we would strike gold at the first shot.
As I handed her the tea, she turned to me and tabled her first demand, “I eat cream biscuit with tea. Four.” Thankfully I had a few remaining orange cream biscuits in my larder. I fished them out, but I had only three. “I will keep them in stock from tomorrow,” I said, thinking she would definitely join from the next day.
“I will join from next week. I need a week’s rest.” My husband and I exchanged glances; we could sense trouble. I was about to tell her our requirements, when she began rattling off her terms.
“I cook only two dishes a day. Every 15 days I take leave for three days. I will come at six in the evening, if you are not here, I can’t wait. I take bonus once a year. I…” We had to beg her to stop and after that, there was no point in us telling her what we wanted. It was clear we did not want her. Bonus?
It was virtually the same with the dozen others who came. They interrogated us as if we were criminals; they questioned us as if we were appearing for a job interview. Their queries were varied.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Do you plan to have kids soon?”
“How many days a year do you go for holidays?”
“Do you know that from now on maids will take one-month leave every year?”
I guess, we will do fine on our own, for sometime at least.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXII

Better job offer, for my maid

She was the one ditching me, and I was the one standing with my head hanging in shame

It’s been a month now that my evening schedule is somewhat like this: climb four flights of stairs, have a quick wash, rush to the kitchen, put the kettle on boil, start cleaning utensils while you gulp down the tea and burn your throat, start cooking, then wash the soiled utensils yet again, sweep and mop, dust and dump…. I think I have bored you enough with this tedious description, but what to do, that’s how my life is at the moment – tedious.
My maid was on one of her disappearing sprees, or so I thought, four weeks’ back. On the fifth day of her absence, I could sense there could not be good news at the end of this. I felt giddy with joy when she did return after a week. It was short-lived of course. “Didi, I won’t come to work from tomorrow.” She announced this without a jot of regret or remorse. “Why? What happened?” For a moment I even felt pity for her, thinking she may be in some sort of trouble; perhaps one, or all, of her five children were unwell, or maybe her husband in an extra-foul mood, maybe… I had already cooked up a number of ghastly possibilities that she could be going through.
But the look she gave me was condescending. “You see that bungalow opposite?” How could I not see the ‘bungalow opposite’? It isn’t a bungalow, it’s a mansion. They have five guard dogs for heaven’s sake. “Yes,” I murmured. “I am going to work there from now on. They will give me Rs 5,000,” a two-second loaded pause, “for the same work I do here. They have seven big cars. They also have lift inside house. (This to emphasise that our apartment does not have one.) My husband will be their guard.” She had swollen twice her size with pride. She raised an eyebrow and smiled at me, as if to say, “Unke paas gari he, bungla he, tumhare paas kya he?” This is an old Bollywood film clichéd, legendary dialogue. But the thought of it hurt, quite bad.
And I stood there as if I had done her some wrong by asking her to work for a small fry like me. Her monthly salary at my home was Rs 1,000. Quite a hike she had got! After she just left, leaving the room filled with the smell of her cheap perfume and haughty air, I thought to myself, “Hrmphf… Their house is ten times bigger than ours. You’ll get arthritis sweeping and mopping every day. They have ten people at home and receive hundreds of guests. Your hands will go from coarse to coarser washing utensils. Good for you!” But what was the use. I hadn’t been able to throw those words at her face. At least that would have made me feel we were even. Instead, I had meekly let her treat me like a doormat and leave.
In fact, she had won by a huge margin over me. She had got a huge raise. (I have to tell my boss that.) She had made me feel puny when it was she who should be feeling sorry for ditching me. To top it all, she had left me with piles of housework to do. I just slumped on my almost flattened bean bag. I needed a good cry.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXI

Little packet of trouble

I smile at my neighbour's two-year-old thinking she will be a stressbuster. All she does is add to my miseries

