A memory sparked off by shoes…

The year, 1991. The place: Bhaidas Hall grounds, Mithibai College Annual function. The boy being awarded Student of the Year, future husband. It would take us six years to get there. I didnt know it then. Tall, handsome and the cynosure of all female eyes. But strangely nervous. I say strangely, because he had nothing to be nervous about. At almost six feet, he stood out in a crowd, and his swimming enhanced physique was to die for. He didnt know how handsome he was. He took my breath away. All decked up in blazer and tie, and, gasp, new shoes. Shoes he picked up all the way from the ground right upto my eyelevel to show off to me. “See, I bought new shoes today,” he told me. I see glimpses of the same dandy in his son today. I was shy, nervous and insecure. Girls who were perceived hotties in the college were handing him roses. One held onto his arm and refused to let go. He cut through the crowd around him, and stuck with me through the evening. It wasn’t a date. It sort of became one. He was called onstage to receive his award. From the stage his eyes searched mine. Dont go anywhere, he whispered before he ran onstage, I’ll be right back. Wild elephants couldnt have moved me from the spot.

I had just met him a couple of days ago. I barely knew him. I was yet to learn that the Richard Gere lookalike and projected confidence hid a nervous and uncertain boy. I would later learn he had saved up his scholarship prize to buy a new pair of shoes to impress the new girl in his life. Moi. I didnt know yet that I was the new girl in his life. You see, his father also expired when he was young. And his mother supported them with her pension. He looked good on export surplus. He dropped me home that night. And strangely, I trusted him enough to let him do that. And the only physical contact that happened was him gently pushing a flick of windblown hair away from my eyes.

He has enough shoes to fill a cupboard today. But he has never looked handsomer to me than he did that night, wearing those shoes.

Chuck De!

I am proud to announce that I have done it. I have cleaned out the shoe wardrobe. I have, gasp, gasp, chucked out eight pairs of shoes that were a)worn to the nub or b) too uncomfortable to walk or c)just ones I didnt like anymore. And these have included the ones I spent half the GDP on, and therefore was hanging on to for dear life and guilt and imagine what the hubby will say. The hubby said yay. Give it away. Therefore the maid has now a pair of red lizard skin Aldos which are the only pair with a midsize heel. Friends are rolling on the floor in laughter at the vision. And the other discarded, a blue denim with floral embroidery stilleto from Catwalk, a copper thong spike heel from I forget where, and a gorgeous black diamante studded velvet slip-on (not so nice with some diamantes missing in action) have gone the way all trash goes in this house. To the MIL. To be passed on to the raddiwallah. Yes. There is a pang of regret. To be fair, I would have passed the unused ones. But how do you ask anyone whether they would like an almost brand new pair of shoes, without them wanting to clout you with said pair of shoes. And that steel spike can put in a nasty hole in the cranium. And the sis in laws, the only ones whom I could dare ask said question dont wear them six inch heels. They’re practical and matronly. And wear box heeled pumps. And guess thats where I’m heading to fast enough. But not fast enough for this round of shopping I’m hoping.

And the good news is that I now have place for lots more. Therefore, Aldo, here I come. Charles & Keith make space for me. Catwalk, keep them wooden wedges polished. Am going shopping and aint nothing gonna stop me now. What is it about me and my shoes? Why is it that the latest Choo Lace has me all ashiver with desire in a way no man can ever hope to? Why is it, that I begged the powers above to give us some modicum of winter to allow me pull out the newspaper stuffings from my boots from deep within the attic? And now that the powers that be have granted me my wish, have realised that those boots are best worn when paired with a pair of great legs which I no longer possess and have packed them back in the hope that age will do better things to them legs than varicose veins. Yes, am ashamed to say I now chose my shoes not only for the lift they give me but also for sheer comfort purposes. A pair of shoes I cannot run around in is a pair of shoes I do not buy anymore. Yet I have evidence of the follies of my youth staring right at me as I write this. A pair of beautiful silver lace and denim wedge heels forlorn and unused because I risk becoming a Japanese street chic platform heeled manga character if I wear them, apart from the very obvious risk I face of twisting my ankle into two.

