Language called lingerie

Is it true that a woman channels her inner-female through the way she dresses? Or inner-anything for that matter? Take, for example, lingerie. From the no-nonsense, thick-strapped cotton stuff, to the sheer, lacy contraptions that Triumph manufactures, she takes her pick to complement an important occasion, a fiery thought, a fleeting mood, a wispy promise. A fancy dinner would call for the expensive Victoria’s Secret, and while donning a saree, she would appreciate the silhouette that the Pierre Cardin underwire can bring about.

But what is the need for a woman to pay such close attention to something that does not make a bold appearance, even if it makes a bold statement? And to spend so much on something that is fit for only being hidden beneath layers, or to be hastily peeled off in foggy passion? I see women standing by the lingerie counter in all the clothes stores, mulling over the various sultry silks which promise to open secret windows to fantasies. Fat and slim, short and tall, thin and curvy, plump and pregnant: women make a beeline for expensive lingerie even when their husbands mumble about the frivolousness of it all.

The husband, the direct beneficiary and intended target of such bold expressions, often dismisses lingerie as an impediment, and relegates it to a cobwebbed corner of the bedroom. Then why does a woman invest time and money in such purchases?

A woman has many things to consider. She has the frenemy in the office to outdo; the one whom she has to have an edge over by somehow sparkling under the harsh lights. She has the husband to turn on, keep interested and have coming back for more. Then there is the eternal struggle in striking balance between Fashion and Comfort, as tipping more towards one would make the other jealous and vengeful.

You may feel she is looking slightly out-of-breath in that push-up bra, with a partner who hardly notices any difference the cloth is causing to her appearance, while the frenemy struts about looking as voluptuous as always. And you may wonder why, despite all this, she keeps going back for seconds and thirds to the lingerie store. You may call her desperate; you may ask her to not be so vain; you may plead with her to give up this seemingly hedonistic pursuit to hell and beyond. What you may not realise is that she does this not for you, or for her husband, or for her competition. She does this for herself.

She slips on the fuschia T-shirt bra as sunlight streams through her window, because little birds are chirping in her nested head. She decides on a polka-dotted pair because a picture of her mother in bellbottoms in the 70s made her wish she belonged to another era. She wears the deep red lacy set, not because her mind is in the gutter, but because she feels extra feminine tonight.

A woman need not paint her lips scarlet, flick her hair suggestively, or sway her hips while walking, to get a point across. Lingerie, like a lingering desire, may be buried deep within, dressed in shadows, and may never see the light of day.

A woman may have a point to make, often to no one but herself. And lingerie, hidden yet revealing, helps her in doing just that. 

Today's tip

I am always the one in the group that insists on giving a generous tip to the waiter in a restaurant. It irritates a lot of friends, who, to be honest, can easily afford the little set aside for the person who patiently served us food. If we have no qualms in giving a 10 per cent of our bill amount to a snooty waiter at a five-star restaurant, why doesn’t the bearer at our local Chinese restaurant deserve a similar treatment? He forks out your Schezwan noodles and ladles your sweet corn soup even without you asking him to, so would an extra Rs. 20 to your bill be too much of an inconvenience?

Eating out often the past few weeks has made me appreciate waiters, all over again. They are strangers who help you eat your food better. He is part of the entire tradition that allows you a culinary experience, which magically does away with the chopping, cleaning, cooking and scrubbing. Yes, he is paid to do the job, but shouldn’t you hold the person who brings the plate to your table with a certain level of respect?

The one I encountered yesterday at a popular vegetarian breakfast chain was a little on the irritating side in the beginning. He hovered over our table, not letting my friend and I truly appreciate the greasy masala dosas our rumbling stomachs had demanded. But his attitude, I noticed, was seasoned with care, caramelised by a certain level of maternal involvement in my breaking bread, that I found endearing, after I got over my initial impatience at his constant presence.

I looked at him properly for the first time since my friend and I entered the restaurant like savages, brûléed from the sun. He looked into my eyes and asked if I wanted more pineapple juice. True, he wants more business for his restaurant, but here is someone who had noticed that the excessively sugary concoction in my glass was fast dissolving into a mere froth. He had taken notice of this even before I realised my straw was sucking at foam and not juice any longer. He crossed the length of the restaurant with tissues when he caught me silently debating about the need to walk up to the green-tiled washroom five steps away from my table. He indulgently chuckled when I told him that I was too lazy to wash my hands, and gently chided my friend – a person with high blood pressure - for taking so many medicines at such a young age.

