The arrgggghhhh moment…

I had one of those the other day. These are the moments that haunt you till you are skin and bone on your deathbed, with the lifeforce rattling in your hollow chest, and the priest comes over to adminster extreme unction or whatever religious necessity is required to set said soul free from human body cage and all you can think of is how in the fifth standard you went on stage in an angel costume with a cute frilly tutu, and cellophane wings and one of the damn wings lifted said tutu up in the air behind so your ugly undies, the purple ones with the big holes in them, was on full display on stage, to all the parents seated in front. And all your friends. And your teachers. And gasp, the principal. And of course, the horror of remembering all this in one flash of sudden recollection would do your soul the horror of releasing it instantly, with the Let Me Die Right Now embarassment it caused.

Yup, had that at a birthday party last week. You havent seen much of me last week on any of the three blogs, because I was recovering from the embarassment having died one million times thanks to painstakingly reviewing the said moment of embarassment from every possible angle in the mirror post embarassing moment and coming to the conclusion that yes, indeed, this was the most horrifically embarassing moment in my entire life, save the time when mega crush came upto me and I simpered and coyed and batted eyelashes etc only to have him ask me if I would be kind enough to introduce him to mine friend. After which, all I could reply was “Gah.” Yup. “Gah.” I’ve got a list of ready responses rehearsed and at the tip of my tongue to reply right now, rehearsed and perfected to ego puncturing proportions if I ever run into him now, and can add that said friend is now 40 kilos on me in the weight sweepstakes and isnt he so regretting his bad taste in women, and wished he had the ability to undo time and history and do what he was supposed to do when he walked over to me, that time in FYJC, and ask me out on a date. Gah. Yup. I’m so saying Gah to him. And I hope he’s fat and balding too. Anyway.

What happened was a birthday party. A page three type thing that happened over last week. And I was there not by expedient reason of being a Page Three type person, but being the mother of invitee who is best friends with son of Page three type person. My task at such party is normally limited to slicking on the lipstick and spraying on the perfume and sitting back and enjoying the show. And collecting said child with return gift after the party is done. But no. I have to do more. I have to try to make conversation. Icy glares should have warned me that I was not supposed to mingle, but did I learned. I made conversation. Lots of it. With impeccably groomed sorts, flashing diamonds the size of pigeons eggs, with hair that was blowdried in salons, as opposed to mine which was wind dried on the way to said party, with make up that had been applied by professional hands, rather than car-eyeliner which I like to think I have patented but which actually is like lashless rabbit look. And folks with clothes that were the equivalent of my annual income tax returns on their immediate persons. A saner person would have sat it out and chugged the alcohol grimly. I had to go out there and put myself in the line of fire.

Post making enforced polite conversation I take myself to the bathroom to unload the countless colas I had been ingesting since I got there. And horrors, what do I see, a piece of spinach stuck in my tooth, waving itself merrily to all and sundry. And I cringed as I remembered how broadly I had smiled, how graciously I had smiled, how generously I had flashed them teeth around, and remembered photographer too clicking furiously.

Yup, twenty years down the line I am going to have the perfect line to save face, even down to making teeth spinach a fashion statement for vegetarianism or something. Right now, I’m just thinking it up and rehearsing it. In enforced solitude. And learning how to laugh discretely. Covering all them teeth.

Granny socks and yours truly.

Thanks to the wonderful situation of have a toenail hanging half off its hinge and another on its way there, I am in granny socks these days. Everywhere. In the heat of the Mumbai summer. Trust me. People faint when they realise I’m wearing socks in this swelter that has most people throw off all the clothes they have on their body and want to run around with permanent shower booths attached to their person.

You know the granny socks. The skin coloured ones with the two toes to allow for easy chappal wearing. I’m wearing those. And needless to say, below the socks, the pedicured rest of the toes have been benignly neglected. I change them socks a couple of times a day and catch a quick glimpse of the offending toe nails and shudder involuntarily. How the mighty have fallen. These were toes that were never allowed to peek in public without impeccable pedicure. Shaped to perfection, coloured immaculately. In boring browns or biscuits or pinks, but coloured and shaped and cared for. Now they stare back at me sullenly, with their nail surfaces unbuffed, their edges unfiled, and uncoloured. Bare.

