Hair virgin

(Inspired by this post. I love Afghans!)

Remember an easier time? When you were 7 and went to the salon with your mother. Threw a temper tantrum and demanded the hair that fell all the way down your back to your once diminutive hips be cut off? Then your mother, embarrassed by your sullen pout-now-full-blown-strop acquiesced. The tears would dry up immediately the snot in your nose would be wiped away and you would clamber up in to that big, plush chair meant for the grown-ups. Returning the smiles of the older women getting the eyebrows and nails done (silently thanking the Lord that their own children were better behaved). The voluminous dark blue synthetic cape would swish around you, enveloping you and chaffing your chin with its velcro strap. The large, buxom woman called Saritha or Kamini who would come up behind you with comb, secret plastic spray bottle in hand (that to this day I’m sure contains dishwashing liquid) and then silently turn and look at your Mother, eyebrows raised.

‘Not too much.’ The defeated woman would say.

‘What style?’

‘Usual. U-cut.’

And that was that. Fringe (or bangs as they are now called) optional. No layers. No high lights. Nothing. Just a U cut. Or a boy-cut. Or the much sought after bob. But for as long as I can remember, the U-cut was the gold standard in hair styling. And it only cost you 60 bucks (this was pre-Lakme Madras of the 90s by the way. Even Ambuli charges more these days.)

So why has it all become so complicated? A trip to the salon is now more nerve-wracking than an appointment with your gynaecologist. My first brush with the salon-elite came when I was in Bombay and realised that I hadn’t had my hair cut in over a year and a half (I can get that way sometimes). Colleagues insisted I go to a tony salon in South Bombay. So I called up their salon to book an appointment.

‘Hi! I’d like to book an appointment to have my hair cut please.’

‘Would you like to book with a Style Director?’

‘Sure!’

‘Our next available appointment is December 15th’

‘That’s over a month and a half away.’

‘Yes.’

‘How much will this cost?’

‘Rs. 2500 for a wash and cut. And extra for colouring’
2500? And In December? Was the style director going to grow new hair and then transplant it to my head?

‘Ok what’s the cheapest and quickest appointment I can get?’

‘A trainee will be available day after tomorrow for 400’ was the sniffy reply.

So two days later at the appointed time I found myself in the waiting room of the salon. I think they’d marked ‘cheapskate’ next to my name because I didn’t get the warm welcome and complimentary tea/coffee/overpriced mountain-water-that’s-from-the-tap-outside like everyone else did.

The trainee, a multi-pierced youth, with hair overstyled to look like she’d just gotten out of bed appeared, dressed in clothes that were artfully shredded to look like she’d thrown them to a pack of rabid dogs. I felt about a hundred years old. With each question she asked me I added a year to that number.

‘So what do you have in mind?’

‘I’d like a hair cut.’

‘Right. What kind?’

‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

She critically studied my hair, tossing it about, weighing it, judging it (and not in a good way) before telling me that it was too heavy and had split ends and that the current style made me look old. She said razor cuts and a side parting and Magnolia highlights would make me look 25. I was 23 at the time.

So I agreed to the cuts and side parting, vetoed all chemicals and sat down in the once coveted seat that now resembled The Chair.

I have to admit. I came out looking pretty good that day. Of course, all of you who have every had your hair styled know that it only lasts for a day and after a good nights sleep you wake up looking like the trainee. Which trust me, we all can not carry off.

Since then, my foray in to the world of fancy hair styles has progressed with tiny baby steps. I can now confidently ask for what I want. ‘How about Reese Witherspoon’s cut from Sweet Home Alabama?’ ‘Do you think Sarah Jessica Parker’s look from Season 4 episodes 3-6 would look good on me?’ ‘I’d love a Rachel’. Of course all requests are turned down and I go back to the same layers and side parting. The U-cut of the noughties.

My last hair cut was with a Cypriot called Harry at Toni & Guy. Harry was wonderful. He was in awe of my English “Where you go for classes heh?” and said my hair was in great condition. But when he found out I used no products though, all respect and awe went down with my split ends.

