You know what I mean. You know, dont you? Those comfortable cotton numbers with the proportions of a sack, in bright prints, which let you eat to your heart’s content in a public situation, allow the tum to meander out of the path of virtue and waistband and hang comfortably over the belt, with nary a care in the world. I went and got me some kurtis. I’ve been seeing everyone wearing them all around. And been resisting them, because, well, they are shapeless. But considering I’m fast getting there, it was high time I got into something that gave me breathing space, and exhaling space. And space to exhale some more. And ingest some more.
I went into a shop and asked the man for some kurtis in my size. He yelled at a minion to get XXL. I ran away as fast as my lard would permit in embarassment at being the XXL being catered to in volumes loud enough to bring the mall down. I stepped gingerly into another store and browsed the racks carefully not daring to ask for my size, picked up one I fancied, held it against me, thought I could make a public appearance in it and handed it to the salesperson. “Aapka shaize mein nahin hai. Yeh to medium hai. XL wahan par hain,” he said desulatorily, pointing me towards a rack filled with gigantic floral and curliculed prints and bright eyepopping colours that would mean I could never ever escape a marksman in a crowd. What is it with the people who make these kurtis. Do they not realise that given the size we XL folk are we dont really want to the kind of entertainment that has small children following them down the street, chucking stones and running away, for personal merriment purposes. What about some subtle colours. And some shape. Kurtis, I have found are constructed with a straight cut. Which in turn means the front rides up for someone like me, who is, ahem, generously endowed. And the back hangs low. And which totally gets my goat. I need them darts and them pintucks and some semblance of some shape. I need waist definition, I need them curves to be on display and make me feel like slimness is just a couple of days dedicated walking away.
Aargh. I might as well wear jute bags and pretend them to be organic fashion. I consoled myself with the thought that from one shop to the next I’d dropped a size from XXL to XL, and took my chance at the next shop which, gleefully, had all the kurtis labelled L and a sweet salesgirl, who didnt look at me sympathetically, nor insisted that nothing on any shelf in the store was meant to be soiled by being touched by the likes of garguatan swamp creatures like yours truly and actually was pretty sure that I would be able to get into a L sized one. I was determined to do so, to give credence to her confidence, even if it meant I had to pat myself into the damn garment, millimeter by millimeter. Yup. I emerged with four kurtis from the store. Moral of the story to store owners: Mark down your sizes. It feels nicer buying an L than an XL.
And no, these are not yet going into regular wear. I’m just about easing them into park and home wear. It will take a while before I accept that yet, the waist is too broad to be contained by a tshirt, and only the wide, forgiving width of a kurti could do it justice. Like them mommy jeans? I’m still trying hard not to get there. Never mind that I’m already there, regardless of my valiant efforts to peel on them skinny fits, with much huffing, puffing, snakedancing on the floor and such like.