And I wear them granny socks with every kind of shoe. Osho chappals. Floaters. Stilettoes. Wedge Heels. Kitten Heels. Hell, why should I deprive myself of the pleasure of wearing good shoes, because my feet are in undisplayable condition right now. Considering that these are the feet of a woman who has always maintained you can tell how finicky a woman is about her appearance with one glance at her feet and the condition and suitability of her shoes, you can well imagine the internal torment I undergo every single day stepping out like a hick from the hills.

But then, given that nail stump cannot be removed. And is prone to snagging painfully on every random surface, I would rather be hick than happening in this matter. For the moment. I guess this is what happens when old age sets in. A younger me, I know, would have borne the pain of ripped toenail stoically in the cause of looking presentable. Ah, well, I’ve turned chicken. The day is not far off when blackhead removal and waxing seem like interrogation in the dungeon levels of torture I’m sure. Till then, let me walk gently towards that stage in them granny socks. With the two toes for better grip. We grannies skid easily and fracture hip bones too. Though, I think my hip has traded in the bone for fat a while ago. Or said bone is so well upholstered it shows no evidence of being present in said hip.

Perhaps, a trip to the mall for some better socks is in order. And some better, more forgiving of broken toe nail shoes too!

My Shaadi Ka Lehenga…

 …was carefully unwrapped from the mul cloth I keep it wrapped in, with the cloves to keep silverfish at bay, and the faint musty smell of something precious and stored. Yup, after I’d fallen to the ground and had old shoes brought to revive me when I caught glimpse of the choli which I must have definitely stitched in infant size, because there was no way even half of me was even hoping to fit self into the entire whole of it, I realised it had been a while since I’d actually taken it out to look at it. Could it possible that once upon a time I actually had arms that were matchsticks. You know. I could have been a stick insect and I never appreciated it. Arms that could be left bare in sleeveless tees and trusted not to jiggle themselves into the shimmy shake if all one attempted was an innocent bye bye gesture. Well. All that really means is that yours truly is never ever going to be able to do the red carpet walk and wave, but then, who really wants to. After all, yours truly is never going to be invited on said red carpet anyway, except perhaps to lay it out. The red carpet that is. What did you think?

Speaking of red, the lehenga is red. Brilliant red. In true blue North India style. With embroidery so heavy I almost had to be propped up at my reception with cousins and quick swigs of alcohol. Of course I’m kidding. I didnt need the cousins to prop me up, I didnt have any who would have taken on the task of propping me up, given that no one was willing to risk life and limb to be splatted under falling bride. Seriously though, given the size of them arms I must have been chicken proportions when I wore said lehenga,  It was a wonder I didnt fall in a crumpled heap to the floor. Would have been nice though, bridelike swoon, considering one made a most unseemly bride with not the remotest smidgeon of any trace of tears during the bidaii only, I am reminded of, by the spouse, of my unseemly glee in hurrying to the honeymoon suite booked at closeby hotel, though I insistence was an urgency to use the facilities which one was unable to do in front of gadzillion swarming guests oohing and aahing over one. Brides are not supposed to pee. Right. They have to smile and look radiant, and not need to clean their teeth post dinner with toothpicks.

Anyway, the lehenga brought back precious memories. Of standing next to the man, accepting gifts and envelopes and wondering what they contained, and not knowing one would get around two dozen steel utensils and three lemonade sets, and the gift opening ceremony would be something that you would have happily traded for the pleasure of watching paint dry given the wow quotient of gifts that emerged from them wrappings.

I aired out said lehenga, noticed the fading and blackened gota work with a wry smile. It has been 13 years in the keeping, save for occasional airings and ooh ing and aahing with no practical use for it. Folded it, stuffed in cloves and wrapped in back in mul again. By next year, I think the waist too will seem impossible to get into. Will keep it as heirloom for the grand children to play dress up with. Now, why does that thought make me happy?

Yup, I’m earning them grey hair right I think.