“What? No spray? No holder? No fixer?”

“I use conditioner” I volunteered hopefully.

After much mumbling under his breath (no doubt calling upon the Greek god of fortuitous hair) he palmed off a bag of styling products that cost twice as much as my hair cut and taught me how to use them. Of course when I went home and tried them out it was a complete disaster. The sea salt holding spray got in to my eyes and nearly blinded me. The banana flavoured volumiser was viscous and sticky and reminded me of certain scenes from There’s Something about Mary and the strange hair serum made my semi-living hair go in to a deep coma. All three products now rest in peace at the bottom of the bathroom cabinet.

I realise that in a world of £1000 hair cuts, Zen Masters who feel the chi of your hair before styling it (I wonder if it involves bowing repeatedly and apologising for the carnage) and extensions and weaves I’m very much a hair virgin. I’m all for letting my stylist go to first base with my hair but no more. I’m just old fashioned that way. Give me Saritha and U-cuts any day.

Feeling at home

I am an unwanted guest. The kind that eats noisily, rummages constantly in the fridge and takes forever in the shower. I leave near empty coffee mugs on the side table stained with the sticky, obstinate residue that will be hard to wash out. I listen to music others may not appreciate, and relish loud tamizh films with lashings of violence and tears. I leave the newspaper mangled and dismembered. The first page in the bedroom, the sports section spread out under my glistening umbrella, Inzamam catching the drops of water that slide off the edge.

The rightful owners stare at me dispassionately from the walls and cosy nooks they have occupied for over a year, unable to voice what they really think of this intrusion. Perhaps I should have given them more notice. Given them the chance to say no and make excuses. Instead I have steamrolled in to their home without even bothering to wipe my feet at the front door.

I would like to tell them to carry on as they were. ‘Don’t mind. I’ll just sit here in the corner and help myself to some of this vanilla tea cake. Sorry – was that the last piece?’ In an effort to redeem myself, I do the dishes. Pick up the dry cleaning. Go for long walks to give them some time away from me. And whisper disapprovingly behind my back.

I get a chance to meet the other house guest. I try to strike up a conversation with the snail on the window ledge. But he refuses to come out and say hello. I try after a few hours. But he just won’t budge. Literally. I stroke his bumpy, patterned shell. ‘No wonder they like you. You’re harmless, sitting in the same spot all day long. Not giving anyone any trouble. Making no demands. Is that why you won’t talk to me? Don’t want to jeopardise the high esteem in which they hold you?’

His stubborn silence enrages me, and with a vicious yank I dislodge him from his spot in the sunshine and toss him in to the garden.

I settle down in the sofa with a mug of coffee. They’ll just have to get used to me being around.

Last post...

... from work. I've written most of my posts from office. On this computer. On the sly. This is the last one. Bye work. Bye Rombout's Coffee. Bye hour and a half commute. I think I might miss all this.

on independence day

Early morning cool gives way to searing heat degree by degree. Attendance is taken, suitable punishment for the absentees are devised. Single file we march out in to the quadrangle. A sea of bluish-white uniforms, frayed collars and white tennis shoes. Hair oiled and braided, adorned only with tattered ribbons and lice. The scruffy ones are made to stand at the back.

One arm distance to the front and double arm distance to the sides. Ahalya Bai, Sarojini Naidu, Vijayalakshmi Pundit. We are divided along these names. But they mean nothing to us. Instead we worry that the green belt is not as nice as the bright, red one.

We whisper about what we will do when we get home, what movies are on television and speculate on the choice of sweet distributed this year – Lacto King again? Rottweiler Ruby tells us to keep quite. The chief guest will be here any moment now. Bets are placed on the length of his speech. Will he pronounce banyan as baniyan like the last one did?

The Chief Guest is late. He will no doubt stress the importance of punctuality in his speech later on without sensing the irony of it all. Irony. A word we did not know then. But sensed.

He tugs at the flag. It unfurls slowly, releasing rose petals, hanging limply in the still air. We salute.

