Mini is getting married. To all of you who don’t know her (and most of you won’t since Mini is not really her name, you see), she is one of my closest friends. This is an event that marks miracles this side of the resurrection. To recap mildly, Mini is an aberration. She fits into her family the same way a pole dancer would fit into the knitting club. She is bold, they are conservative. She is reckless, they are planners. She stands a full head taller than them, they are...well...short people. Her family routinely discusses which planet they think she has dropped down from and regular blame is assigned for her faulty genes (her father’s father is the most popular culprit since his was the family had the rogues, the smugglers, the travellers and the thinkers).
Mini for her part, is an expert eye-roller. She can even roll her eyes with her eyelids shut. It has gotten to be such a habit that I am quite sure it has been taken the place of a nervous tick. She now does it involuntarily (much like her breathing) and at the most inappropriate times (like when someone poor unsuspecting soul is complimenting her).
Mini’s marriage (or more recently the lack of one) has been a source of conversation in her house since she was 21. Most girls in their family are married by the time they reach 24. 25 and single is considered a very dangerous place to be. 26 is considered dead. At 32, Mini is apparently a walking talking veteran ghost. Yet she remains unfazed. Her strategy, for better or worse, is that if you can’t beat them or join them, then ignore them. And she does it with such panache. Her not being married is not for her family’s lack of trying. There was the boy who wanted a homely girl, only to meet her and amend it to ‘quiet’ girl. Then there was the proposal where she was asked to sing. She did walk out of that one saying she was definitely underqualified for the position. There was also the boy who was 2 inches shorter than she was. She didn’t mind, he did, end of story. Her family even tried where there was no hope. The boy who was already married. Only that it was in an obscure court and could / would be annulled and could she please marry him now since he promised to get everything sorted out within the year. She was thrilled to have a reason to not talk to her family for days after that. She was 28 at the time.
A few weeks ago, Mini calls me. I can immediately tell that something is up from her deceptively calm voice that quivers just a little bit. Mini is only calm when things are going terribly wrong. Otherwise she is the human equivalent of an electric storm.
There’s a boy coming to see me, she says without preamble.
Boy? I am a bit confused.
Boy, man, whatever, she replies and I get it.
I don’t know what to say. We’ ve done the “wow, that’s great” routine way too many times. So I say the next best thing - oh no.
Oh yes, only now that I’m 32 it no longer qualifies as a proposal. They’re calling it the ‘Family Friends Visit’, she mutters.
What do you know about him, I ask her. I am always more curious about the boys than she is (I don’t think I even want to know what that says about me!).
She sighs. He’s a venture capitalist, he is with a bank, he’s 35 years old, he probably weighs 100 kgs and has bad breath, she rattles off.
I can help with the bad breath, I tell her.
I can literally see her rolling her eyes. Do you think mainly about teeth and nothing else, she complains.
I have half a mind to tell her that I think only of teeth and nothing else, but I do like to keep the image going that I have half a dozen important and interesting things perusing in my head and hence wisely keep my mouth shut.
He’s coming over tomorrow. Say you’ll come over and hang out with me so I feel like I have one friend in the room, she says.
Mini needing moral support is an alien concept. She normally has enough mental strength to booster the Indian army. But I am not about to say no and turn down the chance to be in the middle of more action than I’ve seen in a very long time.
I go to her house early the next day. I am dressed inappropriately in jeans and a t-shirt. Her mother gives me severe disapproving looks. I try to look apologetic. Mini is in her room. She has a list ready of all the things that she will not do. I first think that she is talking about her life, but soon realize that she is referring to the next 4 hours.
I will not walk into the room carrying a tray of tea. I will not wear a sari. I will not sing/dance/recite poetry/touch my toes. I will not attempt to make 20 bhajjias in 5 minutes. I will not look coyly at him and bat my eyelids. I will not cry afterwards.
I cannot agree with her more. Besides, the only thing she can do effectively with her eyes is roll them. Batting them is not in her repertoire, I point out to her.
She wears a beautiful cotton salwar kameez. In mild rebellion she ties her lovely hair up in a pony tail. Wears minimal make up which in my opinion only makes her look more beautiful. Puts on 3 inch heels which makes her very tall indeed. She’s ready.
The ‘family visitors’ have arrived. Mini is upstairs but her eye rolling has started as soon as the first hello is said between the prospective families. Her grandmother has already started her nervous cough.
This is all so blasé, she grumbles.
I look at her as strictly as I know how and say, Mini, no matter what, no matter why, please please do not roll your eyes when you get down there.
Her mother comes up to say that her grandmother is having a bad coughing fit in the middle of all this and can Mini please first get her some warm water and then come out to meet everyone. Mini puts a glass of warm water onto a tray and goes in search of her grandmother only to realize that her grandmother is sitting with all the visitors and that Mini has entered the room with the dreaded glass on a tray. I can see her kicking herself over breaking the first in the list of things-I-will-not-do, never mind that the tea is now a glass of water. Her family is creative at desperate times, I give them that. I give her credit for not rolling her eyes, though she’s had to keep her eyes remarkably fixed on her gran to prevent them from making their usual journey upwards. In all this Mini has yet to look at the boy, but I have had no such delays. As I look at him looking at her, I begin to smile. Maybe this day will be alright after all.
She finally stops glaring at her gran long enough to look around the room. As her gaze settles on him, I see her break another promise in her will-not-do list. She smiles coyly at him and bats her eyelids. The rest as they say is history. And no she didn’t have to do sit ups or sew a button in front of them. No he is not shorter than her in her 3 inch heels. And no he is not overweight, or geeky, or creepy, or just plain old, or boring (all the things she was worried about). And as she triumphantly informs me later, no he has does not have bad breath.