When food was ingested, life was restored and it was time again to wage a sweaty war with the sun, he materialised at my side to help me with my chair. When I left a tip for him, it was neither as an afterthought, nor was it an action of mindless practice. It was not even out of a need for being shown gratitude which would swell my ego. It was for the short slice of mom-away-from-mom experience he had offered me. For choosing my table to serve me. For not holding a grudge against me when I left behind sticky crumbs like a toddler on a high-chair. For, most of all, forgiving my dismissive attitude when his enthusiasm in the beginning was too intrusive for an urbane conversation with my friend; for to my friend I can speak with at any time, but to the waiter who had just waited on me? If I am lucky, another time perhaps.

24

I turned 24 today. When I was 13, I thought 24 (or anything beyond 20 really) is time to call it a day, close shop, and turn into a fossil. Now that I am that fossil, I hardly feel old (not that 24 is OLD, but you get what I mean). I feel like the same fragile person I was back then, and yet I have grown so much and learnt quite a bit along the way. Birthdays always tend to draw out the introspective side in me. So here is my attempt at penciling down what I feel this day.

Today was simple: I like simple birthdays. Those who know me, know this. But that does not mean I did not have a good birthday. In fact it was pretty awesome in all its simplicity. It started with blueberry cheesecake, apple pie and white chocolate fudge, sprinkled generously with a lot of love, hugs and kisses from the three people that matter the most in my life. It went on to include calls from friends and relatives, texts and FB messages, church, onion pakodas and a long session at the beauty salon.

While I was undergoing one medieval torture after another in the name of beauty, I had time to reflect, something I usually do to escape the excruciating pain when hot wax drips from my arms and my eyebrows are being plucked mercilessly. I recalled that when I was 13, I wanted to be 18. I couldn't wait to grow up. To my 13-year-old, pigtailed self, that age seemed glamourous. I told myself I would be flawless, beautiful, have a handsome boyfriend (who would be six feet tall, will play the guitar, and sweep me away on a bullet), will be invited to loads of parties and have many close girlfriends (all slightly less attractive than me). I dreamt of this life so much that when I was 20, I was still looking out for the 18-year-old life of my dreams. I was restless, bored and aimless.

I had this terrible habit of never being happy in my own skin. If I heard my classmate singing like an angel, I wanted to force my throaty voice into operatic submission. If I saw a friend do graceful pirouettes, I negotiated (unsuccessfully) with my two left feet for similar effects. I just wasn't satisfied with who I really was. It did not matter that I had a confident reading voice: I wanted to give impromptu speeches; I hardly cared for my thick wavy hair: I wanted it slick-straight. So you see, I didn't want to be who I really was.

  

It took me awhile to grow up, shed superficial longings and learn to enjoy this life I have been called  for. It did not happen in a day. I still am work-in-progress but I have accepted my life, myself, and do not depend anymore on others to determine my happiness.

One of the ways I was able to achieve that was to actively look within: to learn myself, to explore those crevices of my existence which never saw the light of day before. I learnt that I was a totally different person to what I thought I was. I was overwhelmed by the layers I kept unearthing and my ignorant 13-year-old dreams flew out the window. I learnt to love the present. I know I am not the prettiest, or the wittiest or the most intelligent, but I do not dismiss my blessings as easily as I did before. I have an amazing relationship with God, a family that has never let me down, and willpower that will see me through rough times.

I, today, am not without flaws: I still get anxious over small things, I still am painfully shy and I can be too trusting. But, as I sat with a friend an hour before my birthday drew to an end, I accepted the reflection of the smiling 24-year-old in the glass window. I loved who she was, what she stands for, and waited eagerly to discover what would be in store for her. 

I even forgave the fact that she was polishing off ice cream at an alarming speed; the same speed at which she would have to run on the treadmill the next day.

Spiritual AND religious

I just got back from the chariot procession which was part of the celebration of the feast of Mother Mary, in Besant Nagar. If you were anywhere near the area, you would have been stalled this evening definitely. Devotees, pilgrims, tourists and hawkers clogged the roads in the hope of catching a glimpse of the famous statue of Jesus’ mother. Today’s was the penultimate ritual and it all culminates in her birthday celebrations tomorrow, September 8.