Inside the cool, dusty auditorium we sit on the floor glaring at the smug, prize receiving class mates in the VIP section. We sit patiently through the speeches – the chief guest, the trophy hoarding 11 year old who gesticulates wildly as she quotes Bhaarathi and the fawning Principal – her beehive bun threatening to fall over and crush the chief guest. Or so we imagine.

The national integration cultural show. Song, dance and skit. We clap – not because we enjoy it but because everyone else is. We shift restlessly, our behinds sore, our calves patterned with dust and the zig zag imprints of our rubber soles.

Finally it is over. We stand up, legs, feet and backside numb. We limp towards the exit taking the chocolate we should be so grateful to receive and walk home. Finally.
Freedom.

Will work for shoes

So this time next week will be my second last day at work. It's been a good 15 months at this job. I've learned some really interesting things about English people (they make awful tea) and their shopping habits (they need some serious help), but it's time to move on. To what I have no idea. So till I find out, I plan to pursue my career as a writer. That sounds very grand, but what it really means is that I'll be in sweats watching Trisha and Oprah and eating oats.

So if anyone needs a writer let me know.Till then cheques can be sent to Shoefiend, P.o Box 222, London. Shoes will be accepted in lieu of money and food. Size 5 please.

commitment issues

The evidence of her infidelity. Crumpled and stuffed beneath the sofa and dumped in the garbage. Pinewood Forever and Poison heavy in the air killing the sweetness that had taken flight an hour ago. She scrubs hard when she bathes and brushes her teeth. Thrice. Any lingering scent or taste that might give her away is obliterated.

*

Her voice breaks as she promises to be loyal and faithful – vows she knows she cannot keep. She looks across the room and wonders how many of them cheat. All of them. She’s sure of it. She hates their smug piety. There’s still time a tiny voice tells her as a latecomer sneaks in to the last row. As the door creaks back in to place she worries that it will shut forever. She might never be able to escape. She turns around mid sentence and runs. Her words and silken skirt trailing behind her. She answers the shocked gasps with mumbled, half-hearted apologies. She reaches the door before it fatally clicks in to place and heaves it open. Satin pumps crunch against the gravel and she throws herself inside the car. Trembling hands grope inside the cavernous depths of the glove compartment until they close around the shiny smooth oblong.
She takes it out and smiles.

*

“I wonder whatever happened to Linda.”

“Just as well I suppose if you can’t commit. It’s not for everyone you know.”

“That’s enough chatter ladies. Now today at Weight Watchers we’ll be looking at how to eat what you like. In moderation.”

The keys to home

She is frantic. She cannot find the keys to her flat. It’s cold. She needs to pee. And the phone is ringing from inside. Each shrill ring adding to her urgency. She falls to her knees and begins to empty the contents of her bag on to the concrete ground. Her diary. The black leather notebook she bought to writes poems and feelings in but has filled with doodles of three leaf clovers and little hearts instead. Bills, receipts and sanitary napkins follow. Tissues soiled by pink lipstick stains and her runny nose.

She calls her husband. Perhaps he is on the way and she won’t have to wait that long. It goes in to voice mail and she is asked to leave a message. She curses him instead.

Her wallet, lipstick and the crumpled see-through wrapper of the chocolate muffin she can’t remember when she had. Tiny chocolate crumbs cling to the folds of the wrapper and reminds her that she is hungry. It can’t be that old she reasons to herself as she licks the wrapper clean.

Ipod ‘How long has that been playing? I’m sure I switched it off’, headphones and six pens clattered to the ground. Her bag is almost empty now. And still no sign of her keys. Her bladder begins to send messages to her brain that it is ready to go in to action. ‘Did his phone actually record what I said?’

A pay slip threatens to take flight. And the balled up tissue papers rolls away like tiny snot filled marbles.

She is scraping the very bottom of her bag now. A length of yellowing twine catches her eye. She takes it out and studies it. It is knotted along its length and a black hair slide dangles at one end. She looks back inside her bag. Scattered among the dust and errant chocolate crumbs are the tiny, shrivelled corpses of wilted flowers. Jasmine. She takes a few in her hand.