Has it ever happened to you? You come back from work late in the evening, somehow drag yourself up the four flights of stairs since the lift refuses to cooperate, and then… and then you catch a glimpse of your neighbour’s two-year-old. She is a sweet little doll, really, and she turns to you with the most adorable look in her beady eyes and giggles like a brook suddenly. Her gurgling laughter hits you like a refreshing gust of breeze and, even after the grey day you’ve had at office, you manage a tired smile. “Helloooo chweetheart,” you croon with babytalk.
And that is it. You have invited your own nemesis, with a red carpet welcome. The baby looks at you and holds her arms out. What do you do? Ignore her? Of course not! I mean, you can’t. There’s no escape, because her mother is also looking at you and saying, “Oh, she is so fond of you! You looove your auntie, no baby? You want to go with auntie?” By this time, the warning bells have started jangling in my head. I can sense rapid signals of confusion like an erratic seismograph shooting through my head. While I grope in the deep recesses of my mind to find a plausible excuse, my husband comes and calls. “Hey princess (don’t mistake it, the loving address is not meant for me, but for the baby). Come with us.” My last hope is that she will not be in the mood to leave her mum, but it looks like she is as tired of her mother as the mother is of her.
The mother almost pushes her towards us. "Go baby. Uncle and auntie are calling you so lovingly." Whatever second thoughts Guddi (that's "princess's" real name) may be having melt into oblivion, and she walks towards us in her yet-to-be-steady steps. Shoulders slouching, I follow her inside our apartment.
Her being there would be fine, only if it is just being there. But it’s not. I have to cook – as in, cut vegetables, ready the meat, prepare the spices and then cook. But she drags me out and almost starts sobbing if I ignore her, which I can’t risk. Her mother will instantly spread stories about how I tortured her child around the apartment complex. I sit by her as she bores me with her vaccination card and some old bills, which I have no idea why she is carrying in her toy pouch.
There’s a Hindi movie showing on TV. I change the channel to a news programme and she screams her lungs out. Then, she sits on the remote with the excruciatingly painful Sunny Deol movie on. At my wit’s, and patience’s, end, I have a brainwave. I knock on my neighbour’s door and ask her, politely, and as if I am overtly concerned about Guddi, “Isn’t it past her dinner time? Poor thing, she must be feeling sleepy and tired. Should I bring her over?”
Promptly comes the mother’s reply, “Little Guddi, will you like to eat with auntie? Will you feel bad if I bring you home now? Do you want to stay a little longer with uncle and auntie?” To which questions Guddi keeps nodding a ‘yes’, vigorously. I stand there, flummoxed, and stranded with a two-year-old who’s more than a handful, and who’s now tugging at my skirt, shouting, “Auntieeeeee, Guddi eating!”

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXX

The day the driver drove me nuts

You know the times when you employ someone’s services? And then end up asking yourself why you ever did it?

I was sitting at the edge of the bed, trying not to slip and fall. I had nudged and pushed the clothes and books aside to create just enough space for me. As I sat there sorting out the pile, humming to myself, I heard a creak and a groan. I slowly looked up, and saw the mountain of clothes falling over me. Before I could run for my dear delicate life, I fell on the floor, submerged under a huge heap and gasping for breath. My arms flailing, I tried to call for help but the more I tried, the more the clothes seemed to weigh down upon me. It grew darker around me and I could hear or see nothing. Then it felt like I was being pelted with bricks. I wanted to scream, my throat was dry. Who would want to throw bricks at me in my own home? With the last remaining shreds of sanity that I had left, I realized those were the books pouring down on me. I lost my strength, and just lay there, sweating and out of breath.
After a little while I woke up from this nightmare, still sweating, only to find the mound clothes and books still intact, with me lying on the floor. Must’ve slept off, I though to myself and then moaned. Still so much work left! We were moving houses, not miles away but to a better (a.k.a. more expensive) flat in the same complex. But things had to be packed nevertheless. The movers and packers were on their way. Or so they were telling me from ten in the morning. The clock had ticked to one and there was no sign of them. I kept calling them, and explaining the directions, but somehow, these talented folks had mastered the art of losing their way. Madam, we are at CV Raman Nagar, they would say and I patiently sketched with my words the next seven kilometers for them. After 20 minutes, my phone rang again and I heard the same droning voice telling me they had managed to travel seven kilometers all right, in the opposite direction.
And yet, the gooey politeness from my voice refused to disappear. I spoke to the driver as if I was speaking to a kindergarten kid who is a slow learner and needs my love and support. “Don’t worry,” I told him. What was I saying? Why would HE have to worry? I was the one stuck! “Just stop for a while and ask somebody the way to Fraser Town. Once you reach Fraser Town, call me and I will tell you the directions.” Yes madam, he said every time I gave him some instruction. And then calmly did his own thing, which was to ignore it and get lost. Worse, half the time he could not even tell me where he was.
So finally, when they did give me a landmark, I went to pick them up. Yes, I took an auto, paid one-and-a-half in the afternoon, went to the place, hopped on to the truck with the packers and came home. Guess what I did when we reached. I made tea and toast for them and served them in my drawing room! Well, it was three in the afternoon after all. And then the driver tells me, “What madam, where you staying? Whole day going round. Give me 150 rupees at least.”