What about your wedding outfit? Would you still fit into it. Sarees excluded from discussion of course, blouses included. I still fit into my saree. The Banarasi I wore for them pheras. As for the blouse. Well…..

Apology accepted….

Those who read this blog regularly would remember my frothing at the mouth post about how a resident of my building almost knocked my son down within the building premises, and how a scrap ensued, where I am not ashamed to say I comported myself like a true blue fish monger in my trembling rage, hands on the hips shouting included.

Well, the said person came across home the other day with two boxes of chocolates for the overjoyed child, who had no clue what he had done to deserve such joy. And  said person apologised for his behaviour. Explained certain circumstances which had made him lose his temper.

Well, I am not a person to hold a grudge. Therefore, Gaurav Chopra, apology accepted. It is a sign of manners and good upbringing to have the courage to accept a mistake and try to make amends. Therefore, I have hit delete on that incident.

And yes, dont even begin asking me about the ferocious daily struggle to keep the child from ODing on the choccies, given the immediate dental history of two root canals and infinite fillings on milk teeth just undergone.

Make up and moi

Had a girly discussion about make up and how, on the best of days, discovering the right shade of lipstick makes me feel I hit the jackpot in the national lottery, and how knowing that I am out, exposed to the world without even a slick of gloss to shield me from cruel comments about how the dead are up and walking, makes me want to curl up and die, without the courtesy of leaving a suicide note behind to ladle on eternal guilt to the one I leave behind who will undoubtedly turn cartwheels in delight and begin pulling out little black books of forgotten one night stand numbers.

What is it about me and lipstick that makes me recoil violently from my barefaced morning dog breath face when I glimpse it unlipsticked and puffy eyed the first thing I awake. I have now come to the matronly stage in my life when I do know and understand that I have to put on my face to look human, and not like some mangled rodent remains the cat dragged in as offering to her human. And I am okay with that. I worry about the panic that sets in if I fear I have been spotted in a public situation without said face. You know. With lipstick off. With face ashine with liters of oil pouring out of them geysers on the nose they call pores. Pours would have been more appropriate. But never mind.

Once upon a time I lived barefaced. That was when I had not got into training bras. Like them bras, once I slathered on my first slash of colour on the lips, and outlined them eyes with kohl, I never went back. Make up is a definator of womanhood. A rite of passage. A declaration to the world that your childhood is now behind you and you are now a woman and out there to attract them stares from pimply gangly youth who are, in these hedonistic times, busy kidnapping each other and killing friends for ransom money. I came of age in more innocent times, when one could stare longingly at crushes and objects of interest without any risk of being kidnapped, molested or worse. And one could step out in public with bright orange lipstick without being laughed off the planet. Yup, guilty as charged. But then the skin was young and the eyes were bright, and orange lipstick didnt actually look as terrible as it would now.

Today, I must leave the house with eyes outlined, tinted sunblock in place and lips slicked over with either lipstick or gloss. Or I might as well have stepped out butt naked. I hate this dependence on cosmetics. I wish I had the courage to move out of the house with my skin bare, and no artificial pigment touching said skin. Having said that, I have moved from a situation when I sat at home all day with my contact lenses in, to a current dog laziness about putting in them eyes, and moving out and about with them soda bottle glasses and pretending that one is deliberately patronising the intellectual look on days when I havent had the chance to run the damn comb through my hair. Yup. That doesnt seem to make much of a difference, running said comb through the hair, but a slick of lipstick does immediately lift up the face, add some colour and drag one back, by above mentioned uncombed hair, back from the realm of the undead. Leave me on a desert island with a Woman Friday to fish and cook for me and a crate of sunblock and lipstick, and I would die happy. Throw in some eyeliner and some nail polish and I would die a good looking corpse too!

What is your relationship with make up?

Letter to the me, of circa 1990

Hey Kiran,

This is me. Or rather you. Some twenty years down the line. Yup. You’re going to reach there too. Dont snigger. Yup. Take a good hard look. And pay good attention to what I’m about to say.