Her mother had caught hold of her as she left the house and tucked the then fragrant strand of fresh flowers in to her hair.

‘But Amma! I’m wearing jeans. Next you’ll make me wear a pottu.’

‘It’s ok. Fusion fashion. Take it out after you’ve checked in. And wear a pottu – what will your maamiyar think?’

She had grumbled about not caring what anyone thought and then agreed.

The ride to the airport, the long queue, checking in, tearful goodbyes, the dull ache in her chest.

As she had leaned back in the narrow, faux plush seat on the plane something had poked the back of her head. Her fingers had fumbled in her dense black hair, searching for the offender closing around the slide and pulling it out, stray jasmine buds freeing themselves from the confines of the twine only to be trod on by the heeled foot of a snooty air hostess.

She had dropped the flowers in to her bag, rubbed off the pottu and taken out a magazine.

The twine appears blurred.

‘Hey! Why did you swear at me on that message?’

She looks up at her husband.

‘Is everything ok? Why are you sitting out here? Why’s everything on the floor? Have you been crying? Why are you crying?’

‘I can’t find my keys. I can’t get home.’

trendy on the tube. not

I suppose it’s possible to forget the presence of certain body parts. The appendix is not often thought of until it reminds us of its presence (and impending absence) with shooting pains. Nictitating membrane and eyelashes are two other things that come to mind. I mean who thinks about their eyelashes for God’s sake? (except people who don’t have them I guess).

Men and women all across the UK have made a startling discovery since the beginning of summer. Their chests. The realisation that 8 months of protecting themselves from the elements under layers of thermal vests, sweaters and last Winter’s must have military jacket has not caused them to disappear in to another dimension has had startling consequences.

Now, I can understand their joy and elation. It must be like meeting a long lost friend. Make that two of them. Let’s imagine an emotional reunion with two of your best friends after 8 lonely, cold months. How would you react? You would whoop for joy! You would hug them and never let them go. (Remember not to do this to other people’s friends) and after that you would want to show them off to the world. You would say ‘Look! I too have friends. Two of them!’.

For the last 6 weeks I have had the privilege of meeting many people’s friends. Male and female. Young and old. Perky friends and down in the dumps friends. Friends basically in all shapes and sizes. (If you haven’t gotten it yet I’m talking about breasts people)

Now I’m no prude. I think everyone should be allowed to express themselves in a way that well – expresses themselves. Whether it’s through pickling giant sharks and passing it off as art (freak alert) or taking your puppies out for a walk in the sunshine. Who am I to pass judgement?

The Brits are a funny bunch (and not just because they call underwear ‘pants’). After spending all winter whinging about the cold and rain and waiting for a ray of sunshine all through the damp days of Spring, they aren’t very enthusiastic about summer once it actually gets here. Kind of like guests coming to stay with you – you think it’s going to be so nice, and then on the second morning of having to listen to someone sing chamiya songs in the shower you can’t wait for them to be gone. The Brits share a similar relationship to Summer. A couple of days of 30 plus degree weather and they realise how ill equipped they are to handle the heat. And then they head off to Malta or Rhodes where it’s even hotter for a few weeks. If you can figure that one out, please mail me and let me know.

The ones that don’t go anywhere for summer, decide to bring their vacation to them. (Similar to the mountain and Mohammed story). This means Daisy Duke shorts, bikini tops masquerading as tops, see through skirts, Rastafarian braids and all out bare chestedness if you’re a man. I don’t know which is worse. Ageing breasts that look like weathered handbags, suffering from a memory lapse as they obviously can’t remember how to get in to a bra. Or hairy, beer bellies hanging over denim waistbands covered in tattoos. Somebody stop the madness. Travelling by tube is bad enough in the summer without having to spend 2 hours with someone’s butt crack staring at you.

If winter is the only way to get these people to cover up I’m all for it. I never thought I’d say it but I cannot wait for the temperatures to drop. The 60 year old bald man in satin shorts, sweat and nothing else striding down platform 7 at Kings Cross today morning was the last straw.

Sentence or Story?

I came across this here.Take a look at some of the stories in the comments section.