I am constantly surprised at how much faith people have in her. A sea of devotees in orange clothes – the colour people usually wear when they make a pilgrimage to Velankanni Church here, or to the main one in Nagapattinam – engulfed and swept me along to the beach where thousands waited patiently for the festivities to begin. I tend to sometimes take the ‘shrine status’ of my parish church for granted; I have been going there for two decades after all. Which is why, days like today give me a tangible reminder of the awe Mother Mary inspires. I see grown men reduced to tears in front of her statue and I am humbled by the level to which people surrender their cares and sorrows in her hands. Which got me thinking about the entire spirituality-and-religion debate that makes the rounds every time two people get to know each other.

“Are you religious?”

“No, but I am spiritual”

I have never understood that personally. For me, spirituality stems from religion. If it were not for a life-changing spiritual retreat that I attended a couple of years back, my existence would have been a sordid, complicated mess. It showed me the way I should live my life and yes, religion is a big part of the trail mix. Don’t get me wrong; I am not judging people who say that they are spiritual but not religious. But I can never understand how it happens and how it is watered and grown into something beautiful.

Spirituality to me is a search for something that this world cannot give. It is a calm acceptance of designs that transcend your temporal canvas. It is a simple acknowledgement of a being beyond your understanding, and religion helps me understand just as much as my human mind can. Yes, people in the name of religion have done unspeakable things; heinous crimes have been committed where religion takes the blame. But really, if you think about it, are the people to be held responsible or the religion they use as an excuse to see their agendas through?

Yes, religion can be a nuisance to some. The beach today, for instance, was unusable because of the procession. But is the unavailability of a public space just one day a year that bad a thing? I don’t think so. To see the tears of happiness on the many devotees standing with reverence is worth giving up the sand and sea for a night. To know that simple – not blind – faith woke them up this morning and made them walk all the way from wherever they lived in the city, singing hymns while fingering the beads of a rosary instills a much deeper attachment to spirituality through religion for me. The graceful face of Mother Mary’s statue sailing past thousands bathed me in a warm glow, right in time for an important day in my life.  

Religion can move you. Don’t write it off too quickly.

The golden people

When the mother insisted I make wiser investments with the (little) money I earn, I argued, "Clothes are wise investments! I spend a lot on them, after all". She did not see the humour in it and off we sped away to buy gold yesterday. She explained that this would help curb those middle-of-the-night cravings for new shoes and help me have something that will secure me for the future. All this is fine. South Indian women hardly need encouragement for gold-shopping anyway. From my eighty-year-old next-door neighbour to my sassy-mouthed, well-meaning colleague, they all patiently waxed poetic about the yellow metal.

So, much to my own suprise, I was excited! It was with a bit of delicious anticipation that I stepped into GRT, the jewellery store in T. Nagar, where even the floors seemed to be paved in gold. Safari-suited, beaming employees ushered us in, while a pretty lady dressed like a stewardess asked us what exactly we were looking for. While the mother spoke to her, the father was already stifling a yawn. I, though, looked around and realised that I was the only jeans-clad woman in the store.

The place was bursting with women in pattu sarees, each with necks weighed down by enough gold to afford a vacation to Vegas, for an elopement and a gamble. Even the pudgy kids they had dragged along wore their gold bangles with the same comfort as the lollipops that were glued to their pink-tinted tongues. The conditioned air blew conspicuously against my naked neck, wrists and fingers and I felt desperately under-decked for the occasion. Heck, my mom and I together would not own the amount of jewellery that clung to the 13-year-old girl next to me.

But, I decided I did not care, and the elevator deposited me on the floor which would eventually become many thousands richer, thanks to me. The sales guy with the neatly parted hair and shy smile promised that he would find the exact kind of chain I am looking for. He repeatedly assured me that he will not force any gaudy stuff that screams "Money!" and served steaming almond milk, while I settled back for an afternoon of guilt-free indulgence. I told myself that I will do my thing, enjoy it and get out in time for work.

As he rummaged around to please my picky taste, I braved another look around and was aghast. Women all around me were buying gold worth lakhs, with the careless abandon of the nouveau riche. But, what baffled me the most was that these people were not rich by any stretch of imagination. They were the ordinary middle-class folk, and some, lower-middle. The old-gold adorning their bodies glittered in sync to their shimmery purchases and I turned to the father in confusion. He reflected my train of thought and said, "We hardly buy gold, but how do these people have all this money to buy it so easily?"

