I started writing this post sitting at the parlor last evening. Strange? Yes, indeed –  but I did not know what else to do while the green gooey sticky liquid that reminds me of the “plastic wall paint” we once painted our house with, and now termed as “wax” is being heated. The girls around me are being sweet enough, offering me my usual cuppa of green tea as I wait, but I have been off nicotine for about 6 hours now and hell I want to scream!

The girl inspects my leg and gives me a “Tell me this doesn’t belong to you” look. She’s used to my timely appointments and ever since I missed out the last one owing to my “big bad fall” I have been too lazy to make up for it. I want to tell her that I wouldn’t even be sitting her waiting for the torture to begin had I not been aware of the fact that the Maharaja of Udaipur with whom I was to dine with later at night wouldn’t be too pleased if I told him that my refusal to wax my legs emerged out of my deep respect for feminism?

I pinged BFF on What’sApp and asked a detail or two especially about if I could be seen as a “tom boy” still. She, still fresh off the Indian shores dismissed my fears as being “Indian” and went on to tell me that there’s indeed something Indian about the entire ordeal of waxing and sticky mess. I wouldn’t disagree with her totally, but it did make me wonder why I didn’t bring home an epilator friend or simply resort to shaving like my sister does. Oh no! For I realized I have been fed in with theories of double hair growth, wrong directional growth and yes misaligned hair, ever since I knew to pick up the stench of ethanol to know that there’s a salon nearby. Is there really the belief at play – that you have to suffer for anything that is deemed nice, err even for a smooth skin like a baby’s bottom?

Why do we think we have to enact “Desperate Housewives” when life is nothing but straight out of “Sex and the City“! Nobody gives a f&^%k to your method to smoothness, yet I am conditioned to be wary!

I decided to spare the maharaja of the debate.

I would have dressed in a saree, I love the feeling of the drape around me. It is another story that there’s a different twinkle in my man’s eyes where I adorn the rare piece of cloth and it makes my heart flutter and love the drape all the more. However, I did not wear a saree. I wished I did not even own a BB then.

A friend pinged and asked me if I were to get married this year. The world seems more concerned about my marriage these days, than Greece’s fate in the world economy. I asked her what made her ask me that? My FB pics with my guy – oh gosh why didn’t I see that coming? So while I use ‘lists’ on FB primarily for “such friends” I don’t know how she landed up seeing this particular picture, in which according to her we were “close enough to get married”. Fair enough point taken and mental note in place – either pull down all pics like the Mistah often reminds me to do, or better next time describe pictures by the worth of their closeness. Imagine a conversation like this –

XYZ:  ‘Oh you know what S in that picture you look so nice and happy’

Me: ‘Oh, why thank you G! Aren’t you kind? Pardon me but, which one ‘the close enough to steal each other’s oxygen’ or the ‘close enough to make babies’?

I don’t understand why dating in the society I live in comes in with the presumption of marriage. Yes I have been with him for quite some time now, we have had our highs and lows to realize that no matter what we can handle the worst(s) as well as the bests(s), but marriage? Isn’t there a difference between viewing a person as your boyfriend/ girlfriend and seeing them as the future father/mother of your kids?

We have definitely picked up jargons of dating, coupling blah blah blah, but when it comes to racing to the Big O we definitely don’t mind being Indian and assume marriage. Oh yes, if I told you that the very person told me that she didn’t see much sense in my dating my guy if we were not sure of marriage would you then do an eye roll for me? Or would you then say it’s very Indian?

If you think this had nothing to do with my wearing a saree, kindly go up and read the part which says I regret having a phone with me in such situations!

Speaking of babies, I think I am scarred for life and it would really take me an iron heart to again approach an adoption agency. I am shy of the Big O and thought it would be good if I set up the base with an adoption agency so that I know I am sure of my move. I had already told Mistah that I signed up for the Single Mother’s Association in Mumbai and was sorted at that end. The mater has a hint but let’s not even get in to her threats.

I interacted with this one agency that did not even give me credit for the fact that I knew the adoption guidelines on my tips and wanted to be associated to know if I am ready. All they wanted to know was the color of my passport, whether I owned a car and if I planned to relocate to the western shores soon? I would have accepted all the above if they even asked me about my financial security – the most legit question according to me. However, instead I was snickered at when I expressed my ignorance to the fact that there are different waiting queues for Indians and ‘foreign parties’. I think I should now start planning for my grandchild, for the wait is indeed long! Reminds me of Premchand’s line from Akbar ka Lota – “Mishra ji ke haath se gir kar lota wahin ja gira, jahan har Hindustani ka sar kabhi kabhi gira hai. Goron ke pair ke saamne!” (The little barrel of water slipped from Mishra ji’s hand and strangely landed at the exact position where for years Indians have bowed their heads to – before the feet of the “White” – literal interpretation) 

Anyway, where was I when it came to last evening? Oh yes, I did not wear a saree, made sure the BBM was not deactivated for the evening and then went ahead all chirping to meet the Maharaja and gorge on Mewar food when I realized that I have yet again landed in “Oh so Indian” puddle.

Is it imperative for a Maharaja who’s had British education and roamed about the world to speak in an anglicized manner, despite there being nobody who wouldn’t have understood the official language of India? Am I wrong to be put off by a Punjabi chef who is explaining Indian cuisine in a fake American accent ignoring the fact that the people around him know methi over fenugreek?!!?

Ah Indian did you say? Well my case rests, with a simple pointing out to the fact that we enjoyed Indian food over glasses of French wine (it shocked me that people barely knew that Rajasthan has a home bred section of spiced wine!), over silverware (mental note ask Ma not to pack one in your trousseau, like she’s planning to, I CANNOT clean such heavy plates), being served portions which would even put Bheem to shame (and yes trying to act that it is indeed very upper class to waste food!) and applauding comments by Bollywood stars who had no connection to the event. Or maybe they had – no party in India is complete without them!

I do live in a very Indian society.

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