If you spend all day and nearly all your nights indoors with minimal interaction with fellow (?) homo sapiens, you are bound to run out of blog material. That’s one reason to admire the Late Laden. How the fuck did he keep a journal?
Now I did try sunbathing. It is supposed to help my condition. But my mom is very insistent that I look respectable when I go out of the door while I believe in delicious déshabillé. This makes for very unpleasant discussions by which time the sun usually sets. And if I got up to the terrace peacefully, I turned dark. HCQS is a brilliant tablet that helps rid malaria and treat a host of auto-immune disorders but it always leaves you with darkened skin or a cataract. Enter pigmentation in my case. Though I have weaned myself from pills now, the effects will still take a while to go. Wisely deciding that I’d rather not be fat, and ugly, and dark, I bid adieu to the sun and stayed indoors.
Just when it seemed like my days of blogging would be a thing of the past, mom came to my rescue with her hysterical desire to see me wed. Mom was so desperate to see me married off even in present patient state that I was forced to be civil and mail prospective grooms and their families. This time, the calls have been mostly decent, I must admit. With the men, it is always easy – they are so nonplussed at having to chat with the actual to-be-bride about their sons that they make asses of themselves. Typical and harmless.
As for the women, far deadlier than the male and all that.
Last week around 2 pm, one lady called me from Mysore. I had just about fallen asleep after two nights of insomnia. I invariably crash on Day 3 – typically around noon. So this once, I decided not to be too nice and just brush her off. When she started with ‘My son works in Dell. He has done his BBM…’ I quickly butted in and said, ‘Sorry, I am really looking at someone who has done his Masters.’ Then lady says in a real nasty tone, ‘Oh? You want to marry a lecturer?’ And I opened one eye in disbelief and responded calmly enough, ‘A lecturer would be good, but I am looking at marrying someone who has a Masters, sorry, no matter what they work as.’ And she said, ‘If that is the way you want it, then what to do, okay.’ Like really, ‘Thank you, Mysore Maddum.’
Then it was my bimbo episode. Another lady called me and asked me if I would mail her my details. I said, ‘I’m sorry, I will do no such thing because I am tired of mailing details to people. Tell you what, you mail me, and I will respond to that because I always respond to mails.’ Which is true. I’m damn obsessive that way. And she said, ‘Yes, I understand. You are a girl, you will have to send to so many people. That’s how it works here. I will mail the details, no problem.’ I was super-thrilled. Finally a woman who was being sensible about everything.
That evening I went out. As luck would have it on the road, a half-wit tried to overtake me from the wrong side and almost ended up killing us and would have totally succeeded but for the fact that on roads I always expect half-wits to behave in just such fashion. And I glared at him after bravely saving both our lives. And he said, ‘So sorry.’ And since I was feeling only slightly bitchy, I didn’t chew his brains out and instead said with mild sarcasm, ‘Don’t worry, I understand.’ And that’s when bimbo realisation struck.
Needless to say, Aunty who understood what it is to be a woman never mailed me.
After many such priceless episodes even my mom has thankfully given up trying to hook me up with some half-wit. She believes in prayer and I think she thinks that it will all fall into place romantically.
In a fight last week, I pointed out that when I was having my roaring affair with Hunk Homme and wanted to marry him, she didn’t exactly encourage me. And if she had, I said rather unfairly, (but I don’t fight fair with mom and spoil her and all that; she does need to be brought up properly still, you know) we both wouldn’t be dealing with all these cracked Uncles and Aunties trying to buy their hot sons fresh on the marriage market. She wasn’t happy.
That is just as well because in Hindi soaps that I watch in passing every night, we are told that women are not meant to be happy. Unless:
They have married the right man.
They are married.
They know how to please their husband – it’s in the cooking and acting innocent when he wants to shag you, and getting all outraged when he says something downright lewd like, ‘you look so beautiful, today’ or ‘this weather makes me want to do things’, and then smiling coyly, and breaking into a popular chart-buster.
They know how to please husband’s family – usually by cooking; and being selfless; and never answering back even when said family is setting them on fire, or setting up husband with another woman; and strictly adhering to prayer, ritual, and tradition.
They can cook a seven-course meal in an hour and that too even before the sun rises and after having slept an entire night with the right husband.
They protect the interests of their ‘maaika’ – own family.
They make grave sacrifices that make no sense in Episode 53 but that end up saving the day in Episode 233.
They win over an errant husband through prayer and selfless nurse-maid behaviour when he is invariably shot by the enemies.
They have married off all their unwed daughters and sons, and daughters and sons of daughters and sons, and so on ad nauseum.
But since all these take many hours of story-line to develop, women in soaps, like women everywhere are largely miserable. Which would make my mom the norm.
However, being sensible, and also largely because I am such a loud bully, she has agreed that right now marriage should be the last thing I ought to be interested in. And Praise the Lord, I can be rude (if I want to and if they merit it) to prospective in-laws.
Now that I know how to please men and their families, thanks to soaps, I am in even less of a rush to feel like a natural Indian woman and become daughter-in-law and wife (I am completely thrilled being the wife of my uber hot men on Facebook, that is perfect) and what not. Yabba!