I should have seen this coming, I really should have. It is, after all, the festive season looming large, and coupled with this the wedding season right bang ahead. So what does one have? A calendar that is dotted with invites for religious functions, festive events and weddings of the kind that make your toes curl because the damn card is something that comes with a huge sack full of handmade chocolates and brocade boxes with trinkets and such like, and multiple event cards in gold print with embossed lettering, all guaranteed to make one look at the sad sarees one has languishing in one’s wardrobe in a state of increasing panic that escalates to hyperventilation.
In the society premises, we have three to four religious functions being held at various homes. One at mine own. All promise to be big shindigs which need the bling to be piled on with a shovel. Then there is the Navratri function, down in the premises which will need more blingy outfit. Folks are making chaniya choli noises, the kind with the cowries and the mirrors and the sequins. It scares me. I am a simple jeans and tshirt kind of girl. I am my worst in ethnic wear. I manage to get saree pallavs and dupattas stuck in fans and wheels of two wheelers with unfailing regularity. The first time I ever wore a saree in my life, twas borrowed off the mater, and the to be spouse took me for a ride on his scooter, I ended up almost getting choked and passing out because I didnt realise that saree pallavs gravitate naturally to the wheel and then strangulate you so swiftly that you don’t even get a chance to cry out for the driver to slam on the brakes. I wonder if the man sometimes curses his swift reflexes today, especially when the credit card bills arrive, and I see him gasping in shock.
Anyway, my ethnic wear collection is sad, limited and very dated. The natural solution to this wardrobe crisis would be naturally to go screaming into the stores waving the credit card aloft, and returning home laden with parcels which would need a staff of five to extricate me from under. Not this time. I have a credit limit that is maxed out. A wardrobe that is already full with clothes I’d rather wear everyday. Jeans of every shape, cut, fit, label, and black tops of every persuasion. Ethnic wear forms but a small component of my wardrobe and is confined to deep dank corners where I reach with much difficulty and acrobatics, necessitating the use of stools, and determination and admonishments to the child to steer clear or risk being crushed to pulp should I fall down. I dug out my small stash of formal ethnic wear over the weekend. Wedding trousseau sarees which were now begging for euthanasia or being converted to cushions and table runners. Some polyester stuff with the jhintak work on them which I had obviously bought while under the influence, and which you wouldnt find me dead in. A couple of crepes and tissues with interesting and tasteful embroidery on them, but with blouses which were obviouslyaltered by elves working in secret when the cupboard was closed so that they now dont even go beyond my elbow, and forget the buttons even coming together at the chest, even if they do manage to go beyond the elbow. No, its not me, I’m the same size I was when they were stitched. It is a criminal conspiracy to ensure that I never use these sarees and will need to give them away. I dug out the few fancy salwar kameezes I have, the ones in fancy silks and tissues and realise that even if I try to pat myself inch by inch into them, I will have to have some inches of me spilling out from either the top or the bottom. Therefore Operation Salvage is currently underway. Existing wearable stuff, which only needs stitches to be let out is getting priority. Salwar kameezes which might still be usable with a little alteration are being taken to tailors where I beg and plead with them to work their magic and contemporarise the styling, which also involves clever strategising as to how to put in extra fabric to match the expanded girth since said garment was stitched. Tent like tops are being looked at with a quizzical eye to check for suitability if paired with churidar and dupatta for them minor functions.
This thriftiness is making my halo glow. Maybe I can save some more, and switch off some lights. The glow from the halo would do for light enough to dine and not bump into the furniture in.