Wednesday, March 4, 2009
That little piece of flesh
Remember those Levi’s dangerously low jeans? Bare bodies models adorning every billboard in town. Our orthodox and overactive cultural police did do a successful job of bringing down those ‘shameless’ pictures but that in anyway did not bring the sales down.
The jeans crowded the colleges. Books were dropped, butt cleavages exposed. Laces were tied, anal hair exhibited. Elders would roll their eyes and an occasional aunty would mock, “Kids nowadays!”
If that was not enough remorse for the elders, the underwear never caught up with the trend. Or they probably did. Suddenly names of American men were boldly visible on huge waistbands above the dangerously low jeans.
On the other hand, the panties were a little more conscious of the fashion development, and coordinated with the dangerously low producing tiny insignificant underwear which my mom had trouble folding.
The t-shirts got stuffier and tinier. For the kurta-jeans crowd, the side slits got larger and longer. And actually that’s where my story begins.
I am on the yatra sitting with a couple of girls. All of us belong to different age groups and different parts of the world. G is from a Kenya and has a healthy curiosity about anything remotely Indian. A is educating her on Indian marriages. There is great camaraderie and every five minutes someone breaks into giggles.
A is from Coimbatore. She is dressed in a casual kurti up to her hips and jeans (high waist one). She says, “I could never wear this at home.”
G is shocked. She looks at me. I am dressed in a knee length kurta and raggedy jeans (mid rise one). I say, “I always dress like this.”
I am reaching out to the top berth to get some water. Looking at me, A explains, “See, the difference is, I can wear what she is wearing but for that little piece of flesh.”
She is referring to small triangle of skin that shows between my kurta and my jeans at the sides.
The politics of clothing has always amused me. How deep is a deep neck? How short is a short skirt? How short can a sleeve really go without being slutty? How mini is a mini?
Now I am at Govandi station arming myself to get into the train. I notice the woman next to me stare at me two seconds too more. I look at her and smile.
She comes close and says, “tumhaara kurta phat gaya hai.”
I am surprised and worried and as I pull it back and front to see where exactly, she looks at me and points to that little piece of flesh.
The jeans crowded the colleges. Books were dropped, butt cleavages exposed. Laces were tied, anal hair exhibited. Elders would roll their eyes and an occasional aunty would mock, “Kids nowadays!”
If that was not enough remorse for the elders, the underwear never caught up with the trend. Or they probably did. Suddenly names of American men were boldly visible on huge waistbands above the dangerously low jeans.
On the other hand, the panties were a little more conscious of the fashion development, and coordinated with the dangerously low producing tiny insignificant underwear which my mom had trouble folding.
The t-shirts got stuffier and tinier. For the kurta-jeans crowd, the side slits got larger and longer. And actually that’s where my story begins.
I am on the yatra sitting with a couple of girls. All of us belong to different age groups and different parts of the world. G is from a Kenya and has a healthy curiosity about anything remotely Indian. A is educating her on Indian marriages. There is great camaraderie and every five minutes someone breaks into giggles.
A is from Coimbatore. She is dressed in a casual kurti up to her hips and jeans (high waist one). She says, “I could never wear this at home.”
G is shocked. She looks at me. I am dressed in a knee length kurta and raggedy jeans (mid rise one). I say, “I always dress like this.”
I am reaching out to the top berth to get some water. Looking at me, A explains, “See, the difference is, I can wear what she is wearing but for that little piece of flesh.”
She is referring to small triangle of skin that shows between my kurta and my jeans at the sides.
The politics of clothing has always amused me. How deep is a deep neck? How short is a short skirt? How short can a sleeve really go without being slutty? How mini is a mini?
Now I am at Govandi station arming myself to get into the train. I notice the woman next to me stare at me two seconds too more. I look at her and smile.
She comes close and says, “tumhaara kurta phat gaya hai.”
I am surprised and worried and as I pull it back and front to see where exactly, she looks at me and points to that little piece of flesh.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Three weird/funny things I saw today
1. The local homeopathy college has their annual festival - Palpitations 2009.
2. Bhaidas hall is hosting the India-Russia Friendship Contest.
3. A neo-nazi skinhead with his bulky bike of red swastikas was traveling down the highway.
2. Bhaidas hall is hosting the India-Russia Friendship Contest.
3. A neo-nazi skinhead with his bulky bike of red swastikas was traveling down the highway.
Good Samaritan Day
Its just another day on the Mumbai local. I have had a lovely evening with M, but still it has not done much for my overall mood which has been quite abc. Abc because, I don’t know quite know
how I feel.
I am been down on company lately. Do not want to meet anyone. Anyone means anyone. Given a choice I would lock myself in a room and cry myself to bits thinking about how lonely I am. Self inflicted, yes.
It so happens that this evening at 10:30 pm, as I am trying to get back home from Grant Road station, I have a lot of company. But, just the kind of company I need – strangers.I am sitting in the train, relaxing, for the lack of anything better to do. I make two random phone calls, which I ‘should’ and even secretly wanted to. I was hoping that they would liberate me of my abcness.
M calls and we talk irrespective of the fact that we spent the last 5 hours together. The wind is nice and soft and I raise my legs on to the seat.
Suddenly a man enters. Rapping a huge stick on the edge of the seat, he says - Bandra. I jump fearfully only to realize that the train is now empty and he is animatedly asking me to get off. I mutter a thank you and urgently leave. Turns out this train is not taking me home and the last thing I want is to sit in a dark train at the khar train yard feeling abc.