I don't know what makes a six word sentence a story, but here goes!

1

She cries. And blames the onions.

2

Look Ma it’s Gouda cheese. Snap!

3

Blank. Rule of three be damned.

Blame the Raspberry Pavlova

It was hot. The sun sat resolutely in the sky like a giant, yellow, cat. One scorching eye trained on the human rats that huddled on the platform trying to escape.

She stood directly under its gaze. Tired, sleepy and hot. And a little drunk. She tugged at her dress, wishing she hadn’t eaten so much at lunch. Hadn’t reached for that second slice of quiche. Or that third helping of raspberry pavlova. Or worn this dress from 3 summers ago. Or these blasted underpants from Marks & Sparks that promised to help her drop a dress size. They were so bloody tight. And a pain to take off when she needed to wee.

She looked to her left and right. Everyone looked busy. Wrapped up in their Hellos and Heat. Who would notice? She was sure the pants were cutting off the blood circulation to her stomach. She was feeling faint and light headed. Or was that the Chablis?

She slowly shimmied her magic underpants down a notch. And sighed deeply and gratefully as her belly expanded over the tight elastic edge. Just a little more. Bliss. She looked down. Her paunch looked so pleased. Pleased as paunch. Ha ha.She hoisted her bag up over it.

*

He looked out the window. Bloody trains. Slow. No air conditioning. Fuck. He opened his paper for the tenth time, looking for some news snippet that had miraculously slipped past him. As he shook the paper straight, the day’s supplement slid out on to the floor. He looked at the cover. Bloody women’s nonsense. He scanned the compartment. No one from work – why not – there was nothing else to read. And didn’t the ladies like men who knew all this nonsense about pms and moisturisers?

*

She almost wept with joy as the train pulled up. But the happiness ebbed as quickly as it had flowed. It was packed. There wouldn’t be anywhere to sit. Fuck.

*

He barely looked up when the doors beeped open. This woman’s stuff wasn’t that bad after all.

*

“Four in five pregnant women are forced to stand on public transport – Chivalry is dead!”

You can say that again she thought shifting from one foot to another. Oh that one’s wearing a nice jacket. Wonder where it’s from?

*
He felt a pair of eyes boring down on him. He hated it when people read over his shoulder. He looked up in irritation.

*

Idiot she thought. Move your head I’m trying to get a better look at her shoes.

*

He looked her up and down – not bad he thought. He was about to go back to the article when he noticed her bump. Was she? No - see no ring on her finger. So? It didn’t look like a baby bump. You’re just making excuses. You know it is. Go on do the right thing. Get up.

*

What’s he getting up for then? What a nice bloke. Sap.

She sat down and began rummaging in her bag. She was sure there were some biscuits left over from last week.

Lucky cow!

In today's Independent:

"Temperatures on buses in the hottest part of Britain hit 52C yesterday while the London Underground reached 47C. EU guidelines state that cattle should not be transported at temperatures exceeding 27C"

I am changing my name to Moofiend so that I may demand my bovine rights.

Sing Shoefiend! Sing!

We’ve all been through it – the compulsory education in a centuries old art form. Dance, an instrument or the (s)training of one’s vocal cords with the noble aim of producing sweet music. In addition to this we are encouraged to take up a sport of some kind, so that we are capable of executing Bhairavi and a breast stroke with equal ease.

As a child I tried my hand at gymnastics – a failure because I was scared that headstands and cartwheels would leave me suspended upside down forever. Netball proved futile, as my immediate reaction to an approaching ball was to duck. I enjoyed swimming but only after I agreed not to press charges against the instructor for trying to kill me (he wanted me to keep my head under the water for a minute. Murderous surely?)

I wanted to learn to sing like my elder sister and proved my enthusiasm by keeping taalam with such vigour I had red welts on my thighs and singing so loudly, our teacher’s neighbours complained. That was when I was about 6.

After moving about a great deal we finally settled down in Madras. The years in between had seen my try my hand at choir (I was relegated to the last row) and playing the flute (which I was surprisingly good at).