She’s getting married 3 months from now. More importantly, she is reformed. She tells him to drive safe. A few months ago, she would not have tolerated anyone giving her the same advice. A drive safe comment would normally push her into careening across asphalt at 100 km per hour. She now spends hours on the phone when in the normal case she is so distracted that it is near impossible to keep her on the line for more than 3 minutes even in a life or death situation. She now worries about whether he’s eaten enough. I am beyond shocked. The last time Mini worried about anyone eating enough was in 2002 when her dog fell ill. She now watches romantic comedies and cries when earlier her idea of a light flick was Kill Bill.
And finally, finally, she has stopped rolling her eyes! God bless you, Mini.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Last And Final Call
I love flying. Admittedly for purely selfish reasons. I love being in my own coccoon of peace for two hours or ten, being able to watch movies back to back, being able to relish food that a hungry person would not touch normally, being able to read while the body moves at 800 kilometers per hour (amazing), for being completely cut off from the world with a very valid reason. But most importantly, I love the identity crisis that flying presents me with. Once I enter the airport, I am anonymous. Despite the fact that the ticket, the boarding pass, my passport, and all documents of any relevance have my name on it, when I fly I am anonymous. I am surrounded by 300 people who don't know me from Adam (er, Eve in this case). I can be whomever I want. I can be this gorgeous sophisticated girl who turns her nose up at everything (I carry this out to perfection despite my nose being a little too flat for it). Or I can be this giggly cute girl who smiles at everyone. Or I can be the pain in the ass who complains about everything. Oh, I relish the thought of re-defining myself if only for a few air borne hours.
Ofcourse then there are the flights that have forced me to be a certain persona despite my best intentions at being someone else. Like the British Airways flight that lost my luggage (again). Up until that time, I was Ms. Calm & Unruffled, my head did not turn even when the passenger in front of me threw up loudly. Yet the lost luggage miraculously transformed me into a screaming and shouting shrew, fighting for the 200 pounds compensation to buy new underwear and a few jackets - yes it was a matter of life and death, I yelled at them. Did they want the complication of death by hypothermia - cause of death: loss of baggage and warm clothes by careless airline? Or the Singapore Airlines flight where I was the ultra casual, torn jeans, thin t-shirt, well worn sneakers, no make up Ms. Grunge until I realised that I was seated next to the Fashion Editor for Elle. I did desperately attempt damage control by taking out the newest Estee Lauder mascara from my purse and waving it around like a wand hoping she'd notice that I was infact slightly fashion conscious - but she just looked at me though eyelashes that were like a forest and said - honey, I'm not sure if you know but that is expensive. I did deliberate laying out my Clinique and Mac make-up on my food tray, but for that I'd have to get into the aisle and then she'd see my ultra scruffed shoes. But my favourite was when I was Ms. Gothic - 1 inch thick black kajal on my upper and lower eyelids, funky hair, dark blue nail polish, nude lipstick, 10 black and silver bracelets, two silver crosses on my ears, a larger silver cross hanging from my neck and an all black ensemble where the t-shirt said BAD BOYS ROCK. The steward looked at me strangely as he seated me, I saw him glancing at my seat number, probably earmarking it as a source of future problems. About 10 minutes later someone sits next to me. I turn trilled at the prospect of scaring someone new when I see a very distinguished looking gentleman whom I recognise to be an extremely well known doctor. I spend the rest of my flight trying to convince him that I am a doctor too and that yes, I do have a great practice and no, I do not normally dress this way and no I am NOT a troubled teenager.
I recently flew to the U.S. on work. This time I was going to focus on the things that were important - the movies, the desserts, the sleep, catch up on my reading. I was looking forward to a quiet flight. I was going to be Ms. Not Interested In Talking and would have my iPod glued into my ears for good measure.
I sit back loving the seats, I go through the food menu, I scan the entertainment listings, boy was I in for the flight of my life. In hindsight, I cannot fathom how something that started so right, ended up so wrong.
It all starts when he sat next to me. He smiles, I smile. I look away, it is all part of the 'dont even think of starting a conversation' move. Twenty seconds later, he taps me on my shoulder. I look at him. His lips are moving. Does he not see the eyephone in my ears? I slowly take my iPod out.
Yes, I smile
Hi, he says, travelling to New York?
I stare at him in amazement. I am on a flight to New York and yet he asks me this?
Yes, I say for lack of a better answer.
I turn away. I turn the volume up on my music till I am sure he too can hear it. Twenty seconds later, he taps me again. I turn towards him incredulously. This time I can see his lips moving but I do not take my eyephones out. It is only when I see him gesticulating wildly that I realise perhaps he is trying to tell me something important. I take my iPod off and smile.
I hope you don't mind but I might snore when I sleep, he says sheepishly
No problem, that's what my head phones are for, I smile back
There is one more thing, he says, when they come around with the liqour can you please take two extra bottles of Black Label for me, if you don't mind?
Good for him, he has figured this out all on his own, I think.
As I plug into the in-flight entertainment, he drifts off to sleep. A few minutes later, I cannot understand why the movie has a strange background sound. Something like a drum roll. I fiddle around with the settings but cannot seem to get rid of the sound. It is at this stage that I also begin to notice some other passengers looking my way.