On my wish list, and if I can convince myself to shell out the lumpsum towards the shoe fund, a pair of croc skinned Ferragamos. In copper. Or pink. Or whatever colour they have in my size. I am not choosy. I just lust. And a black patent vinyl pair of lace ups. From I forget whom. I saw a glimpse in a magazine and have fallen in infatuation. Jimmy Choo, I think. It had a Choo look. Red Satin pointy toed pumps. Ahhhhh. A pair of red peep toes in patent from Mango would do as well. Or a round toe pair of patent pumps from Nine West in those nice lemony colours. Or that red patent number from Charles & Keith. What is it with my new obsession with patent? Wore them in the eighties, and now patent shoes are back with a bang and colours that hit the eye unapologetically. Considering almost all my clothes are black paired with denim, can flirt with a bit of colour on my feet. Coupled with my Jackie O sunnies, am set to sail. Or perhaps nude. Nude as in the shade of shoes to be bought. If research I did recently on shoes is to be believed, pink is out and nude is in. There go the pair of neon pink kitten heels with the pink flower corsage I picked up recently. I need to get myself a pair of strappy nude stilletoes for ultimate urban chic. And a pair of nude ballerinas. Am ruining the current only pair of matte gold croc skin ballerinas down to paper sole thickness. Yes, thats where practical comes into play. Ballerinas dont spread the weight around, but I can run to crack the minute mile if the need be in them.

Life was simpler when one was in college. One bought a single pair of shoes, from the sales at Linking road from money saved up from bus fare and tutions given, and then wore them with everything till they wore down to a nub. Got the heel redone everytime it threatened to fall off. Very often they fell off. But those were the days one walked. Really walked. And walked painfully on high heels. But soldiered on.

The shoes rarely wear out anymore, and one isnt content with just one pair. I guess that is the saddest comment one can make about oneself. I dont wear the shoe anymore. It wears me.

And so it came to pass

that I found myself in a pastry shop in the dead of noon, while the world was busy with earning an honest living, trying hard to evaluate which of the sugar laden delights beckoning seducatively from the display counter would do the worst possible damage to said waistline gone to waste. How did this worst case scenario come to pass, you ask? How did it happen that the kleptomaniac was let loose in the departmental store with the security cameras switched off and the guards with their feet up on chairs and caps covering their snoring faces? Hunger. Pure and simple hunger. Blame it on the weather. Blame it on my metabolism. Blame it on my complete lack of discipline and focus on whittling down the waist to fitting within pants without muffin top falling gracefully over waistband size. In my defence, my day starts at 6 am. And I donot have breakfast. I survive on a cup of tea till lunchtime. Tea with sugar. I kill myself with the guilt over the sugar. Yes, yes. Unhealthy, but laziness and a lack of inclination to make myself any breakfast before the cook arrives are to be blamed. And anyway, the morning is so rushed that one doesnt actually get the time to even think about ingesting anything solid, and preparing it myself??? Blasphemy. Therefore, when it came to pass that strange cramps gripped my stomach and twisted it into various combinations that began from the mild to the fullblown seemingly uterine contractions of labour I wondered whether, unknown to me, I had passed the ninth month point without noticing it. A sort of fast forward to delivery point with no morning sickness. But it was not to be. And when the head began swimming, I knew. This was something I had never allowed myself to feel before. These were the feelings of a stomach deprived of food to digest. Anger at not being given the opportunity to do the task God set before it. And the swimming feeling, and the blackingout sensation was sugar levels gone awry. Therefore the pastry. Therefore the shop. And therefore the greed that made me buy two big boxes comprising five of them sugar bombs each. You never know. Tomorrow is another day. Forewarned is forearmed. I sail forth tomorrow with a pastry in a box. Low sugar levels can be dangerous I believe.