Dont dither and dather. You do have the rest of your life in front of you, but it really isnt infinite. You will just wake up one fine morning and realise you’re going to have forty candles on your cake and decide to do away with the damn celebrations, and use the money saved from not celebrating on botox shots. Seriously though, you have very little time. So do what you want to do. And that means exactly what I say. Do it now. Want to climb mountains? Move heaven and earth to explore it, dont wait till you’re older and wiser and have some money in the kitty and a secure job in hand, because the ideal time to do anything you want never comes by. It just gets further and further along on the horizon until you get grey haired and soft in the belly, and get palpitations of the heart just thinking about climbing three flights of stairs, and the mountains will keep smiling benevolently as you resign yourself to leaving them unexplored in this lifetime at least.

Of course, the mountains were a metaphor. Climb every damn mountain. Do what you want to do. Listen to what you want to do and do it.

Do not snigger at old folks. You are going to get there faster than you think. Yup yup. You are going to become a lifetime customer of L’Oreal Ammonia free hair colour, and you are going to be the one squinting at the packaging on anti wrinkle creams where, through some infernal conspiracy designed to trick us old ladies who go into stores to pick up stuff without our reading glasses, prices are written in amoeba height letters so that we can just clutch our chests as the price shows on the cashier till’s computer as the damn coin size jar is swiped.  Yup and you are going to be the one asking the saleswoman for double support wide elastic triple hook bras, and check whether the underbust is wide and forgiving enough to keep recalcitrant mammaries in place. So prance around in your lacy nothings with no support if you wish, but dont gloat. Someday you will wish you wore harnesses to sleep.

Dont you sneer at women who spend their time raising kids and running their houses, having the arrogance to assume you are going to be revolutionising the world of print journalism and winning every award worth winning in the profession. Yup, twenty years down the line, you are going to have nothing to show for the years you spent as a journalist except a facility with the computer keyboard, and an incurable urge to proof read the newspapers with pencil and tongue stuck between teeth, with the occasional cluck cluck at the puerile reporting and the incredibly stupid grammatical mistakes which seem to be scattered randomly over each and every page of most newspapers these days. And you will see colleagues swarm up the career ladder, reaching positions of eminence, and only look on in envy and many twinges of retch inducing regret, because you chose to take a long long break and do nothing substantial but produce a brat and become his doting slave.

And yes, you are about to meet the man you will marry. Believe you me, your knees will shake, your stomach will churn, your heart will sing and you will run in unseemingly manner around the holy fire. This will probably be the only sensible decision you make in your entire life. Stay true to him.  He may seem rough hewn, share nothing in common with you, have no penchant for academics, nor any love for theatre or the arts, but trust me, he will pull out all the stops to give you all the comforts you might want, and be as firm as a rock behind you. Yup. He might never ever say I love you. Not even if prodded with a heated pitchfork. Marry Him.

Love

K

Crunches and munches

I sat down the other day to find my stomach demanding a chair of its own. Now, whatever the wall to wall situation of the hips, my stomach, even post C-sec, has been a well behaved stomach and allows me, in standing position to get a view of my toes. If I cheated and peered over the lungs, of course. The silhouette too, is presentable, never mind if the butt is the perfect kind that a Victorian woman would throw her hoops away for, them hoops being rendered redundant in face of such spillage and rapid fire expansion that would delight a cannibalisitic society hunting for dinner.

Therefore, when the stomach protested violently at being denied a chair of its own I looked down in shock. And stood up. Threw shoulders back. And pulled stomach in. There, I looked at self in the non reflective glass that makes up the cabin of the tiny office one works out of.  Yup. There is definitely a *gasp gasp* paunch. Nope. I am not PMSing. This is not water retention bloat, though I can explain it away shamefacedly in said fashion. This is a true blue, wobbly jiggly dyed in the cellulite paunch.

I ran shrieking to another mirror and checked out self with squinted eyes. Yup. Paunch. The horror. The horror. I must lie down and do them crunches. And leg lifts. And get back to walking as much as them legs permit. Or I can pretend I’m morbidly pre menstrual. Yup. Water retention is a terrible terrible thing. And I have the mood swings as mandated to validate that excuse.