I have no option. I put the volume on loud and try and lose myself in George Clooney's eyes, a feat normally achieved without any effort on my part, but not today. I feel cheated. I briefly contemplate stuffing two pens up his nose or putting a wad of paper in his mouth but chicken out at the last moment. Just as I am staring at him in complete frustration, he opens his eyes, yawns loudly (I stop breathing for a minute lest there be any exchange of air), goes for a walk down the aisle and comes back with a Black Label bottle. I watch him surreptiously as I have yet to see him take a single sip of the stuff. He glances around furtively and then opens the lapel of his jacket and the bottle disappears inside. I stifle a grin, I can't wait for him to start loading up his jeans pockets with bottles.
In the meanwhile, I know my seat comes with a foot massage. Mine is wonderful and puts me to sleep almost immediately. A long, black, dreamless sleep, during which time, unknown to me, two more bottles have been delivered to the next seat. As I wake up and make my way to the washroom a little unsteadily, two air hostesses smile at me sympathetically. Another one comes to hold my hand and guide me into the washroom. I am perplexed.
As I exit, one of them asks me if I'm feeling well and says that a lot of liqour can sometimes cause dehydration when flying.
A lot of liqour??? Could they possibly be referring to my 30 ml of white zinfandel consumed 6 hours ago?
The airhostess continues unfazed. She has appearently seen many drunk passengers feigning sobriety.
Do you think a coffee would help? she asks me
Help what? I ask, really confused.
Help you feel better, she says
But I feel fine, just a little groggy, I insist.
She smiles knowingly. It's fine honey, she says. Most people are pretty groggy after a few Balck Labels.
I think the shock on my face finally registers.
But he kept telling us that his friend would like some more and we thought you were the friend, she says.
I march back to my seat distintively less groggy and significantly more angry. What audacity. How dare he. As I reached my seat, I note that he has his foot massage going on and is sitting with his eyes shut and listening to something on his headphone.
Finally when we get off the flight, I am almost tempted to ask for a refund. He on the other hand has arrived in good spirits. As he is disembarking, he confides in me - My friend in New York loves Black Label and asked me to get him some from the aircraft. The crew were really nice about it, I just had to tell them that it was for my friend and they kept giving me more without asking any questions.
Ofcourse then there are the flights that have forced me to be a certain persona despite my best intentions at being someone else. Like the British Airways flight that lost my luggage (again). Up until that time, I was Ms. Calm & Unruffled, my head did not turn even when the passenger in front of me threw up loudly. Yet the lost luggage miraculously transformed me into a screaming and shouting shrew, fighting for the 200 pounds compensation to buy new underwear and a few jackets - yes it was a matter of life and death, I yelled at them. Did they want the complication of death by hypothermia - cause of death: loss of baggage and warm clothes by careless airline? Or the Singapore Airlines flight where I was the ultra casual, torn jeans, thin t-shirt, well worn sneakers, no make up Ms. Grunge until I realised that I was seated next to the Fashion Editor for Elle. I did desperately attempt damage control by taking out the newest Estee Lauder mascara from my purse and waving it around like a wand hoping she'd notice that I was infact slightly fashion conscious - but she just looked at me though eyelashes that were like a forest and said - honey, I'm not sure if you know but that is expensive. I did deliberate laying out my Clinique and Mac make-up on my food tray, but for that I'd have to get into the aisle and then she'd see my ultra scruffed shoes. But my favourite was when I was Ms. Gothic - 1 inch thick black kajal on my upper and lower eyelids, funky hair, dark blue nail polish, nude lipstick, 10 black and silver bracelets, two silver crosses on my ears, a larger silver cross hanging from my neck and an all black ensemble where the t-shirt said BAD BOYS ROCK. The steward looked at me strangely as he seated me, I saw him glancing at my seat number, probably earmarking it as a source of future problems. About 10 minutes later someone sits next to me. I turn trilled at the prospect of scaring someone new when I see a very distinguished looking gentleman whom I recognise to be an extremely well known doctor. I spend the rest of my flight trying to convince him that I am a doctor too and that yes, I do have a great practice and no, I do not normally dress this way and no I am NOT a troubled teenager.
I recently flew to the U.S. on work. This time I was going to focus on the things that were important - the movies, the desserts, the sleep, catch up on my reading. I was looking forward to a quiet flight. I was going to be Ms. Not Interested In Talking and would have my iPod glued into my ears for good measure.
I sit back loving the seats, I go through the food menu, I scan the entertainment listings, boy was I in for the flight of my life. In hindsight, I cannot fathom how something that started so right, ended up so wrong.
It all starts when he sat next to me. He smiles, I smile. I look away, it is all part of the 'dont even think of starting a conversation' move. Twenty seconds later, he taps me on my shoulder. I look at him. His lips are moving. Does he not see the eyephone in my ears? I slowly take my iPod out.
Yes, I smile
Hi, he says, travelling to New York?
I stare at him in amazement. I am on a flight to New York and yet he asks me this?
Yes, I say for lack of a better answer.
I turn away. I turn the volume up on my music till I am sure he too can hear it. Twenty seconds later, he taps me again. I turn towards him incredulously. This time I can see his lips moving but I do not take my eyephones out. It is only when I see him gesticulating wildly that I realise perhaps he is trying to tell me something important. I take my iPod off and smile.
I hope you don't mind but I might snore when I sleep, he says sheepishly
No problem, that's what my head phones are for, I smile back
There is one more thing, he says, when they come around with the liqour can you please take two extra bottles of Black Label for me, if you don't mind?
I don't know what I am more aghast at - that fact that he feels comfortable enough to ask me this or the fact that he has mistaken me for his wife or sister or best friend.
I'm sorry I cannot do that, I say and firmly plug my earphone back in.