Back in Madras, my never-say-die Mother was sure her daughter had the voice of an angel and began to search in earnest for teacher who would draw out my (very) latent talents. The search ended when my former teacher’s Mother agreed to take up where her daughter had left off. So thrice a week after school I would walk to her house with a frayed copy of A.S.Panchapakeshva Iyer’s Ganamrutha Bodini that both my mother and sister had used.

Rukmini Paati lived in an old, crumbling house that stayed blissfully cool in the summer months. She taught about 6 of us at the same time, boys and girls, ages varying from 4 to 14. Her enormous body draped in a Rangachari sari ould be perched precariously on the edge of a rusty, metal-framed bed, her harmonium box resting on her lap and keeping taalam with a broken, metre long ruler. She was mildly myopic, and would peer at us, trying to decipher who was singing off key and who was just going through the motions of singing – lip-synching in a time before Britney.

Her efforts were seriously hampered by the fact that she was pretty deaf. Which meant most of us were singing our own versions of Mayamalavagowlai and Mohanam. Adding plenty of Sondha sarakku as a favourite blogger of mine says.

After a few months of Rukmini Paati’s unique teaching methods, my mother on hearing me sing realised that it would just not do. The Paati’s services were terminated and the search continued for a guru.

This time two teachers were found – a carnatic vocalist and a flautist.
They were talented in their own right. Excellent teachers. And very strict. Countless tears stung my eyes from class 7 till class 10. But it was not in vain. For once I was decent at something – managing to claw my way up to keerthanams. But I was never that good, never practiced as much as I should have and frankly, never really my heart in it.

So when I finished my 10th board exams I stopped. Both teachers were saddened by my decision, because despite my shortcomings as a student, they had grown quite attached to me.

After that I lost touch with singing – apart from the occasional and humiliating ‘group light music’ events I was forced to participate in during inter-department culturals. (oh the horror of having to sing Words accompanied by a wan guitar that was held ‘like you’re used to playing the sitar’ as the judge said.)

My last brush with singing (not including a few tipsy renditions of Dancing Queen and You’re Still the One at Not Just Jazz by the Bay) was after I got married.

As is tradition, the newly weds must visit the homes of all the ageing aunts and uncles of the family. Since the entire family, village and neighbouring village are no longer invited to ‘see the girl’, it is the first time a family gets to inspect the new daughter-in-law. Discreetly check if she has all fingers and toes. That she can hear (cunningly tested by speaking in very low voices). And of course how talented she is. As culinary skills can only be tested on visiting the bride at her own home, the obvious substitute is to ask her to sing.

Fortunate is the girl who skilled in dance – the more exotic the better – after all who keeps a stock of Kathakali make-up at home? Those who are amateur Veena artists are in no such luck. Most ageing harridans often played the instrument themselves and will probably have one languishing in the corner of their bedroom. But woe betide she who has learnt to sing. She has no choice but to agree.

Unless she is willing to put up a spirited half hour argument on why she can not sing (a good idea - it will give way to gossip that you are strong willed and don't listen to elders.) My secret reasoning was that a squeaky rendition of Kanchi Kamakshi would not be a good first impression, so I firmly and repeatedly stated that I could not remember a single word of a single song. Which in retrospect was probably not wise, because now they all think that I have an undiagnosed memory problem.

My excuse that day was not entirely untrue. I have forgotten much of what I learnt as a child. The odd line here and there and some humming in between is all I can manage really. But I’ll always remember Rukmani Paati’s cool room and droning harmonium, my music Sir’s woeful sigh as I hit those higher notes and my flute teacher’s spirited renditions of movie songs when we took a short break for coffee.

Some memories just don’t fade.

a 55 word prayer

Please god. Let him answer the phone. Just this one thing and I won’t ask for anything else. Ever. Promise. I won’t call him an idiot again. Complain about his mother. Or grumble that he never helps out and forgets to fold the newspaper. I won’t nag. Or fight. Or throw things. Please god. Promise.