Quick tips to rid self of paunch solicited. Nothing that involves exercising will be considered.

Holi Hai!!!!

So we celebrated Holi yesterday. And how. The chaos had been unfurling since the past month as a gaggle of geese, aka the cultural committee of the society premises we live in which includes yours truly ran around like so many headless chickens trying to fit things into place, and pull contributions from all ends to fit into budgets which had suddenly gone into bingeing overdrive and were bulging obscenely from all ends.

But hectic running around with begging bowls and much intimidation of residents to cough up (reminding one scarily of the louts who inevitably make the rounds of societies in unsecurity guarded neighbourhoods demanding Vargani for every random festival) saw the coffers fill up to some extent. Therefore the event was on track. I pretended to ignore the new grey along the hairline, and kept my highlighting kit ready and waiting until post Holi.

I have not played Holi for years. The thought of being splashed with colour, drenched to the bone and being groped all over in a culturally sanctified groping festival was not something one was too keen about. Has something to do with one’s growing up years when overly avuncular types tried to get hands into places they shouldnt had a lot to do with my aversion to the festival. Add to it my natural fastidiousness and aversion to looking like the Bride of Frankenstein, and knowing that I have the kind of lung power that a bucket of water throws into borderline obscenity in public situation. Therefore, I had sat back and stayed safe all these years. Plus in the previous building one lived in, one was sufficiently friendless and considered sourfaced enough to ensure that one didnt get dragged out kicking and screaming bloody murder.

Things here, as you might have guessed, gentle reader are different. For one, one is not sourfaced any longer considering there are folks here with whom one can have a conversation with which doesnt revolve around the price of onions. Though that does creep in occasionally given the obscene prices said tuber shoots to on truck strike times. And secondly, one had been brave enough to volunteer to be on the cultural committee. A decision taken when one strangely enough was not fortified with alcohol, and yet made without due consideration of the impact on the acceleration of the greying quota of the few strands remaining on one’s head. And thereby making Schwarzkorf a happier company, with one more permanent client.

The plan was simple. Holi puja and burning the Holika the previous night. DJ Music and rain dance the next morning followed by lunch. Simple enough. But try getting many heads to organise that. Many headbanging sessions later, where friends became permanent enemies and dissonant points of views were exchanged in manners befitting the honourable members of parliament, chappal throwing and bench hurling aside.

The morning dawned bright and early. I awoke with the kind of sinking feeling in the stomach that one normally gets when one awoke before a board exam of sorts in one’s youth. You know, the feeling that something bad is scheduled for the day and you forgot to pen it into your list of things to do and cant quite recall.

The caterers, the DJ, the rain dance chappies were all lined up and waiting. One went down, fortified with a couple of Disprins in one’s pocket. Just in case. Things organised themselves seamlessly. One patted oneself on the back. The children were already running amok, unrecognisable under the layers of colour they had smudgeoned onto each other, and playing guns and robbers with gunlike pichkaris or backpack tank pichkaris that packed five liters of water ammunition for prolonged non refuelling. Of course, one was drenched in the supervision process itself.

The music started, the tankers rolled in and the crowds streamed down. Soon, the entire compound was a mass of unrecognisable people with faces that would give young children nightmares enough to warrant extended counselling and therapy through their adulthood. The men had a SUV boot full of the alcohol and bhang and continued ingestion ensured that spirits soared to the extent that hitherto calm, sober, well behaved and very very dapper investment bankers and the like were seen shedding themselves and any unfortunate in the vicinity of clothes and dancing with abandon. Thankfully, the men restricted this vastraharan dance to themselves and the women for once were the gleefull onlookers but without any eyecandy to warrant such display. Potbellied, middle aged Holi revellers donot make for much gleeful viewing.

The children ran around like eels chasing each other, dancing, getting drenched despite worried mothers yelling at their respective charges to get their butts back into dry clothes and take themselves home. And put to bed fortified with cough syrup.