[NOTE: Don't get excited by the 'XXX' in the title]

Thus far and no farther

How far is the society willing to stretch our liberty? How accepting is it of deviance and defiance?

A certain someone wrote a certain something that irked a certain section and caused a certain amount of trouble. I have to observe caution here since every, and any, word that I write can bring the RAF down. Vagueness of the strict order is the rule of the day and expression of free thoughts may cost a life; not mine or yours maybe, but a certain someone else's. Which is tragic enough and is leading me to be circumspect about the content of this here column.
I think I can be bold enough and mention that it was a lady who wrote the article. I mean, if I am questioned who and what I am mentioning I can always deny their conclusion. The article infuriated some dogmatic people. After all, she had dared to doubt and decry a tradition that many feel has been ordained by the superpower, or at least is symbolical of what the power would want from the subjects and loyalists as a mark of respect, modesty, humility. Worse, she had rekindled some already existent stories and legends about a mighty entity.
Such audacity was, of course, not to be tolerated, especially by men, since patriarchy is not used to being defied. Some days have passed since the incident and now, it is not important who she is or what she wrote. What matters is the the reaction that any deviance evokes. Authority, in any form or in any place, is so power hungry and insecure that it responds violently if a judgment is passed against it.
I was amazed at how insensitive and intolerant we have become, so much so that we cannot let a person speak out his or her mind. They could have called for a healthy debate, weighed the pros and cons, admitted that they may have had room for some error in a custom even if it has been followed for ages. Or they could have even laughed her off, called her a mad woman. But they wreaked vengeance. They were spewing venom to kill liberty and opinions.
I plead to them to have a more open and accommodating spirit. I plead people to cross over to the other side of the fence and see the other's point of view. Like, I had a big fight with a friend on this article. He was adamant in his belief that the writer of the aforementioned article had no right in making a conclusive statement that denounced a practice. After all, he said, many women seem to be comfortable with it, so what is her problem? Also, why did she spreas stories about some revered being?
I have a few objections to this stance. One, it is difficult for him to cross over to the weaker side and understand a woman's trauma and struggle. That is not an offence; he is not at fault for being a man and not having experienced a woman's perspective. Two, the writer has as much right to make a claim as the proponents of the values she was objecting to. I agree that people may disagree with her, but that cannot take away her prerogative to own a cause she believes in and is willing to stand up for. Three, her convictions may have raised a storm but without tremors great changes would not come. Four, she was merely reiterating the tales that already exist, not making up some of her own.
If anyone differs with me, I respect his or her thoughts. I just hope that we can discuss the issue in a civilised manner rather than let our egotistical fanaticism get the better of our sense and sensibility.

[After an article by Taslima Nasreen on burqa tradition, Express offices in Karnataka districts and Mangalore were vandalised. Two civilians died because of police firing. The RAF and police guarded our Bangalore office for days. And we sat wondering if it was worth all this.]