Do you think the fact that the weather is hovering around the 11 degree celsius mark in Mumbai is adding to the hunger levels? All I can seem to do is dream of immensely fattening and fried foods. Plates loaded with piping hot bhajias and pakoras set before me, with adrak wali chai hot off the kettle. Thick chicken soup, the way mom made it when I was snorting my gills out with a bad cold in my childhood. Even khichdi. Piping hot khichdi with dollops of ghee dribbled over it, with fried papad. Yes, none of these will do nice things to my waistline. But I digress. I seem to be on a food overdrive. Is this what they mean by winter hibernation of the animals? Eat till you burst and then sleep it off. Sure could do with that.

Do you have anybody toxic around you???

Yup. Those kinds. Those kinds emitting fumes of negativity that perfume the room before they can even make an entrance? The ones that would need a crane to lift the corners of their mouths into a smile? The ones, that if the Gods ever smiled at them, and managed to land them the megaprize in the megalithic lottery, would still manage to chew up your eardrums about what a drag it is to actually go so far to collect the damn cheque and why cant it be sent across by liveried handdelivery, and did you see how rude that liftman was, he didnt even move a centimetre to allow for fat to float freely in said lift? The ones who spend an hour on elaborate rituals and praying and the moment they finish find something or someone to criticise. Think hard. Anybody? Anybody you feel like ducking behind walls and potted plants when they approach? Anybody who is guaranteed to brighten up your morning when they dont make their presence felt? I’m really lucky. I get my daily dose at the crack of dawn. The day begins with a long whine about how it was impossible to sleep due to assorted causes comprising cars on the road which should know better than to honk in the vicinity of such an important personage, the muezzin from the mosque upfront who dares to break shut eye at 5 am with his call, the weather that dares to be too chilly (yes, we are shivering in 12 degrees celsius in Mumbai), and the fan that makes a sort of irritating noise. Having got that politely out of the way, without needing to be asked how the sleep went, the discussion will veer, steered magnificently by the strong arm of self obsession about how the joint pains are acting up, how the maids are harassing one by not doing all they have to, how the neighbours are rude and boorish and fightercocks and have no respect. I flee to the bathroom ostensibly to have a bath, and wonder if there is some way one can instal permanent auto reply with pleasant smile on my face. Thankfully, the bath saves me, and I rush out. The moment I return from work I will be greeted by the glummest face that only a lack of efficient bowel movements can produce. The maids, it seems, have acted up again. The joints are acting up again. The grandchild is acting up again. The neighbour, a perfectly pleasant and chatty lady whenever I bump into her, has stood at her doorstep and yelled vile and unmentionable things. I escape into the bedroom and switch the laptop on. I am followed into the bedroom where I attempt a meek escape for a more detailed explanation on why it is essential to Keep A Distance from such uncouth neighbours. Any wonder why we had uncouth and unsociable neighbours in the previous building. People who were Not Worth Talking Too. And when I nod and smile in mock assent, all the while wondering if I can actually find something to plug my ears up, the topic veers to family friends who have now all become uncouth and donot call or visit, and how they would all be around every single Sunday, and no one ever bothers to even call now, and how if they ever call, One Should Be Very Cold and Distant. Any recommendations for some good ear plugs would be welcome, along with techniques on how to remove the toxicity that is being dumped into my system every single day. Yes, have tried aromatherapy and meditation, but the toxic overload is becoming a trifle too much. Can just about see myself drowning in seas of postmenopausal angst.

The midlife crisis strikes…

I will be calm and zen about this. Which means, that I will not bawl my lungs out in banshee fashion whenever I accost a mirror, and I will not jump and stomp my feet on the ground everytime I realise that it really is waistline gone to wasteline and not PMS bloat. I will be zen, I will be calm, I will be zen, I will be calm…..UGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH

Okay. Having got that out of the way, you might just see me sashaying down the road in cellulite displaying culottes, a tankini, bleached blond hair and a toy boy as the perfect accessory to this desperate grasping of youth moment of crisis. After you have composed yourself, and mopped up the retching, you will see many mes floating all around. I live in perpetual horror of being one of the above described specimens of forgotten youth. See them sashaying rather teetering like ships with full sails unfurled, on miniscule pencil thin stilettoes which leave deep imprints on the pavement thanks to the unholy weight they are expected to bear without protest. Heavens, even bearing the national debt might be an easier proposition. The face, a motley map of lines, wrinkles and other such character inducing studies, will be encrusted with layers of foundation and powder, which has settled into the fine lines like so many rivulets spreading towards an estuary of spiderwebs below the eyes. And there is the question of lipstick. Bright red mind you. with the colour slowing creeping into the fine lines that edge the lips like eyelashes. Barbara Cartland anyone? You get my drift. The clothes will be lycra and tight. And in colours and prints so bright they can trigger off a migraine with a glimpse. And I shiver in horror knowing that it could be me. It could be me trying desperately to hold onto a forgotten visage of what it was like to be young and effortlessly beautiful. And with no multiple chins and stomachs. When the trousers buttoned without a sucking in and waist wriggle and snake dance to get in. When the cheeks were rounded with youth, and not hollow with age. When the body moved with you, and not to a beat all its own.

What triggered this off? The sad realisation that I have only black, white and brown clothes in my wardrobe. And in the furious effort to add some colour, have picked up a bright orange Tshirt. Which, in my defence, I bought wearing sunglasses that did good things to mute the shade, and therefore was misled enough to pay hard cash for it, and emerge triumphant in the belief that had snagged a fashion statement. On looking at it, in the cold flourescent light of reason have consigned it to the depths of the wardrobe to be brought out only in case of emergencies, such as being packed for a Hawaiin holiday or to be used in lieu of a distress flag if ever marooned at sea. Am now back to my trusty browns and blacks and whites. But I refuse to give up the powder, the lipstick and the lycra. Let the crisis creep up on me. I have the rest of my life left to be the clown in pastiche.

How the highlights became lowlights

If the kind reader would care to throw their mind back to distant blog posts, wherein one has spoken at length about the hair being slapped with peroxide and wrapped in metal foil, to me emerging like a mottled tabby cat at the end of it all, the kind reader would do well to know that those days are now in my distant past. I would henceforth refer to those days as the days of my youth, when I shimmied forth in highlights and red lipstick and was lucky enough not to be arrested on suspicion of soliciting. I am now a mature woman. This I say with temporary amnesia and consequently no recollection of the jumping up and down stomping feet and squalling hissy fit thrown yesterday when it was discovered that some sleazeball (any guesses who?) had surreptiously, in the cloak of the night and under the pretence of needing to use the loo, had finished off the remnants of the chocolate fudge icecream tub, secreted in the way back of the freezer, hidden from view behind packets of frozen peas and  smileys. Hissy fit, above, thrown by self, not by brat.

Therefore this mature woman doesnot highlight the hair anymore. If truth be told, the hair was getting quite shrilly insistent about highlighting itself. Only, one wasnt quite in agreement about the choice of colour. One does not quite fancy oneself an Anna Wintour quite yet. And I have a preschooler. Horrors. Imagine the poor child being asked if the fat woman accompanying him was his grandmother. Hopefully, the enquirer would ease the pain by stating that the grandmother looked too young to be a grandmother, but I digress. Therefore, when one woke up one unclear and foggy winter morning and stumbled into the bathroom, with spectacles and not them contact lenses, which strangely do bad things for detailed vision, one saw in great excruitiating detail the outcrop of grey along the hairline. “Ha,” laughed the mother mirthlessly, like she often does when she begins pointing out the flaws in my perfection. Like the paunch. And the tyres hanging over the waistline. She is ruthless. I guess she freelances for a beauty pageant judging competition on her off days as retired housewife to expect perfection from her nearing forty year old daughter. “I told you not to highlight and colour your hair so much. This is what happens when you dont listen to your mother.” Having succeeding completely in reducing me to age six, cowering in a corner, moping miserably, she then dispensed sage advice. “Go natural. Its okay to be grey. Even college kids are greying up these days.” I looked at her rather the telephone receiver aghast.  “Mamma, I really dont care who is going grey. I refuse to grey before I hit forty.” But obviously, my hair has a mind of its own. I had to concede though that she had a valid point. Prior to my fiddling around with peroxide and colours, one and a half years ago to be precise was when the urge to highlight hit me, inspired by the fake blonde perfection embodied by Avanti Birla and Roohi Jaikishan, one had no grey hair. Not a single one. And one was bored to tears of being a good black haired girl. Black hair equalled boring. Equalled behenji. Or so one thought mistakenly. One did not then see Catherine Zeta Jones as an admirable role model. Therefore, one spent good hardearned money on making one’s hair, as the good and kind mother in law put it, “Look like the village kids in her native pahadi land, who dont have enough money to put oil in the hair.”