Mumbai Help

To all those who think that blogs serve no real purpose, please go to www.mumbaihelp.blogspot.com

Thoughts and prayers to all those in Bombay.

a moment

It had been another long day. The boss had yelled, the witch in the cubicle next door had been insulting and her idea for the television commercial had been hijacked and turned in to a big joke. As she trudged from the mainline station to the tube, her feet ached in the new shoes she has bought as a pick-me-up. She should have taken her doctor’s offer for a Prozac prescription instead.

People pushed and shoved. Large bags smacked against her. Commuters walked on the right hand side even though it clearly said ‘Please Keep to the Left’. She looked at the faces that rushed by. Corners of lips seemed to be on a natural downward curve and brows were scarred by the deep ridges of permanent frowns. Everyone was so wrapped up in their own lives they didn’t have a moment to spare for their fellow human beings.

As she approached the turnstiles an announcement stopped her.

‘Due to a passenger under the train, there are delays reported on the Metropolitan, Hammersmith and City and Circle lines. Please find…’

Had the passenger tripped, been pushed over – or had the hypnotic pull of an oncoming train been too much to ignore?

She stopped and listened to the announcement one more time before sighing with relief. None of the delays were on her line. She’d be home in time for Corrie.

summer x 3

Copper sulphate blue her grandmother
called that particular shade of blue
How did she know though,
having never set foot in a chemistry lab?

Her anklets are stiff
Like an old school friend you have lost touch with
The awkwardness soon gives way to a familiar comfort
It’s bells chattering away with every step taken

The woollen trousers and boots have been packed away
Cotton skirts voluminous and crinkled
Gently caress the soft inner skin of her thighs like a lover
Making her smile that secret smile

dinner

Clutching the brush and dustpan she surveyed the sickly brown striations that patterned the linoleum floor. In a far corner of her mind she heard the phone ringing. Probably her mother-in-law checking to see if her darling son had had his dinner.

Tiny mustard seeds that had found the oil too hot had pole vaulted over the rim of the non-stick wok. She liked to think that they had been cheered on by their comrades ‘Don’t worry about us. Save yourselves’.

'Yes’ she thought ‘Save yourselves. We all have to save ourselves.’ Thin green stems, denuded of their pungent curry leaves lay like felled trees. A lone pea stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, searching for kith and kin. She nudged it towards two carrot tops with her toe, but they didn’t seem to have much in common.

She got down on her knees and with long strokes ran the harsh, black bristles of the brush across the floor. The phone was ringing again. ‘Call all you want Amma. No one's answering that phone tonight’. Creeping forward, each square inch of the floor was meticulously covered as she coaxed the errant pea, unfriendly carrot tops and eel like slithers of potato skin in to a tiny heap.

‘Some more subzi dear?’ she called out, wondering whether the words would reach her husband over the din of the quarter-final highlights.

When the usual grunt failed to reach her ears she made her way to the dining table and sat opposite him. He was slumped over his plate, face submerged in rice. His dark, bald head streaked with sambar.

‘Look at the mess you’ve made.’ She chided. ‘I suppose I have to clean up? For once your mother’s right . A woman’s work is never done.’

Second hand love

To Mummy,

Hope you enjoy it!

Love Andrew, Anne, Olivier

I have a friend who only buys first hand books. He loves that fresh, new smell and the feel of crisp pages between his fingers. My friend’s obsession extends to newspapers as well, so much so two sets of papers are bought in his home – one for him and one for the rest of the family to crease, bend and scribble phone numbers on.

My own book buying habit began rather late in life. My family preferred library memberships. My father and I used to visit Easwari Lending Library in Royapettah and later on to Eloor in T- Nagar every Sunday afternoon. After a good hours browsing we would head to Woodlands Drive In or Gangotri and study our selection in detail over hot coffee and bondas. I somehow never felt the need to buy books.

All this of course changed once I got married and moved to Bombay. In Madras poky, ramshackle rooms that masqueraded as libraries could be found on every street corner. Alas, Bombay was bereft of a motley crew of Shakti/Murugan/Swami lending libraries. So after my husband and I had exhausted the contents of each other’s meagre collection, we proceeded to buy books. At first it was once every few weeks, when we went to town and were driving by Oxford. On moving to south Bombay, Crossword opened up down the road it was impossible not to pop in every other week and have a nose about.

