pink, thank you

I, invincible economy shopper, will venture into a store only if it says SALE, or if it is fridge-sized. Or, as I found out yesterday, if the shop is run my an old muslim man (long white beard mandatory).
He didn't need the pesky nephew stationed at the dupatta-camouflaged entrance to call out to passing people on the road: "Madam, skirts, bags, fashion tops. Naya style aaya hai madam." And as you walk on, "Just look, madam. Arey, dekhne me kya jaata hai madam?"

This old man just sat there sipping his tea, looking through his billbook. He looked up as I glanced in that direction. He waxed his wrinkly-eyed smile at me and asked almost apologetically, "Kuch chaahiye beta?" I managed to utter "bag" while still willing my insides to stop falling for this age-old trick. But I was already walking up the steps, following a tea-boy who had stuck his head in the direction of the shop, signaling me to walk with him.

He was already standing up by the time I got there. I got the feeling I'd just missed a swift dusting of wares.

"What would you like? Leather bags?"

Only when I tried to move my hand to point in answer, did I realize that someone had thrust a glass of tea there. Elaichi. By the lingering tang in the air, I knew he'd had ginger tea.

"No leather. Cloth you show me." But I just went ahead and touched around. I walked into what looked like the next section. Some other old muslim man approached me. "Oh, ye kisi aur ka hai?" I asked to the general direction of the old men. Oldman1 assured me that the shops were different, but I could look anyway. They'd settle accounts later.

After some pottering about, I confided in oldman1 that I was a journalist and was tired of people's jabs about the kurta and jhola stereotype. Could I have a cloth bag that was cheap and best, but not a jhola?

"Bunty aur Babli dikhaaoon?"

Now, I knew the DDLJ tunic. The Tridev bhandni Shroff scarf. The Kuch Kuch Hota Hai 'cool' chain. The Mr.India chiffon sari. The Chaalbaaz transparent raincoat. The Rangeela mini-sleeveless dress. The Pyar Tune Kya Kiya haircut. The Dil To Pagal Hai neckline and sports bra. But this was new. And suspicious. These new-fangled filmi clothes/accessories came with film industry gold weight. Their brand name and short-lived fanciness made them expensive. Economy aunt was yelling in my head.

But the old man had already slung a bright pink bag across his shoulder. "Full work (embroidery and chamki) on handle. Plain body. Rani pe accha tha, nei?" I frantically thought back on the movie...

http://www.indiafm.com/firstlook/buntyaurbabli.jpg

When he saw some recognition light up my face, he produced a full-length mirror from somewhere to show I could be a Rani too. "Par chamki hai," I said, screwing up my face. Then he fished out another pink, less bright than the previous, but Babli enough. I liked immediately.
So now, I have a Bunty aur Babli bag to take with me to the other world when I die. Maybe now I'll get Abhishek.

what to call him

'Boyfriend' sounds like he'd drop me home in a car (because the city isn't nice to girls at night), kissing my cheek lightly while he said a tender "goodnight, sweetheart". It sounds like he'd take me for a well planned dancing and drinking date, and hold my hand when I'd go to the dentist.

He'd be someone everyone assumes is my ride to the theatre (even if it was a group thing). He would know what clothes I had ("Why don’t you wear that black sleeveless thing with the V-neck?") and pat me proudly on my head if my earrings matched my shirt. It would also mean he is supposed to carry my luggage, and be nice to my friends even if he wants to strangle some.
Still, they call all boys with girls that.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" they'll ask, if they see her with him more than twice. "You want come for Sarkar? I'll get two tickets for you?" It makes the boy someone I picked off the department store shelf marked 'Boyfriends'. And I'd like to ask what he'll be called if he was 30. Boys don't automatically graduate to husband, you know.
And it makes him single-roled. And makes us a unit. No personality, no idiocity, no separate lives.

Lover, I'll call him. Smiling, quiet. Light on his feet. Sexual. And not my conjoined twin.

a place taken

A new home means large windows that can be swung open with every bit of strength that limp hands just woken from sleep can muster. Brighter, cleaner sunlight splashes itself over every inch of white space.
Four little black marks on the floor tell me there was a sofa there that someone cushioned into every evening after work. They had a TV, and you had to lie on the sofa if you had to watch. The bathroom floor dips a little by the tap, where someone stood singing "Vaa di yen kappa kezhange" through the mugs of water dribbling down his/her face. The mostloved windows open in smooth swishes, while others screech dryly. Strangely, the kitchen is unsolved - even if someone ate too much garlic, mango, fish, ghee or coconut, it has been distempered.
Walkedabout houses are like yellowing books. They say, "I've been enjoyed." Some doors handles are wrung more, some balconies more smoked in. The top shelf in the wardrobe, it seems, had sheltered a few gods who bathed in sandalwood incense. Someone who didn't believe in diets went to the commode a lot, and now it's a crater because of the weight. There's a leaky tap still sticky with scotchtape efforts. A rusted shower telling of times when Cauvery wasn't impartial. Pigeon crap that helps track which windows were left open too long.
Ok the last one, I want to wish away. I picked up one little curled up crapball yesterday while cleaning the bathroom. With bare fingers! That has got to offset all my sins.
Now to find cellotape and leave my poster marks for the next tenant to appreciate.

she rocks