Therefore started the vicious cycle of highlighting, and greying a bit, highlighting again to make the greys blend in, and then greying some more. Finally, me emerging more grizzled tabby cat than sleekly feline with the abuse I have subjected my hair to, the little that is left of it, I have decided to stop. And go natural. Therefore yesterday at the supermarket, I picked up one packet of original Rajasthani mehndi, broke in a couple of eggs, squeezed in some lime juice and poured in some black tea and gooped the mixture onto my head. And sat and waited patiently, for the greys to be coloured naturally. Without chemicals and other such stuff that had brought my crowning glory to this sad state of affairs. I sat and waited. Noticing with the air of a long suffering martyr the incredible lengths the family was going to to give me my space, and put some distance between me and my henna headed stink. And then after I had perfumed the surroundings for an hour I dipped my head in the basin to emerge, a red streaked tabby cat.

Therefore, if the kind reader sees a hitherto blonde headed woman now covering her head with hats and scarves and such accessories of camouflage, they would do kindly not to ask why, and shut up and leave above said woman to figure out her next course of action for damage control.  

You are the change you seek

..or so said the book of the wise man, which had been thrust into my hand by a shaven headed extremely earnest and persuasive foreigner, dressed in saffron, outside Hypercity, who followed me around till I relented and consented to buy one of them slim tomes, primarily to get him off my back, while simultaneously maneouvering grocery trollery overladen to precarious truck high height, with single hand, while other hand held onto four year monsterchild who wanted to run across the road to explore the patch of murky marshland, and yelling for driver who had chosen this very moment to be missing in action. Stopping the trolley from tipping over with a well placed foot, I rummaged in the sack I call handbag and dug out requisite amount and gave it to him gladly. Perhaps it is serendipity, I thought. Perhaps this book was meant for me. Perhaps there is a message inside it.

And yes, hidden in all those chapters about us being plant forms, and amoebic forms and such other low lives before being gifted a human existence, was this gem of a line. You are the change you seek. Yes. Right now I am the loose change rattling around in the various pockets of life’s handbag, not really adding upto anything substantial but just piling on the weight. I need to get rid of the loose change and convert them into currency notes. Loose change goes to the beggars, currency notes get things done.

Therefore I will not attempt to be change, I will change. My new year resolution. I will actively attempt to initiate change in the areas of life which are unsatisfactory to me. Life is too short to keep moping and whining about why things arent happening the way I want them to. Which includes getting that waistline back into a size that can fit into a single frame of a digital camera. And getting the brat to learn swimming on my own. And revamping the wardrobe to urban chic from the boho chic I had slid down to in sheer laziness. And ….Any suggestions about how I can get me an island home in the Maldives?

Happy 12th anniversary dear hubby

Disclaimer: This post is replete with romantic mushiness and other such roses and valentine type of stuff which regular readers of this blog might find offensive. Unromantics, kindly excuse. Braver souls, please keep the barf bags handy.