By the time we moved to England our collection had grown modestly. We had 3 small cartons of books that thankfully fit in the oak bookshelf our landlord had provided us with.

In London, I once again found myself with a library membership. Our local council library was free and had a rather good collection. What’s more, books can be quite exorbitant here and picking up even 3 can set you back quite a bit.

Until I discovered charity shops. While Madras has Azhwar on Luz Corner and Bombay has the pavement shops near VT, in London the charity shop rules. Not to be confused with city’s excellent second hand bookshops that dot Charing Cross and the city’s many markets, charity shops are a different breed altogether. From Oxfam to St. Isobel’s Hospice, charities great and small in England have stores that allow patrons to contribute everything from their grandmother’s doily collection to 1930’s rocking horses. These are then resold at bargain prices, the proceeds going to fund the charity’s noble cause.

Though I’ve picked up my fair share of Victorian beer bottles, cast iron Spanish horses and other tat, my favourite charity shop buys are always books. Starting from as little as 50p and going up to hundreds and sometimes even thousands if the book in question is a collectors item, charity shops stock an amazing variety of titles. From Penny Jordan to Proust and William Shakespeare to old editions of Women’s Own they’re a great place to buy books. And perish any thought of old books in tatters and with pages missing. Nothing could be further from the truth. A few months ago I bought a hardback copy of Vikram Seth’s Two Lives that looked brand new for £2.At that price it seemed stupid not to buy it!

That’s the thing with charity shop books, the price alone can convince you to reach for your wallet. Books that you wouldn’t really want to pay full price for (Sex and the City) suddenly seem appealing at 49p. You can take risks at charity shops. Paying £12.99 for a book you’re not sure about is hard. But when the same book costs £1.99 it makes life so much easier. I’ve made some good, indifferent and excellent purchases at charity shops. While Joanna Harris was a little too sweet for me, Penguin’s Anthology of Women’s Short Stories introduced me to Angela Carter and Banana Yoshimoto.

Sometimes I buy books for silly reasons. The ‘To mummy…’ at the beginning of this piece was in a book called Slow Boats to China by Gavin Young. When I saw the spine of the book today, I realised it was the name of a blog I read. Intrigued to see what had inspired the name, I picked up the book and saw the inscription inside. It somehow made me want to read the book.

I like the idea that a book I’m holding has been read, loved or hated by someone before me. I like to think that fingers over the grainy pages and tucked old bills or pressed flowers as bookmarks. I like to think that someone else was amazed by the writer’s lyrical prose, incensed by a character’s actions or horrified at the sudden turn of events on page 234.

I don’t know if ‘Mummy’ enjoyed the book. I hope she did.

on beauty

It seemed the world had been taken over. Dominated by faces and bodies so perfect they were freakish. Patrician noses that were once crooked. Straight, white veneers that masked 20 years of chain smoking.

She sneered at the trout pouts. Mocked the surgically enhanced feet that would be forced in to unforgiving shoes. Such vanity. Such desperation for social acceptance.

‘Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to take care of his physical inadequacies first?’ she asked friends who were under pressure to go up a cup.

The medias obsession with physical perfection made her ill. She wrote impassioned letters to networks that commissioned plastic surgery reality shows. Look 10 Years Younger. The Swan. Extreme Makeover. What was the point? So that mourners would have something nice to look at as they passed by your open casket? So that the worms and maggots that would feast off your flesh would have plump, botoxed skin to feed off.

Her friends took none of her rants seriously.

‘What do you know about sagging boobs and flabby thighs. You’re gorgeous and thin.’

‘Plenty’ she thought as she stuck her finger down her throat for the fourth time that day.

fifty 5

'Asshole! Stupid fucking moron what the hell do you think? What, I’m supposed to just roll over and do exactly what you want me to you pretentious son of a bitch? There’s no fucking way I am going to agree to that. Bastard.'

She nodded her head in agreement.

"Of course. Whatever you say Sir."