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXIX

A vacation of chores

You don't know people till you stay together. The same goes for friends

It was a beautiful spring morning and the sun was not too warm. My husband and I were in good spirits. We were on vacation. It was a lucky break we had got. Some holiday had fallen on Friday and we had clubbed a few extra days with the long weekend, making good use of it by visiting some friends in Mumbai. Would you believe it if I told you that till then I had not seen India's busiest and most vibrant city till then?
So, the thought of exploring an unknown place and of getting together with old friends got me really excited. We arrived at Mumbai on Friday evening. Our friends (they are a married couple, Rishabh and Rumi) had even come to fetch us from the airport. We were seeing one another after five years and there were shrieks of delight as we hugged each other and opened the floodgates of all the little trivia and tidbits that somehow we had not been able to exchange over the long, long-distance phone calls.
As we bundled into the taxi, Rumi shot, "Hey, you'll see the way to our house now, right? So next time please come from the airport by yourselves. I hate travelling in this traffic such a long way." Stunned for a while, I managed to smile weakly, more embarrassed than angry, since these were really my friends and I couldn't figure out how my husband would feel about that sudden declaration.
But that passed in the rush of life that was all around us. We reached their home, hungry for dinner. They served us piping hot food. Leftovers. A little of this, a bit of that and we had to decide among ourselves who would get what, the portions being too small to share. Well, Rishabh and Rumi are busy professionals, they wouldn't have had time to cook for us, I reasoned with myself. "Thank you for the delicious dinner," I still said, after which Rumi made me do the dishes with her as her 'bai' would not be in the next day.
The following morning was a fresh start. The four of us went out on a city tour, hogged pao bhaji, lazed on the beach and although my husband and I had to shell out all the money at all the places, it was fun. We were about to head home when Rishabh told us that they had a party to attend and could not be home that night. We, my husband and I, stood there expectantly, like little children waiting to be invited to the party too. That didn't happen. Not that we didn't have fun by ourselves, with dinner at a fancy restaurant with a sea view. But their going away made us feel betrayed.
Of course, like a good little girl, I woke up early to make tea for them when they returned just after dawn break. I even fixed breakfast for all of us. The next few days, I was cooking and cleaning and scrubbing at their place as they went about their work and other commitments. In between my chores, my husband and I would go around Mumbai.
On the last day, I said, "I'll leave a thank you note." "Thank you? After this?" my husband could not fathom my 'generosity'. "Well, they let us stay at their place after all," I tried to reason. "Hotels let you stay too! You write thank you notes to them for all their hospitality?" he shot back, exasperated. "No, but we pay them money." With this, we looked at each other and silently agreed that we would settle for the thank you card.