A hearty lunch later, one returned home to see one’s head a brilliant shade of pink that resisted every effort at getting washed off with shampoos both gentle and strong. Any tips on how one could get highlights back to the colour the good hair colourist intended it to be. Or shall I pretend to be Dame Edna Everage until the said highlights grow out to cut offable levels?

Edited to add: Since many mails asking the gory details have kindly come in, I thought I needed to clarify. No groping happened. With none of the women. Yours truly has of course, expanded and aged to ungropable levels, so didnt even expect or think of being a grope victim this Holi. And yours truly hasnt been groped in a public situation. Having a husband who is reputed to talk with his fists first does have some advantages. A couple of folks who have had jaws dislocated some decades ago might testify to that.

And the rest of the young uns played amongst themselves. The men played their holi and the women played their own. And colour applied to the opposite sex only if spouse or child or family member by some unwritten tacit code. I wouldnt have gone down to play Holi had it not been understood that all the women were absolutely safe. Hell, I am a respectable matron now.

The bag that bites the hand that fills it…

I have one such bag. I adore it with a love that is beyond brands, material used and 70 per cent sale price tags. It is brown. And shiny. And has drawstring straps. And I could probably use it to kidnap a not too chubby toddler too with no one the wiser, unless of course, wailing sounds emanate from said bag at inappropriate time. I could also use this bag to transport half my kitchen in an emergency if the need so arises. On regular days of course, it is the repository of make up pouch containing more lipsticks than ever get pressed into service in a year, eyeliners, sunblock, glosss, liquid blush (which has the honour of being as virgin as it was when it was bought from the store), tweezers and thread (yup, when you have PCOD, very bad eyesight and a manic morning schedule, you never leave home without it, having suffered umpteen The Horror, The Horror moments when one caught a glimpse of self in store mirror and saw thick long strand grinning cheekily back at one from the chinnie chin chin), umpteen safety pins (buttons popping and zips splitting on one have been experienced in infinite Oh Mother Earth Swallow Me Now moments), and the spectacle case, the contact lens case and solution, the sunglasses, the wallet, the mobile, the infinite ball point pens, and such like to the point that if the phone rings it is actually easier to dump the contents of the bag on the nearest available flat surface rather than stick my head in and trying to find infernal ringing chain and ball from hell.

The other day, the phone rang when I was in a very very trying situation. At Hypercity. With the child. Correction. With the child running amok. And with me yelling at the top of my voice for the child to stand still in a single spot till I managed to hobble over to him. (Why hobble, you ask kindly, tis because I, in my zeal to knock off the kilos settled on my butt, climbed up and down 20 floors twice over and consquently had no legs left for three days. No legs that were in working condition, that is. Only legs that felt like they were made of blocks of wood and which refused to move in any direction the brain yelled commands at them to move towards, and just generally flopped down, bearing the rest of the torso on comfortable resting surfaces. Many salted hot water soaks, combiflams and iodex rubs later, I was in hobble hobble mode. And of course, without them stilettoes). In such precarious situations, phones which are decent well behaved phones are supposed to keep silent. And not ring insistently. Not this phone. No sirree. It began singing the dratted Airtel tune. (Yup. Lazy me has not yet set a ring tone). Between ear drum piercing yells which would have done a Red Indian off to gather some scalps proud, asking the child to get his scrawny butt within direct vision, I began fishing around in said bag. It would have been sensible to ignore said infernal ringing. But you know, it could be that call from the casting agent offering me the lead in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Or it could be a call informing me that I’d won the sweepstakes. Or it could be a call to randomly gossip about folks I know. All of which made said call unmissable. People around began edging away from me, and the security staff began closing in gingerly, I could almost see them gesturing furtively for the straitjacket and the restraints. The infernal phone wouldnt stop ringing, and ringing, the child kept running, I kept hobbling as fast at block wood legs would allow me and yelling simultaneously. Finally it happened. I yelped in pain as something pointed and sharp bit my hand as it fished around searching for said infernal phone. It had finally happened. My bag had come alive, and contained a ferocious rabid animal which would emerge and eat me alive. Luckily, a staffer had grabbed the child by the teeshirt and frogmarched him to me. I pulled out my bitten hand and examined it tearfully. A drop of blood glared angrily at me. Dratted safety pins on the loose.