And the flight has not even taken off.
As the liqour cart is being wheeled around, he sneaks glances at me. I figure he is trying to muster up the courage to ask me again and so I pointedly stare into my book. I order some white wine for now and a Coke for later. He orders two bottles of Black Label. After forty minutes, he goes for a walk and comes back with one more bottle.
Good for him, he has figured this out all on his own, I think.
As I plug into the in-flight entertainment, he drifts off to sleep. A few minutes later, I cannot understand why the movie has a strange background sound. Something like a drum roll. I fiddle around with the settings but cannot seem to get rid of the sound. It is at this stage that I also begin to notice some other passengers looking my way.
As I take off the headphones, a very loud unnatural sound accousts me. A sound that overshadows the drone of the aircraft, that dulls the chatter of the other passengers, that even infiltrates through the inflight entertainment. It is the sound of a chugging locomotive going through a tunnel to a background orchestra of a hundred out of tune trumpets - by gosh it is his snore. No wonder he had felt the need to warn me about it. If only he had told me he makes a horrendous, painful, choking whining noise when he sleeps, but no, he chose to call it a snore which completely misled me into thinking it would be...well...a snore.
I have no option. I put the volume on loud and try and lose myself in George Clooney's eyes, a feat normally achieved without any effort on my part, but not today. I feel cheated. I briefly contemplate stuffing two pens up his nose or putting a wad of paper in his mouth but chicken out at the last moment. Just as I am staring at him in complete frustration, he opens his eyes, yawns loudly (I stop breathing for a minute lest there be any exchange of air), goes for a walk down the aisle and comes back with a Black Label bottle. I watch him surreptiously as I have yet to see him take a single sip of the stuff. He glances around furtively and then opens the lapel of his jacket and the bottle disappears inside. I stifle a grin, I can't wait for him to start loading up his jeans pockets with bottles.
In the meanwhile, I know my seat comes with a foot massage. Mine is wonderful and puts me to sleep almost immediately. A long, black, dreamless sleep, during which time, unknown to me, two more bottles have been delivered to the next seat. As I wake up and make my way to the washroom a little unsteadily, two air hostesses smile at me sympathetically. Another one comes to hold my hand and guide me into the washroom. I am perplexed.
As I exit, one of them asks me if I'm feeling well and says that a lot of liqour can sometimes cause dehydration when flying.
A lot of liqour??? Could they possibly be referring to my 30 ml of white zinfandel consumed 6 hours ago?
The airhostess continues unfazed. She has appearently seen many drunk passengers feigning sobriety.
Do you think a coffee would help? she asks me
Help what? I ask, really confused.
Help you feel better, she says
But I feel fine, just a little groggy, I insist.
She smiles knowingly. It's fine honey, she says. Most people are pretty groggy after a few Balck Labels.
I think the shock on my face finally registers.
But he kept telling us that his friend would like some more and we thought you were the friend, she says.
I march back to my seat distintively less groggy and significantly more angry. What audacity. How dare he. As I reached my seat, I note that he has his foot massage going on and is sitting with his eyes shut and listening to something on his headphone.
I try and control my temper as I do not want to create a scene in front of the crew. So I stick my headphones back into place and this time I try I really try to focus on the movie. After a while, from the corner of my eye, I can see that he is saying something to me. I look determindely at the screen, I ignore him, I refuse to look at him. I know that his voice is growing louder, but this is my space and I am not obliged to chare it with him. But then he starts gesticulating again, wild gestures which for some reason seem to be concentrated around the front of his pants. I finally look at him helplessly as I turn down the volume. I am just in time to catch him tell me, at the top of his voice - Your zip is undone.
All eyes turn towards me. I look down and he is right. Now I know and the entire plane knows that my zip is down and that worse still, I'll probably have to stand up to zip up.
It is the longest 10 hours of my life. I refuse to acknowledge him for the rest of the journey. He on the other hand now seems to think that we're best friends since we have crossed a personal line (my zip being down and all that). He talks a lot, I keep completely silent and shut my eyes.
Finally when we get off the flight, I am almost tempted to ask for a refund. He on the other hand has arrived in good spirits. As he is disembarking, he confides in me - My friend in New York loves Black Label and asked me to get him some from the aircraft. The crew were really nice about it, I just had to tell them that it was for my friend and they kept giving me more without asking any questions.
I know, I say wearily to his retreating back, as I finally pull my zip up.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Five x Four
Memories like dusk fade away
Into a night of black and blue
The bad ones change shape and size
Only the good ones stay true
__________________________
He said he loved her though he didn't
She said she'd love him or die
He walked away without a thought
She hung herself with his tie
__________________________
I am a wandering soul
With no destination in mind
I travel with a simple passion
To see what I will find
__________________________
Life throws you a curveball
You think it's coming straight
You put your hand down to catch it
And it whacks you on your pate
__________________________
Pleasure is not unlike pain
One joy, the other strife
The biggest purpose of both
Is to remind us that we're alive
Into a night of black and blue
The bad ones change shape and size
Only the good ones stay true
__________________________
He said he loved her though he didn't
She said she'd love him or die
He walked away without a thought
She hung herself with his tie
__________________________
I am a wandering soul
With no destination in mind
I travel with a simple passion
To see what I will find
__________________________
Life throws you a curveball
You think it's coming straight
You put your hand down to catch it
And it whacks you on your pate
__________________________
Pleasure is not unlike pain
One joy, the other strife
The biggest purpose of both
Is to remind us that we're alive
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Being Single And Fabulous for a Day
Inspiration can hit me at the most frivolous of times. I can get terribly inspired by good food and then I suddenly find my self in my kitchen whipping up a mess and trying to look good while I'm at it. Thankfully my food related inspiration is always short lived! Or if I meet a friend who has just run a marathon, this invariably sparks a fresh wave of desire to be an athlete. I'll walk briskly for a few days and if I am truly inspired I might do a good imitation of a run, if I'm lucky I might even break into a sweat. Not surprisingly, exercise related inspiration lasts even shorter than my cooking ones and soon common sense prevails and I am grateful to be back to getting my exercise from dancing in high heels (to those poh pahing this, please try a 3 hour dancing session in pointy toed high heels. I assure you that gruelling levels match that of a marathon and you don't even get a medal to show for it).
