When my cooking failed and my dress flopped
The dinner at my place for my friends the previous night had been an unmitigated super flop and disaster. I wish I had stuck to my pakoras and cutlets as starters and my kaali dal and matar paneer as the main course. My seven layered dip had curdled and my enchiladas had opened and the vegetables peeped very sadly through the maida cover, as though saying cover our eyes. The risotto looked more like cheese pulao.
My husband said, laughing unsympathetically, “Why do you even try? You can’t do it. Just do Indian, as in desi. Don’t try anything fancy.”
“Yes,” I thought sadly. “Once a pendu, always a pendu.” For the unaware, pendu is a villager.
“Kya tabahi the uske kapde,” my husband said.
“Whose?” I asked.
“Are you serious?” I asked him.
“Yes and I did not like what you were wearing. It did nothing for you.”
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Designers versus discount sale clothes
I was furious. I was wearing a Wendell Roderick’s which I bought on 50 per cent discount. Wendell just makes drapes, so I had to be careful to sit properly because the long dress I was wearing has a mind of its own and it opened up once to show my hirsute leg. I had to quickly cover up, because I saw Rina double up with laughter and nudge a couple of the others. And Rina was wearing a tent at my dinner. It was virginal white, though she is not virginal from any angle, with lots of gathers. And obviously she was not wearing any slip, because when she walked you could see her printed panties.
“She looked horrible,” I told my husband. “And she only wears high-end designers but they do nothing for her.”
“From a man’s viewpoint she looked very good,” said hubby nonchalantly and took the newspaper to the loo.
“Don’t wet it,” I screamed after him.
I always get the newspaper totally wet and I always wonder what my husband does with it in the bathroom.
“You are always nit picking, dry it under the fan and don’t crib,” screamed my husband right back.
“Gosh!” I thought for the millionth time. “Why does one marry at all!”
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Then my parlour lady pointed out my flaws
Today was my tryst with the parlour wali aunty. Her parlour is close to my house. I thought I will go for my manicure and pedicure and waxing. She was free, watching some horrible serial on the TV in her parlour.
“Didi,” she laughed like a hyena. “What happened to you, your skin has become so dry like a dried apricot. Facial toh aap karva lo.”
“But I just wanted a quick pedicure, manicure and waxing,” I said.
“Didi, pehle toh aap ka face dekhenge phir feet or hands dekhenge aur legs kaun dekhega unless koi boyfriend ho!” And she looked sadly at me as though thinking aloud, “Aap ka kahan se boyfriend hoga.”
“Besharam,” I muttered under my breath. “But time kam hai,” I told her aloud.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I will give a quick clean up and put this mask which I bought from Dubai airport and bhaisaheb will be so happy to see a new you.”
“Didi, your hair has also become so lifeless,” she added. “Should I give it a good massage and blow dry it?”
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Might as well spend his money
I thought to myself, after all those barbs from him I might as well spend his money on myself.
I spend a good two hours at the parlour. She told me while waxing, “Didi ingrowth kitni hai apki. Kitna time lag raha hai aapki waxing mein.” She also gave me everything detan. I had heard of detox but not heard of detan, but it apparently means to make your complexion, your hands and feet, everything fair. So my facial was detan, my manicure and pedicure were detan.
“Because didi aap bahut dark hain,” she explained kindly and piously as though she had a halo on her head. “Sun mein mat jaya karen.” I glared at her. Immediately her tone changed and she said “Didi, you look beautiful,” she exclaimed, “Ek dum transformation hogayi hai.” I peered in the mirror. I looked the same but my hair looked good, I thought.
“How much?” I asked her. The sum she named was so exorbitant that I stared at her dumbfounded.
“So much?” I asked horrified.
“Didi, I always use the best of products. Aapko dekh ke bhaisaab kitne khush go jayenge. I don’t even give you a bill. GST bhi nahin charge karti hoon.”
I paid her, grumbling to myself.
Follow that woman!
As soon as I got in the car I saw Rina pass by in her car. Immediately I told my driver, “Follow that car!”
“Oh, for some excitement,” I sighed, “After the mundane life I lead!”
We were moving towards a less privileged area. Her car stopped near a rundown small house. She went in. I asked my driver to find out who stayed there.
It was shocking, her tailor lived there. He made lookalikes of designers which she wore and disdainfully looked down upon women who wore clothes stitched by their own durzi. “Bloody fake,” I muttered, to no one in general. No wonder she never repeated her clothes and I was sure she had some cheap restaurant or some woman which supplied her dips, her Thai curries, her mango salsa and her pesto which she passed off as her own.
Feeling elated at finding Rina’s tailor and thinking of ways to break this news about the snooty horrible woman that she is, I reached home.
Some surprise gifts
My husband was home watching IPL intently.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked.
“Vegetable biryani and raita,” I said.
“Thank God,” he said, “You are not trying anything new.”
I glared at him.
“You spent a lot of money today,” he said. I had used his credit card.
“Yes,” I said. “I had to buy a lot of stuff for the house.”
“Baby, one minute,” he said.
“Now what insult have you thought of?” I asked him, still smarting from our morning conversation.
“Baby, I love you,” he said and handed me two gifts. I opened the first one. It was a lovely pearl bracelet.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, touched.
“Open the second gift,” he said. It was a small book for 1000 recipes cooked in ten minutes.
I threw the book on his face and stomped off.
He came after me laughing. He made me wear the bracelet. It shimmered at me. I smiled.