I hang up on M and get into the next train to Borivali. I get pushed into the train just the way I like it, floating, with no effort, but for a woman ahead of me who refuses to move forward and is holding fort as if we are in a war. I try to reason with her but she refuses to budge and I am amazed at her fierce spirit.
She wishes to get down at Andheri and is following the strict instructions her sister gave her – get in and do not move until Andheri. She persists with a monologue of how she hates trains and crowds and though the buses take longer, at least one does not get pushed around without any respect whatsoever.
Somehow, indigenously as always, everyone gets comfortable even the old koli woman who had been rattling off in her Marathi at the young girl who shrieked at her for her fishy smell and the huge crate she had hosted at the entrance. The koli woman was still muttering and I caught much disdain in her voice for the youth who considered fashion more important than human beings.
I was in a pathetic enough a mood to actually enjoy what was happening around me. Lodged between the crate and the exit, I was looking around humoured and amused. On my right, a woman in bright blue hanging by the door was about to vomit. It was the fish smell. The old koli went on about how a true mumbaikar should eat, sleep, breathe fish and though historically, she is correct being the first inhabitant of this island city, but much has changed since she the 1800s. The vomit woman was told to take deep breaths to avoid puking. She was stationed at the door in such a way that if she did, she would puke outside but at the same point of time, the wind would not carry the puke to the window next to the door.
While this physics was at work, a younger koli woman (probably the old koli woman’s daughter) was asking the old koli to shut up about the benefits of eating fish, which was making a mighty lot uncomfortable.
Meanwhile I kept apologizing to a huge woman next to me. My elbow kept running into her full breasts. I kept saying sorry repeatedly but I doubt she had any clue what my sorry(s) were about. On my left, taking the door’s support was a girl dressed in a sober brown salwar kameez. She had deep-set features and spoke a strong Hindi with occasional awkward English. She was chatting away throughout with one hand holding onto the door and the other on the phone. She had all the top phalanges on her hand missing and it was unbelievable how she held on to the phone with such incredible ease.
Andheri finally arrived with me making hesitant conversation with the old koli women in my urban twanged Marathi. I continued to stare at the girl with the missing phalanges and her hand struck me so pretty. I wanted to tell her how beautiful her hands were but she was lost in the crowd as I helped the old koli women bring down her crate.
Strangely, I didn’t feel abc anymore.
how I feel.
I am been down on company lately. Do not want to meet anyone. Anyone means anyone. Given a choice I would lock myself in a room and cry myself to bits thinking about how lonely I am. Self inflicted, yes.
It so happens that this evening at 10:30 pm, as I am trying to get back home from Grant Road station, I have a lot of company. But, just the kind of company I need – strangers.I am sitting in the train, relaxing, for the lack of anything better to do. I make two random phone calls, which I ‘should’ and even secretly wanted to. I was hoping that they would liberate me of my abcness.
M calls and we talk irrespective of the fact that we spent the last 5 hours together. The wind is nice and soft and I raise my legs on to the seat.
Suddenly a man enters. Rapping a huge stick on the edge of the seat, he says - Bandra. I jump fearfully only to realize that the train is now empty and he is animatedly asking me to get off. I mutter a thank you and urgently leave. Turns out this train is not taking me home and the last thing I want is to sit in a dark train at the khar train yard feeling abc.
I hang up on M and get into the next train to Borivali. I get pushed into the train just the way I like it, floating, with no effort, but for a woman ahead of me who refuses to move forward and is holding fort as if we are in a war. I try to reason with her but she refuses to budge and I am amazed at her fierce spirit.
She wishes to get down at Andheri and is following the strict instructions her sister gave her – get in and do not move until Andheri. She persists with a monologue of how she hates trains and crowds and though the buses take longer, at least one does not get pushed around without any respect whatsoever.
Somehow, indigenously as always, everyone gets comfortable even the old koli woman who had been rattling off in her Marathi at the young girl who shrieked at her for her fishy smell and the huge crate she had hosted at the entrance. The koli woman was still muttering and I caught much disdain in her voice for the youth who considered fashion more important than human beings.
I was in a pathetic enough a mood to actually enjoy what was happening around me. Lodged between the crate and the exit, I was looking around humoured and amused. On my right, a woman in bright blue hanging by the door was about to vomit. It was the fish smell. The old koli went on about how a true mumbaikar should eat, sleep, breathe fish and though historically, she is correct being the first inhabitant of this island city, but much has changed since she the 1800s. The vomit woman was told to take deep breaths to avoid puking. She was stationed at the door in such a way that if she did, she would puke outside but at the same point of time, the wind would not carry the puke to the window next to the door.
While this physics was at work, a younger koli woman (probably the old koli woman’s daughter) was asking the old koli to shut up about the benefits of eating fish, which was making a mighty lot uncomfortable.
Meanwhile I kept apologizing to a huge woman next to me. My elbow kept running into her full breasts. I kept saying sorry repeatedly but I doubt she had any clue what my sorry(s) were about. On my left, taking the door’s support was a girl dressed in a sober brown salwar kameez. She had deep-set features and spoke a strong Hindi with occasional awkward English. She was chatting away throughout with one hand holding onto the door and the other on the phone. She had all the top phalanges on her hand missing and it was unbelievable how she held on to the phone with such incredible ease.
Andheri finally arrived with me making hesitant conversation with the old koli women in my urban twanged Marathi. I continued to stare at the girl with the missing phalanges and her hand struck me so pretty. I wanted to tell her how beautiful her hands were but she was lost in the crowd as I helped the old koli women bring down her crate.
Strangely, I didn’t feel abc anymore.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
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