More uselessly, movies which have gorgeous women in it - Jennifer Aniston, Demi Moore, Drew Barrymore, Cameron Dias, Julia Roberts - never fail to inspire me to the scary extent that I can take on their accent, the toss of their heads and their sexy walk (if only from the theatre seat till the parking lot). No, none of these last long - after all, inspiration from a flaky sources is, at the end of the day, flaky inspiration.
Speaking of flaky inspiration, I decided to see if I could be a Sex and the City kind of gal. Not any particular character from the series, but a composite of what a fabulous Manhattan woman would be like. I am determined to examine if buying 50 pairs of shoes can high heel my troubles away, and if I can still look great after endless nights of partying with countless glasses of cosmopolitans and if plunging necklines and shrinking hemlines can make me appear more attractive (you already know the answer to that but for some reason I feel compelled to test the theory in person!). I imagine this would be a truly liberating experience.
First things first - I scour my shoe shelves (sorry Carrie Bradshaw, I wish I had an entire shoe closet, but if I did, it would probably be filled with books). I take out all my high heels and choose a pair of gorgeous maroon stilettos. Then the outfit - a neck line slightly lower than what I would wear to work, wind tousled hair that took 30 minutes to carefully create, a cute pink beret on my head (I normally don't do berets), a scarf around my neck and some chunky jewelery. Finally, the make up. Make no mistake, Manhattan women really go the full nine yards with make up, even just for regular work. I wasn't going to sell myself short. And so I spend an inordinate amount of time applying concealer, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, blush, lipstick and a hint of gloss. I know I am digressing here but I feel compelled to say that purple eye shadow really does look purple...there is none of that delicate hue that you see gorgeous women wearing on their eyes. This is eek, what is that on her eye, did someone hurt you honey, purple. Try washing it away vigorously with dish washing liquid and if lucky, you then may get the colour you are hoping for, but then again it may clash with the very red eyes.
And thus I set off to work. Huge sunglasses, gorgeous handbag that fits nothing that is of use in it's 5mm length and a confidence that comes with...well...ignorance. In hindsight I should have realised that I look like a transvestite with an Hermes bag, on his/her first night at the dance club. But at 9 am in the morning, what is obvious to everyone else (hence the stares that I mistake for admiration) is completely lost on me.
As I strut into my practice, the receptionist nearly drops the phone. I cannot tell if it is the neckline or the 4" heels or the huge gold rings dangling from my ears, but I help pick her jaw up from the floor.
As we gather for the morning patient case discussions, my partner looks at me and casually says - Forgot to comb the hair?
I hate unsolicited comments, er...actually, only the ones that don't compliment. I roll my eyes and say, it's the natural look.
I get an unnatural look in response from him.
The first patient who also happens to be a friend walks in. What's with the hair? she exclaims. And this is before she sees the makeup and the stilettos, which effectively renders her speechless. The only plus in this is that I can work on her teeth without any of the usual interruptions from her. Needless to say, she spends the entire appointment with her mouth open and her eyes on my purple eye shadow. I could have opened a root canal without anaesthesia and she wouldn't have blinked an eyelid.
Somehow what I think is going to be a morning of Sex and the City meets Grey's Anatomy ends up being a bad remake of the beginning of Pretty Woman.
I go out to lunch. After all that's what the fabulous women in Manhattan do - they are the women who lunch. And despite the less than auspicious start, I am determined to complete this day in Manhattan style. So in my favourite pair of high heels I step out onto Mumbai's rain drenched streets. An in ghastly moment that I don't recall seeing on Sex and the City, my heel goes and gets stuck into the gaps in the metal lid over a gutter, in full view of 5 autorickshaw drivers, 3 roadside romeos, 25 construction workers and 2 really hot guys.
As I limp into the restaurant, my lunch date looks at my feet in concern.
What the hell happened? he asks
My heel got stuck in a gutter, I mumble.
Oh poor you, he sympathises, is that also where you got the bruise around your eyes?
I am never wearing this damn purple eye shadow again.
He looks at me quizzically. Why such high heels on such a miserably rainy day? he asks.
Because I want to be absolutely fabulous for one day and look and act completely unlike myself, I try to explain. I want to reinvent myself as a walking talking object of brilliance and beauty and style.
He grins back. Yes the black eye is very in, he says, going back to eating his steak.
I contemplate whacking him with the one remaining heel, but instead sneak the fries off his plate which I am sure will hurt him more.
After the afternoon gutter incident, I am also now forced to go shoe shopping - yes, it is in the plan, just that now it is completely justified. I go from one shoe store to the next, feeling like Cinderella. I am also testing the theory that like the characters from Sex and the City who can pay ransomish amounts for designer shoes that call out to them (!) and still have a wallet with money for drinks, lunch and more shopping, will my wallet have an endless bottom. I am sad to report, an afternoon of aggressive shoe shopping leaves me with an empty wallet (no, not even coins), a rumbling stomach but ooh, truly divine shoes.