Clipped wings

While I was throwing my teen tantrums, fighting with my father to let me have an expensive pair of boots and ignoring my mother's warnings about my 'cool' boyfriend, another life was quietly evolving under our roof. I pitied her sometimes for working as a house help at the tender age of 12. We sometimes chatted as she swept the floor of my room and she looked wonder-eyed at my books while I chewed on my pen carelessly. She was awed by me, my clothes, my trinkets, my school uniform. I casually talked to her in my free time, smiled when she paid me a compliment and gave away my old dresses, made redundant by my boredom, to her.
No, it would not be fair to me if I say I felt superior to her. I liked her and thought she was a very sweet girl. It's just that I was too preoccupied with my upper-middle class life and quest for my liberty to say and do and live as I pleased to notice how free I actually was and how helplessly bound to her fate and her living conditions she was.
Her name was Sumita. Her family lived in extremely poor conditions. Her father was the operator of one merry-go-round that he travelled with in villages and fairs. Her mother also worked as a maidservant in some houses. Between them, they could barely feed and clothe themselves and their three children. Sometimes, I later learnt, the breakfast she had at our house would be Sumita's only meal during the day.
I now remember her liquid eyes, smiling through the adversity. She was always happy, cheerful. I used to get bogged down and debated or rebelled against a teacher's disciplinary strategies or my parents' orders or being told to behave in a certain way because I am a girl. Yes, I have hated adhering to strictures always. But I now realise, I should have been fighting her battles instead of selfishly asking for more leeway when I already had a lot of it.
When she turned 13, her mother announced to us that Sumita could not work at our house any longer. I was happy. I thought the girl would finally get a break. By that time, I was going to college and I had become even more resistant to any form of authority. Sumita, on the other hand, had become meeker, her smile still there, but with a shadow of sadness. Coming back to her mother, she came and announced that she was getting Sumita married. I was shocked, even more so when I was told that the groom was forty years old and had a wife and a kid.
This is an average story with most poor families in India. But I guess I had thought that Sumita and her folks were 'city' people and would not opt for child marriage. I was acting like the "if they don't have bread let them have cake" queen. They were too poor to take care of Sumita for a few more years and this marriage would mean food and clothes for her. Even Sumita seemed to have acceded. I tried reasoning with her and her mother. I tried rebelling with my parents, as if they had a right over Sumita. Actually, my parents also tried their bit. The result was Sumita was not allowed to come to our house from the next day.
But she did return after a month for a brief period. This marriage had collapsed because the dowry was unreasonable. Sumita's mother warned her not to speak with me too much in fear of me putting ideas into her head. I think she knew her poverty too well to get ideas any way. Some time later, there was another marriage proposal, this time from a 42-year-old bachelor. Dowry was arranged. Sumita went away, resigned to her fate.
I have not seen her since. Now I look back and regret that I never did anything for her, so full I was of myself.

Don't worry about my socks and shoes

I don't dress the way I do to prove a point. I do it because that's the only way I know

I wear socks to office. I alternate between two pairs of shoes. One is an oversized pair of canvas shoes which I had bought because I fell in love with them, and because they were priced at Rs 300, unlike the Rs 3,000 sneakers that my colleagues wear with labels bearing Nike, Adidas and Reebok. The other is a once-blue, now-grey pair of floaters. I have to admit that it is a Nike original, but then, that is because I got it as a gift from my uncle four years ago.
Perhaps sometimes, my socks, and even shoes, reek of a stale odour. When I sniff the air and detect that unmistakable smell floating around, I take care to air out the pair and change the socks. But that is who I am; that is how I am most comfortable. It may even be one of the many reasons I am in the profession I am in. My workplace does not dictate a dress code and I am glad I did not end up behind one of the corporate doors.
Sometimes I need to visit swanky places to meet people for work-related purposes and I don't feel awkward to walk in wearing a lumpy sweatshirt and one of the faithful pairs of shoes (just that I make sure there are no unpleasant smells). I don't do all this to make a statement or stand out from the rest or show the world that I don't give a fig for general notions of fashion. I do this because this is who I am. If I could love heels and nail polished toes and finger-nails, I would go for it. It's just that I don't love them.
Remember Andy Sachs from Devil Wears Prada, the Andy Sachs prior to the predictable transformation? Well, I may have the temerity to proclaim myself the Andy Sachs of the purview of my world. I cannot tell the difference between the belts and I don't care that I can't, if you know know what I mean. Some people, actually most people, get me wrong. They think I am scoffing at their preoccupation with style and beauty. They feel that I am so haughty that I think I am above and beyond fashion and deliberately under-dress to show the world that there is no reason for me to become part of the mainstream society.
I plead not guilty. In fact, sometimes, I am even in awe of the girls who manage to handle all those colours in those boxes and tubes, the trinkets that glimmer and shine, clothes that sometimes flow and sometimes cling. But still people refuse to understand. In office, I hear the girls titter behind my back about my appearance. They become vituperative and make ask themselves, 'What does she think of herself?'
One day, I thought I will wear Kolhapuri chappals to office. I thought this would at least end the hours of tension that the girls go through on my account. They looked at my 'un-pedicured' feet and laughed. They stared at my semi-dirty toenails and cringed. In the end they said, "What does she think she is doing, trying to be like us?" So, it is back to canvas and worn-out floaters, my friends.