Monday, August 15, 2005
Life is calling…where are you?
Oh I’ll tell you where I am alright! I’m in this tubular excavated space in the wall that, in Bandra..and only in Bandra, is known as a trial room. I’ve come here to try out a pair of jeans but clearly, not being a hobbit is a disadvantage.
So, I bump here and there and stamp my own feet twice. To add to that, there’s an infernal low-slung fan that gets switched on when my head bumps against it. I have to try out two pairs – one black and one blue…to go with my bruises, am sure. Ah! There’s much to be said for denim metaphors.
Then there’s the waist size. My waist is, say ‘x’. So if I try out a pair of jeans that says Waist size: ‘x’, it should fit me, right? Well, turns out it doesn’t. And it’s not even those low-cut, circle the hips thingies. It’s a regular pair; but then again what does regular really mean anyway.
My extremely foul friend stands outside bubbling with insult as she listens to Rabbi.
‘What’s taking you so long?’
‘These jeans aren’t fitting me.’
‘Why? You said your waist size was ‘x’.’
‘It is…but these jeans are not reaching the waist. Once it reaches there, it’ll fit.’
‘What do you mean once it reaches there! Okay..wait. I’ll get you another pair.’
So I’m handed another pair that I struggle to get into. This one has ‘stretch’ marked on it, so I’m hopeful.
It doesn’t fit either and I’ve already banged my knuckles on one of the walls.
‘This doesn’t stretch.’
‘It says stretch but it doesn’t stretch.’
‘Listen idiot..it’s supposed to stretch a little…not expand like a sofa cover.’
Note to self: Sofa covers expand. Home furnishings is an interesting world.
‘You’ve become fat,’ she continues.
‘Is that a bad thing?’, I ask getting into the jeans I wore when I got into this extremely vile trial room.
She doesn’t answer because she’s checking out extremely stylish but impractical handbags.
I get out and limp into the sunset.
So that’s where I was when life was calling.
I should keep a full-length photograph of myself for the sake of posterity.
Some person somewhere in the distant future (like 2007 or thenabouts) telling her daughter:
‘See women used to look like this before.’
‘What’s this, Ma’, the sweet daughter would ask pointing to an area that now, is a sore point with me.
‘Hips’, Ma would say wisely and then get up to cook dinner.