That evening as I get ready to go out for a night of dancing with friends, I am hopeful that atleast the evening will end on a high note. I am dressed in Manhattan chic - the little black dress, silver strappy shoes, loads of make up (to compensate for dim lighting) and re-installed confidence. I am determined to have the city strewn with gorgeous men in my wake. Two dances into the night and I'm feeling a vibe. I know someone has their eye on me. My ears are burning up. My antenna is catching a signal. I then feel a hand tap me on my shoulder. I turn around to see a large moustache.
Hello, says the moustache, myself N.D. Shashi Subramanium. I peer below the moustache to see a mouth full of very white teeth which glow neon blue in the discotheque lights.
I smile sweetly at him and say, hello, myself going.
As my friends and I toss back the cosmopolitans and walk out of there, I am hit with the epiphany of a lifetime....(I admit it, my epiphanies are as frivolous as my inspirations)....sure I can do Sex and the City as long I slightly modify to suit local conditions, like lets say Heels and the Gutters or Cosmopolitans and the Moustache.
I have achieved one thing though. It has been a liberating experience - I no longer feel the desire to be Manhattan-fabulous. For what I might be able to carry off in Manhattan, I now know I cannot in Mumbai. From personal (and some of it painful) experience, I can tell you that you can bring Manhattan to the girl, but you sure as hell cannot take Mumbai out of her.
More uselessly, movies which have gorgeous women in it - Jennifer Aniston, Demi Moore, Drew Barrymore, Cameron Dias, Julia Roberts - never fail to inspire me to the scary extent that I can take on their accent, the toss of their heads and their sexy walk (if only from the theatre seat till the parking lot). No, none of these last long - after all, inspiration from a flaky sources is, at the end of the day, flaky inspiration.
Speaking of flaky inspiration, I decided to see if I could be a Sex and the City kind of gal. Not any particular character from the series, but a composite of what a fabulous Manhattan woman would be like. I am determined to examine if buying 50 pairs of shoes can high heel my troubles away, and if I can still look great after endless nights of partying with countless glasses of cosmopolitans and if plunging necklines and shrinking hemlines can make me appear more attractive (you already know the answer to that but for some reason I feel compelled to test the theory in person!). I imagine this would be a truly liberating experience.
First things first - I scour my shoe shelves (sorry Carrie Bradshaw, I wish I had an entire shoe closet, but if I did, it would probably be filled with books). I take out all my high heels and choose a pair of gorgeous maroon stilettos. Then the outfit - a neck line slightly lower than what I would wear to work, wind tousled hair that took 30 minutes to carefully create, a cute pink beret on my head (I normally don't do berets), a scarf around my neck and some chunky jewelery. Finally, the make up. Make no mistake, Manhattan women really go the full nine yards with make up, even just for regular work. I wasn't going to sell myself short. And so I spend an inordinate amount of time applying concealer, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, blush, lipstick and a hint of gloss. I know I am digressing here but I feel compelled to say that purple eye shadow really does look purple...there is none of that delicate hue that you see gorgeous women wearing on their eyes. This is eek, what is that on her eye, did someone hurt you honey, purple. Try washing it away vigorously with dish washing liquid and if lucky, you then may get the colour you are hoping for, but then again it may clash with the very red eyes.
And thus I set off to work. Huge sunglasses, gorgeous handbag that fits nothing that is of use in it's 5mm length and a confidence that comes with...well...ignorance. In hindsight I should have realised that I look like a transvestite with an Hermes bag, on his/her first night at the dance club. But at 9 am in the morning, what is obvious to everyone else (hence the stares that I mistake for admiration) is completely lost on me.
As I strut into my practice, the receptionist nearly drops the phone. I cannot tell if it is the neckline or the 4" heels or the huge gold rings dangling from my ears, but I help pick her jaw up from the floor.
As we gather for the morning patient case discussions, my partner looks at me and casually says - Forgot to comb the hair?
I hate unsolicited comments, er...actually, only the ones that don't compliment. I roll my eyes and say, it's the natural look.
I get an unnatural look in response from him.
The first patient who also happens to be a friend walks in. What's with the hair? she exclaims. And this is before she sees the makeup and the stilettos, which effectively renders her speechless. The only plus in this is that I can work on her teeth without any of the usual interruptions from her. Needless to say, she spends the entire appointment with her mouth open and her eyes on my purple eye shadow. I could have opened a root canal without anaesthesia and she wouldn't have blinked an eyelid.
Somehow what I think is going to be a morning of Sex and the City meets Grey's Anatomy ends up being a bad remake of the beginning of Pretty Woman.
I go out to lunch. After all that's what the fabulous women in Manhattan do - they are the women who lunch. And despite the less than auspicious start, I am determined to complete this day in Manhattan style. So in my favourite pair of high heels I step out onto Mumbai's rain drenched streets. An in ghastly moment that I don't recall seeing on Sex and the City, my heel goes and gets stuck into the gaps in the metal lid over a gutter, in full view of 5 autorickshaw drivers, 3 roadside romeos, 25 construction workers and 2 really hot guys.
As I limp into the restaurant, my lunch date looks at my feet in concern.
What the hell happened? he asks
My heel got stuck in a gutter, I mumble.
Oh poor you, he sympathises, is that also where you got the bruise around your eyes?
I am never wearing this damn purple eye shadow again.
He looks at me quizzically. Why such high heels on such a miserably rainy day? he asks.