Dear Hubby,

Happy 12th anniversary. It seems strange yet scary that we have spent 12 years of our lives officially tied up in holy and unholy matrimony, and six years before that fighting every other day yet returning to each other like two ends of a stretched to tautness rubber band. We have spent 18 years of our life together. We met when I was eighteen. Has it really been that long? It feels like yesterday that I sat next to you, in what was going to the first of many experiences before a really smoky havan that threw dust motes into my contact lenses and made me cross and uncross cramped legs, and seem to be sobbing most bitterly, as is appropriate to the bride, the tragedy being that I did my sobbing at the havan and was most unseemingly overjoyed at being packed off as your newly wed. And do you remember the most romantic experience of the wedding night? The hotel suite all decorated to the tee, and I had forgotten to pack and send across my carefully selected and painstakingly paid for lingerie. Much to your glee of course. Of course, I havent wasted any more money on seductive lingerie since. And the hairspray that had made my hair stiffer than a suit of armour. And the gadzillion hair pins that went into that contraption of a hairstyle falling all over the place as I cried buckets and wondered whether a comb would ever go through this maze of concrete. Luckily, you were there, with a handy hand shower and showed me just what good these things could do. And voila, I had combable hair again. That has been the pattern of our relationship, hasnt it? I get myself into trouble, you come in and get me out of it. Its made me so damn complacent this knowledge, that I can just walk into a burning building and know that you will come from across the country to get me out of it. Like the time you braved the Mumbai riots to come through to my curfew struck home to find out if I was okay. Like the time you walked upto VT to pick me up from my office when Mumbai had come to a standstill with a total blackout and pouring rain. Like the day you came to college to find out what my results would be when the trains had stopped plying, and the rains had turned the road outside the college into a communal sewer cum swimming pool, even though you had no need to be there. And you barely even knew me then. And you got me out of it then. You always do. You are my bodyguard, even today, though the body has gone the way of good memories and doesnt need any guarding anymore. No wolf whistles come my way anymore, but to believe you, I am still the stuff sweet dreams are made of. You make me feel as self confident and as seductive as any Mata Hari could ever hope to be, despite the multiple stomachs and the hips gone from earth goddess to mother earth.

Then when I decided I must, I must, have a child, you stood by me as solid as a rock. Coming with me for every single appointment, even if it were just a scan. Through all the infertility treatment. Through all the times I broke down and wept with longing for a child. When the damn thin line refused to appear on the urine tests. You were there. Stern and grim faced and unwilling to let me see how much you hurt too. You hide your emotions behind your brusqueness. You bought jewellery for me for the first time when I was pregnant. After eight years of marriage. Perhaps that was the only indication you gave me of how overjoyed you were. And when the brat was born, he brought out a new side of you. That of the rock of a father. With the brat going through the autism spectrum diagnosis and all his therapy and the stress, you were the only person who was convinced that he was fine, and nothing was wrong and I was creating much ado about nothing. You refused to be part of this treatment. I realise now that this was your way of blocking out the possibility that something could be wrong with your son. And yet today, we realise you were right. He is a bright, brilliantly hyperactive child. He will never top the class. I know it. But he will survive. You believed, and yet you laid out every resource you could have at my disposal for his treatment. No expense was spared, no inconvenience brooked. You have your own way of showing your love. I adore you for it. And now, when I have been cribbing endlessly about my frustration at not being able to work or write thanks to my life having become full time serf to the brat, you gift me in quick succession, a Blackberry and a laptop. No jewellery. Thats not your kind of gift. And perhaps, you know that I am not that kind of a wife.

I love you so much, and I love the way you go out of your way to ensure that I have as comfortable a life as possible. You may not do the roses and the wining and dining, nor the handholding nor the grand gestures, but you are so caring and concerned, even when I am being the prototype of the nagging shrew, and I know how terrible I can be. I can have acting courses for wannabe television soap vamps when in full flow. I am blessed to be your wife. Thank you for being the most wonderful and loving husband I could have ever dreamt of having. It also helps that my heartbeats still do the jungle beat when you walk into the room. Even after 12 years. Love you.

 PS: The husband never reads the blogs. He will never read this. Which is why I have been so damn honest.