Conversations With Clothes You Have Every New Year’s Eve
At this time, every year, I turn into a pilgrim. I pop a pill that will render me numb to the comments from the loving mother and the sister, and grimly take the annual supplication trip to the deep, dark recesses of the closet, in the hope that I shall be converted into a party animal.
‘Why don’t you buy a new dress like the rest of us?’ The sister asks.
‘She’d rather buy books!’ Mother scoffs.
The two mean well, so I let them stay and overhear the conversation between my clothes and I.
‘Don’t look at me!’ says one dress, ‘I am two sizes too small for you!’
‘This time, not even duct taping your boobs and tum is going to help you look thin.’
I remember fondly the times when one had to stuff socks in bras to look less like a plank in a dress. These days mother ship has to instruct the cook to feed me nothing but salad after Diwali so I’m ready to fit into a dress by the New Year. I feel like I’ve turned into a goat. But I’m going to be a goat with a great dress, I tell myself.
I reach out for the red Valentino (via Bangkok) I’ve never dared to wear. I feel the gorgeous fabric (‘Jai Lycra!’ My sister comments) and it slides ever so smoothly over my curves. I want to look in the mirror but I reach out for the glass of bourbon on the dresser instead. Maybe I should have looked at my audience first, or stepped out of the flip flops, or washed my hair before looking in the mirror.
The dress fit perfectly. But for one problem. It squeezed one boob so much, that body profile was the perfect example of what body parts look like when traveling in Ladies Second Class compartment during rush hour.
Wiggling adjusted the body parts a little, but now it looks like someone was bringing the clash cymbals together and I had gotten in the way. Had I said that aloud? The mother ship and the sister were busy stifling giggles in two ends of a dupatta they’d found on the bed.
I sigh and look at the length of the dress. Kick off the flip flops, and stand in pretend high heels, and almost fall back in surprise. Where had the Orcs come from? This was Bombay, not Mordor! When did my knees begin to look so ugly? How and when did they grow dimples? Were they dimpled Orcs, or cherubs gone rogue?
This dress simply won’t do, I tell myself. Ignoring the sound of a couple of lycra threads tearing, I pull the dress over my head. Both the mother and sister are now looking at me in despair.
‘Instead of reading books, read my lips,’ My mother says, ‘Lipo, lipo, lipo, lipo.’
‘Now it’s too late to do anything.’ The ever loving sister adds.
‘Don’t worry, dear. You’ll find something,’ mum says as she ushers the evil sister out of the room.
So I brave the closet one more time. The long black lace dress it is. When I bought it, it was two sizes too big, and the loving mum had remarked, ‘You’ll grow into it…’
Now, that dress would be perfect. It would cover the knees. Someone had thoughtfully added chiffon sleeves to hide the triceps that resembled batwings. Another reason why one was taught only to mouth the words ‘buh-bye’ and not wave enthusiastically. The wave could cause a jiggle on the arms that would last longer than the goodbye itself.
The phone beeps. The Whatsapp group for Mehr’s do is going crazy too. Though everything was a closely guarded secret, new shoes and new dresses had been bought. Mehr was discussing food options and people were contributing, even though everyone knew the menu would have been decided months ago.
I was happy to contribute warnings about ‘Swaruffski’ crystals on dresses. The ‘uff’ in the brand was there to remind women who loved sparkly dresses that had sequins and crystals on the sides.
A recent epiphany (a disastrous dinner date in a sparkly dress) had made me realise why women with sparkly sleeveless dresses at parties were only found on the dance floor. The one place where they could keep their arms raised at all times! This was to prevent sequins from scratching the insides of arms or any part that touched them.
Speaking of cats, I’ve always wondered why women find animal prints sexy. Especially the anorexic ones. They look more hunted than like the hunter. And when they’re on extremely spindly high heels, they walk like camels too far from any oases. No wonder they’re either holding on to men or bar counters.
I’m happy with the long dress. But cannot resist trying on another that’s scoffing at me like Carrie Mathison.
‘Any more attitude from you and I’ll throw you away!’ I mutter. This dress has sequins and dangly shining crystal beads. And I’m wondering why I ever bought it. Another five kilos, and I would look like the mirror ball spinning on the ceiling. Also, when one wears a dress like that, one has to remember to never hug anyone. Never. Only air kissing. Imagine meeting someone enthusiastically only to find beads entangled in another’s sequined dress when trying to complete a hug!
The dress decision made, I quickly go over reminders on the phone before the party. The salon lady has already touched up the greys cleverly. Thankfully, one is not ursine, or there would be more pain to endure before a party. My nails need glitter, and my feet need bribing so that they would not protest at being squeezed into dancing shoes. My lips are hurting now from trying out and wiping off new lip colors (I always go back to the usual).
At the dinner table Dad says what he does every year, ‘I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed!’
And I try to explain why I want to attend Mehr’s party again, ‘Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, dad! Aap nahi samjhoge.’ We laugh about every girl’s need to find Darcy and Heathcliff and agree to disagree about parties.
The party is on the next evening. Mum and sister are away at the salon and will go to their parties directly. At the dinner table, there’s dad and comfort food: daal, bhaat, bhindi. Dad and I chorus mum’s pet instructions, ‘One should always eat before the party. Or you’ll grab at food stabbed by toothpicks!’
I go through the party checklist with dad. ‘Dinner money for driver who’s waiting. No being bitchy about people’s BO. No calling other women’s dressed ‘maxis’. No laughing like a hyena. No…’
I twirl in the dress. My dress shoes are so perfect I feel like a princess. I splash some more perfume and then I look at Dad. It’s New Year’s Eve. And he’s going to be home. Alone. It’s out of choice, I know that. But he looks happy. And suddenly I too want to be like Dad. I switch off the phone, quietly kick off my shoes, and pick out the well-thumbed Pride & Prejudice from the bookshelf. He reads Dawkins, and I find Darcy. It’s the best party ever.