Because I want to be absolutely fabulous for one day and look and act completely unlike myself, I try to explain. I want to reinvent myself as a walking talking object of brilliance and beauty and style.
He grins back. Yes the black eye is very in, he says, going back to eating his steak.
I contemplate whacking him with the one remaining heel, but instead sneak the fries off his plate which I am sure will hurt him more.
After the afternoon gutter incident, I am also now forced to go shoe shopping - yes, it is in the plan, just that now it is completely justified. I go from one shoe store to the next, feeling like Cinderella. I am also testing the theory that like the characters from Sex and the City who can pay ransomish amounts for designer shoes that call out to them (!) and still have a wallet with money for drinks, lunch and more shopping, will my wallet have an endless bottom. I am sad to report, an afternoon of aggressive shoe shopping leaves me with an empty wallet (no, not even coins), a rumbling stomach but ooh, truly divine shoes.
That evening as I get ready to go out for a night of dancing with friends, I am hopeful that atleast the evening will end on a high note. I am dressed in Manhattan chic - the little black dress, silver strappy shoes, loads of make up (to compensate for dim lighting) and re-installed confidence. I am determined to have the city strewn with gorgeous men in my wake. Two dances into the night and I'm feeling a vibe. I know someone has their eye on me. My ears are burning up. My antenna is catching a signal. I then feel a hand tap me on my shoulder. I turn around to see a large moustache.
Hello, says the moustache, myself N.D. Shashi Subramanium. I peer below the moustache to see a mouth full of very white teeth which glow neon blue in the discotheque lights.
I smile sweetly at him and say, hello, myself going.
As my friends and I toss back the cosmopolitans and walk out of there, I am hit with the epiphany of a lifetime....(I admit it, my epiphanies are as frivolous as my inspirations)....sure I can do Sex and the City as long I slightly modify to suit local conditions, like lets say Heels and the Gutters or Cosmopolitans and the Moustache.
I have achieved one thing though. It has been a liberating experience - I no longer feel the desire to be Manhattan-fabulous. For what I might be able to carry off in Manhattan, I now know I cannot in Mumbai. From personal (and some of it painful) experience, I can tell you that you can bring Manhattan to the girl, but you sure as hell cannot take Mumbai out of her.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
There Is No Such Thing As A Sane Family Reunion
As far as family reunions go, this one was quite tame - no one was murdered and atleast half of the family still talks to each other. The other half is ofcourse plotting it's revenge.
It all started with Rajanchayan sending out an innocent email inviting about 65 members of our extended family to the family home in Thumpamon, Kerala. Rajanchayan and his wife are citizens of the US, but have returned to India post retirement to enjoy the good simple life (that means getting local gossip at the beauty parlour, reading the obituary fastidiously and getting involved in local YWCA or church activities and politics...the politics at times far outweighing the activities).
The family house in Thumpamon is the old house that my great grandparents lived in. It is huge with 15 rooms, a long verandah, large wooded areas around the house, a 200 year old well and a cow shed which now houses the lone cow Susie. The red oxide floors have now given way to printed ceramic tiles and there are four indoor bathrooms with plumbing (I hear several male cousins were disappointed to hear that no one bathed at the well anymore). But for the better part, the house still feels like part of history. Over the years it had absorbed the charcoal firewood smell which now lingers on despite firewood having not been used there for over fifteen years. The smell is part of the house's legacy.
Day 1: Many of Rajanchayan's brothers came into town including my grandfather with my grandmother. I had already arrived that morning with my parents. As each car came up the driveway, there was a bit of a welcome ceremony. It was Taj meets Cozy Inn Motel. Omanakochama (Rajanchayan's wife) got a welcome drink out complete with an umbrella and a cherry for each guest. Rumour has it that troublesome visitors had their drink spiked with plenty of rum to put them in a better mood. I cannot attest to this for unfortunately I was not troublesome enough and I arrived before the fancy plans were in place. Each person also got a garland made of banana leaves.
There was much hugging and kissing (the Kerala way of kissing is to inhale sharply as lip touches cheek) and many many comments on weight lost or gained and receeding hair lines. Malayalis are not in the least bit diplomatic and this was in full evidence here. As soon as Maryamma got out of the car, everyone immediately asked her why she was looking so old and frail. As for Thampichayan, he was left struggling to answer why his paunch had grown so much and was told that if his pants were any further down, the children would be asked to close their eyes.
And so began the reunion.
Relatives were pouring in from various parts of the world. The first of the 'incidences' as I call them, happened soon after noon on Day 1. Ryan arrived - he's a cousin from the U.K.. His mom Daisykochama was already there. Everyone ran out to welcome him. As he got out of his car, his face hinted that there was more to come. Sure enough, behind him popped out 2 long legs, green high heels and a very short skirt. Ryan, in all his wisdom, had chosen the family reunion to introduce his Puerto Rican dancer girlfriend of 3 months, to his mother. Daisykochoma was first shocked, then furious. She started muttering under her breath about bad children, ungratefulness, selfishness, embarassment and the such. At lunch she kept banging the plates as she laid them down. After 2 plates cracked, Omanakochama gently removed the rest of them from Daisykochama's hands...this was too minor an issue to break Wedgewood China over.