All around us, people were burning deep holes in their pockets while trying to live the Indian Dream – owning enough gold for the human flesh to glimmer in a shiny mask – and I felt an incremental deflation of enthusiasm. I experienced mini panic-attacks every time I saw the tag curled around a jewel, and had to exert many a brain cell in trying to calculate how much I may need to pay. The lady with the jasmine flowers, silk saree and ropes of gold necklaces next to me, however, looked at one metal monstrosity after another flippantly, not bothering with those pesky tags at all.

South Indians love their gold don’t they? Even at the risk of being unable to make ends meet, their treasure chests gleam with drops of sunny gold. To a certain extent I understood the craze: The Big Indian Wedding necessitates what is increasingly becoming a middle-class preoccupation. Daughters have to be married off even if the gold prices are soaring mountain-high, don’t they? Even shy-smiled sales guy clicked his tongue in sympathy: “Sir, please join our monthly scheme for your daughter Sir. Lots of gold you can save Sir. For her marriage Sir.. Sir.” Oh boy.

 As I clutched my humble purchases close to me, the branch-shaped pendant that I so meticulously picked out seemed insignificant next to what I saw a fellow-shopper lugging out. I was happy nevertheless: I paid for this. It belongs to me. It is not some unnecessary addition to the closet that will not last more than a year; it is permanent.

I inhaled a heady puff of the hysteria that I took away from the golden madhouse I just visited. And as I finish this post, my brother informs me the gold prices have gone up today. Is the feeling I experience what every South Indian feels when he/she hears something similar? I feel relieved that I chose to go yesterday, instead of today, and by that relief, I melded flawlessly with the golden people. Whether I liked it or not.

The idiot, boxed

Indians are intrinsically voyeurs. We love hearing the next-door-neighbour bully her husband; our insides turn a soft gleeful jelly when we see the boss screaming at our worst enemy; we wait with bated breath for that fleeting love scene in Jerry Maguire that sees Renée Zellweger and Tom Cruise in the morning light, tangled in lust and a creased bed-sheet.  You must agree that the last example especially stokes our senses and sets ablaze our passion for TV-viewing, and makes it an obsession that reeks of penetrating intimacy. It is, therefore, very easy for the average viewer to slip from mindless daytime depression into a silky voyeuristic evening, all thanks to the idiot box, as easily as a housewife slips into a nightgown, which is too daring for lounging around in during the day, after dark. A virtual escape from reality is seductive enough, but who can resist a divorce from one’s own existence every once in awhile?

Ironically, and (at the risk of adverbial-overuse) mercifully, it has been the case of the opposite for me. I no longer take refuge in that soul-stealing, mind-numbing entertainment that the box in my living room promises to deliver every day. I was told that its sacrilege that I, as an aspiring journalist, do not swoon while watching Barkha Dutt orchestrate her political choir into a fevered crescendo every night. I was similarly chided for not feasting on Master Chef (and its many, many variations) with bib, knife and fork. And what about How I Met your Mother? “Girl, how can you not like that show?” asks a concerned friend whose diagnosis for my lack of interest in that it is that I lack a life. I tell her, “YOU lack a life!” Since when is watching a particular show, especially one that is festering in in-your-face humour, a sign of one having a happening life? Sitcoms unnerve and fluster me with their thawed-out canned laughter, and news shows, well, need I get started on Arnab Goswami?

But, enough name-calling. The main reason I cannot glue my eyeballs to the TV is that I simply cannot be bothered to. Why would I, when I am working for a national daily that keeps me abreast of all the important things that is happening in the country. And forgive me if I do not want Mr. Goswami’s booming voice telling me how to rearrange my brain cells to coordinate our opinions on our country and its politicians. Reading the papers helps me enough to form an opinion, thank you very much.

But, mainly, I do not seek entertainment from that noisy view the LCD window offers me. I have enough on my plate, work-wise. There is church, family, gym, friends and reading to keep me otherwise occupied. And, if there ever is this insatiable craving for watching pictures dancing all over a screen, I prefer Youtube. The content is sliced into short, palatable portions and can be frozen in my history for later consumption.

This is exactly why I cannot understand how couples can forgo a date planned for weeks, for a Twenty20 telecast, or a weekend trip away from the city, for a Desperate Housewives marathon.

If I am completely clueless about who died on the recent episode of Game of Thrones, and, as a result, feel like a total airhead when friends whisper respectfully about it, then so be it. Airhead of this kind, I can be. Without any qualms.