I have since vowed to downsize to a bag which has an easily accessible pocket for said misbehaving mobile.  When I get round to doing that is another issue and another post. And I’m putting in them infant safety pins in the new bag. You know, the ones with the plastic elephants where the head of the pin should be. Dont stare at me the next time if you see a blue plastic elephant where an innocous discreet zip should have been. Its holding my sanity together.

Happy wimmin’s day!

Sunday morning yours truly got up like she’d been roaming with hibernating bears roused out of their slumber. Which, coming to think of it, is a metaphor which couldnt have been truer, given that husband and son had conspired to keep her awake till well past the witching hour, and these old creaking bones and dehydrated brain synpapses need their eight hours of deep uninterrupted sleep in order to be at functioning level the next morning. Snapping my way through morning tea and brekkers, yours truly noticed that the newspapers were inordinately full of pancaked and smiling women enticing one to run amok at stores and spend all one could, including fillings and undergarments, to buy more stuff one could never ever fit into even on a non PMSing day. Womens Day, it said. 8th March. Yours Truly bopped the surly hungover husband on the head with the rolled up newspapers and grinned inwardly as he winced, relishing her saintly decision to give up alcohol and liquor and other such inebriants when she realised she was on the point of pouring a peg into her morning cuppa chai. “Its Womens Day today,” she informed the man in unnecessarily sharp tone of voice. Ensuring that every word was drilling holes in said hungover brain.  “So…” he croaked, looking up delicately, given the precarious situation of said head. “Its my day. Therefore, I want to go shopping.”

The antidote to all PMS angst, every moment of “OMIGOD, is that really me in profile, when did I grow an extra stomach”,  Every thought of “What business does she have to look so good at her age,” is simple.  Pure, undiluted and totally hedonistic. Shopping. Unfettered. At sale time. And Inorbit is one great gigantic orgy of sales at the moment. And of course, yours truly is currently so retail therapy deprived that she is going quick into into acute withdrawal symptom mode. Read, going into dreamy eyed fantasy mode when picking up vegetables at the local green produce store. Thinking how perfect that shade of yellow bell pepper would be if converted into a grainy leather tote. Or how that fabulous purple of the brinjal would be the ideal colour for a velvet and brocade anarkali ensemble, if only one could lay one’s grubby, grasping hands on it.

The spouse refused to rise to the bait. Probably, the bait should have been tempered with some hair of the dog to be effective.  Yours truly sat mournfully in said balcony, sulking with such ferocity that well meaning folks asked her to down some triple strength kayamchurna for relief, looking longingly at the newspaper supplements, detailing the sales on, the discount percentages swarming in front of my eyes like so many bees from a broken hives, distorted by angry tears of helplessness at being denied the privilege of exercising cardinal right of  Womens Day unfettered, run wild with credit card held aloft in waving hand kind of manic shopping.

And right on cue, came the downer AHA moment. The maid came into said balcony to swab, and the cook wandered across to check quantities and ingredients of lunch menu with yours truly. (Not that yours truly brings any expertise to the cooking process, she just prefers to cross check, in case things go wrong, she has the perfect scapegoat to whine, “Bhabhi ne bola tha…” to save her scalp).

So what did yours truly do on Women’s Day? She ate. She played with fruit of womb. She did some spring cleaning. She chatted with the legally wedded spouse. She chatted with more women. In short, she had a perfect day.

Yup, sales donot make a Woman’s Day. Women make Womens Day. And do we really need a day to tell us to celebrate ourselves? All ye women, who give me strength and courage and hope and who laugh with me, cry with me, bond me in this great sisterhood that spans countries and continents, this one is for you.

Yup, we hold up half the sky. More power to us women. Every single day.

Psst:  Am so checking out the sales this evening. Credit card permitting. One really doesnt need the man for that. Only during credit card bill paying time, perhaps. Yup, that’s what a man is for. To pay my credit card bills. Inorbit, here comes the supershopper. Get the gawping crowds out of the way. And yup, keep the Women’s Day banners up .