In school, the shy, tongue tied nerd was invariably attracted to the girl with the deafening laugh. All the good looking girls were in love with the football star with a permanent sweaty patch on his back. I was in love with the dreamy guy who strummed the guitar. And one fine day he opened his mouth and spoiled it all.
They say when God takes time off from playing Kingmaker and pushing us in freezing cold water just as we were getting too warm for comfort; he plays the matchmaker. In fact, Rab loves making our jodis because this is his idea of playing a practical joke on us. The Almighty will make the cricket obsessed, beer guzzling, back-slapping, always joking guy, fall madly in love with the solitude loving, cricket hating and wine sipping girl whose smile is capable of lighting up an entire neighbourhood. His restless soul finds solace in her eyes that speak volumes without speaking a word. He woos her ardently with words he doesn’t have. She finds it endearing. They fall in love and marry.
It’s as if we are destined to follow a pattern. The child who refuses to grow up will always end up with a mother figure. The girl who’s never short of words and opinions will surrender herself to him who always listens with a smile playing on his lips. The dreamy, muddle-head will be drawn towards the woman on wheels, the homebody to the adventurous spirit, the spice girl to the medium rare, the cleanliness freak will fall head over heels with the Lord of mess.….
Do we seek opposites as a challenge? A man so breathtakingly different, that the fair maiden had no option but fall hopelessly for him. It can happen before marriage or after marriage. The love, I mean. When fate arranges your match, you love him before you marry him. When your parents decide your fate, you hope to fall in love after you marry him.
But it’s only after you start living together, you discover how startlingly different you are. I sometimes wonder if we mould ourselves and fine-tune our senses to strike a harmonious note. Is it that the child in him brings out the mother in us? Did the husband become subdued because his talkative wife never gave him the chance to talk? Did he become the backbone because hers was missing! Did she become the mature one because he refused to grow up, all for the sake of love?
All of us at some point in our lives have yearned to break free. Our reasons may have varied – that of monotony, a stifling relationship, a job that sucked the life out of us. It is in these periods of restlessness we see through the veneer of everything- is-perfect-in-my-life. Consumed with self-doubt we wonder whether we are doing too little or too much with our life. We retreat into a corner and finally unmute those pesky voices in our head. Voices with that air of superiority, always knowing what to do, merciless with truth – they make us feel like an errant child.
Then they are those phases when we are rudely thrown out of our comfort zones. It’s is like being pushed out of the dark comfort of your mother’s womb. You hate it – flail your arms with anger, squeeze your eyes shut and cry loudly to protest. You long to crawl back into that sac where you had just her heartbeat for company. Just like that clock on your wall, its loud tic-toc matching the rhythm of your heart, relegating each breath of yours to past tense.
As we grow old and take charge of our lives, we replicate the comfort of her womb by regimenting our existence into a routine. To bed by 11, wake up at 6, work hard on weekdays, work less on weekends, work time, play time, family time….
The truth is, most of us find routines comforting. Freedom intimidates us. It’s always reassuring to know what to expect.
Think sexy and you think heels. The little black dress, gown that sweeps the red-carpet, sari that shimmers under the arc-lights looks incomplete without a killer pair of high heels. Like Sunny Deol without his dhai kilo ka haath, Baba Ramdev without his beard, Poonam Pandey with clothes, Rahul Gandhi without his dimples….Get the picture?
According to gurus of high fashion, you’re not a high till it’s longer than 4 inches and they are not a killer if they don’t make you wobble on tapered, blade or wedges. Platforms are deemed too comfy to gain admittance in the high heeled hall of fame and it’s a stiletto that’s every woman’s preferred weapon of mass distraction.
Stilettoes are not meant for the faint-hearted. They feel like walking on a seesaw, your toes digging into hell and your heels pointing towards the heavens, begging for deliverance. It gets even better if they are six-inchers. You are constantly oscillating between agony and ecstasy. The feeling that you’re looking like a diva, as you balance your entire body weight on that delicate strappy thing, is even better than chocolate melting in your mouth. But the painful bunions on your feet, the raw cut on your ankle have a different story to tell.
Yet, scores of us are happy to haul ourselves atop needle shaped heels, for the sake of a killer statement.
Slide into a high heeled fantasy and you’ll know why. Your legs transform into poles and your entire anatomy gets a sensuous makeover. Your otherwise hurried steps turn into a lazy trot, your curves acquire a rhythm of their own and you are no longer the harried, multitasking woman on wheels but a Goddess meant to be worshipped. Stilettoes don’t discriminate. For them, it doesn’t matter that you are squat, fat or look like a matchstick; they will still lavish you with love and make you feel like the Diva you are. Hot, smouldering, standing head and shoulders above most, we look confident, feel confident and turn a blind eye to the foolish ones who totter on heels like drunken giraffes.