By evening there were 28 relatives at the reunion. Patsy Aunty suggested a small prayer before the evening round of drinks started (let me just state at this point, Alcohol is a family member and present at all family gatherings). So everyone was summoned into the dining room where Patsy Aunty stood in the front with the Bible and started singing a hymn. One hymn led to another and very soon you could see the men look at each other restlessly. As the fifth hymn drew to an end, there was a collective sigh of relief. Patsy Aunty took the opportunity to start a prayer which had no end. Finally as she was praying for a whole bunch of people no one knew, Rajanchayan asked her if we could stop. In the few moments that it took her to decide what to reply, the 'congregation' had dispersed and within 3 seconds, everyone was knocking back vodka shots. Patsy Aunty was offended and went off to brood in a corner.
Dinner was an awkward affair. Patsy Aunty bravely proposed a prayer before dinner (she's not one to give up easily) - it just propelled everyone to shovel spoonfulls into their mouths and chew loudly. Ryan's girlfriend was drunk and kept trying to kiss him. Ryan was not drunk enough to reciprocate. Everyone else tried to look away except for his mother Daisykochama who glared straight at him without blinking.
It was eloquently summed up by my 6 year old niece Tia who said "sheesh" as she rolled her eyes as only six year olds can.
Day 2: New visitors. The Americans had arrived - aunts, uncles, cousins. Between the twelve of them, they covered all vitally crucial questions - how many calories did the welcome drink have, was the water in it bottled, was malaria going around, why had'nt the airport improved, did the cable tv offer Fox channels. They took over the house with their protein bars, mineral water, Blackberrys, vitamin pills, exercise videos (I am not joking) , iPods, laptops and other exotic things. Sara was my mom's cousin from L.A.
So Preeti, said Sara, how are you?
Great. Absolutely fine, I replied breezily with a huge smile on my face.
I was quickly reminded that Sara was treated for depression a few years ago. I wanted to be extra cautious not to trigger any strong emotions in her, such as jealousy or envy.
I quickly lost the smile. Er, actually things are not perfect perfect, they're just ok fine, I amended.
She looked at me as if I were the one a little off my rocker.
She held my hand. Do you feel no one understands you? Do you need someone to talk to? she asked me in a low whisper.
Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into, I thought.
I was saved from answering by the bell, literally. We opened to door to find Sara's ex-husband standing there, big grin on his face, new wife on his arm.
Rajanchayan and Omanakochama look at each other in horror. Someone had screwed up. Who the hell had invited the ex?
Sara went white and speechless. Ex-husband leaned forward to give her a peck. Sara lifted her hand to push him away. New wife got in the way. A bloody nose and a bruised eye followed.
Everyone watched this like a movie unfolding. Everyone except for Rajanchayan who was at his computer, frantically through the reunion invite mailing list. He was furious- who was responsible for this fiasco? A few seconds later, he returned with a guilty look on his face.
Sara went in to lie down. The aunts fawned over her. The young boys fawned over the new wife - they tripped over each other to get her ice for her black eye. Rajanchayan got dirty looks for messing things up.
A few minutes later, an aunt came running out of the bedroom. Sara had appearently swallowed five anti-depressant tablets. A doctor was summoned, though some idiot did say - Let Preeti have a look at her. I stared back - I am a dentist, I dont think checking her teeth at this time will help, I said pointedly. The doctor arrived 2 hours later. He checked Sara and pronounced her safe. He then checked the new wife's eye which was swollen like a lemon. There was much emphasis on how the doctor was not to let one know that he was checking the other.
That evening everyone hit the bar even before Patsy Aunty could make her usual suggestion. So she headed to Sara's room instead to offer a special prayer. As soon as Sara saw her coming, she reached for her pills. Patsy Aunty had to be led away gently. The rejection of her prayer sessions was getting her down and I suspected she would soon need some of medication of her own.
And thus the second day passed. Ryan avoided Daisykochama. Daisykochama avoided Ryan's girlfriend. Sara avoided ex husband. Everyone avoided Patsy Aunty. Rajanchayan was fired for sending the ex an invitation, even if it was by mistake.
The reunion was really on a roll.
Day 3: 11 am and I was sitting at the arack shop with Sue, a cousin sister from the UK. Sue is half Malayali and half English, a combination that makes her exquisite. We're were stopping traffic as people spied 2 girls in strappy tops and shorts sitting at an arack shop. Sue was especially arresting with her blonde curls and 5 ft 8in height. A crowd of men wearing lungis hiked up to their underwear had gathered outside the shop and were openly staring at us. A few more cousins joined us and pretty soon we had 15 people inside the 3x6 ft arack shop. For most of us, it was the cheapest (and quite frankly strangest tasting) 'liqour' we had drunk in a very very long time.
As we returned home, we noticed two people huddled together in the cow shed. On closer inspection it was Ryan's girlfriend (presumably ex girlfriend now) and the neighbours son!
That afternoon while most took a nap, Sara was heard telling Patsy Aunty about the benefits of anti depressants. Ryan meanwhile, was asking everyone below the age of 25 if they had a joint (atleast 5 people did...). The ex husband and the new wife left quietly, appearently she was quite miffed with the welcome she got! Sue was headed back to the arack shop - the owner had promised her eight free bottles if she spent some time there drawing attention to his little shop.
The evening tea was finally the first normal, peaceful meal in 3 days. Everyone was heaving a collective sigh of relief when Yohan, cousin from Chennai, loudly announced that he was gay...and all hell broke loose again.
Love, anger, deceipt, drugs, prayers, black eyes, excitement. Such was the nature of the family reunion. Rajanchayan has been banned from ever proposing one again, or else his wife Omanakochama has predicted that the next one will come complete with it's own divorce.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Yours Fatally
life said to death
it's a downright pity we met
death said to life
I'm always around but you forget
it's a downright pity we met
death said to life
I'm always around but you forget
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
