The Indian man and his love affair with his boxers

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Not so long ago the Indian Aunty discovered an unhindered, unclasped and drawstringless existence in her nightie. In this stifling world of patriarchy that’s constantly trying to suffocate her with its custom-made list of do’s and don’ts and only-meant-for-her morality, she found liberation in this one piece wonder garment. She boldly turned it into a cool daywear that smelt mostly of sweat and spices.

What the Indian woman does today, her male counterpart thinks of tomorrow. Even as she was outgrowing her fascination for this tent-like apparel and switching over to no-nonsense tracks and tee, the Indian man went ahead and found boxers. True, the lungi discovered him much earlier. But a garment that parts willingly at the slightest hint of a gust or lust can have hazardous consequences for the beholder, especially female. Unlike the male that gets excited at the slightest show of limb and imagines the rest of the anatomy, the female is more horrified than filled with desire as she espies upon his lush Amazonian foliage on his limbs and upwards.

The boxer in its cottony soft splendour is its perfect substitute. It comes with cute fly buttons that do a fairly competent job of containing his excitement. Unlike boring trousers, boxers come in bold colours, graffiti, floral and cartoon prints that let him express his naughty side. Its dangerously short length ensures it keeps the beholder’s pulse racing. You never know which part of his appendage will pop out this time.

Understandably, he fell for it hook, line and sinker and like his female counterpart set out to conquer the world in it. While mankind elsewhere continues to wear it as a roomy undergarment, the Bhartiya bhaisahab has turned it into a versatile pair of shorts that can fit into any role he wants. One day it’s a cool gym wear as he huffs and puffs on the treadmill in it. Never mind the incredulous look a certain lady named Purba running on the machine next to him continues to give. Perhaps he mistakes it for adoration. Ever since he was a baby boy his mother made him believe he was the best thing to have happened to womankind. And mothers are always right.

As he prowls around the gym constantly checking out his imaginary biceps and rotund belly, he realises the boxers need to travel more of the world with him. He turns it into resort wear, evening by the pool wear, ‘let me have breakfast in it at a public place’ wear. He knows his good looks and charms can turn even an ordinary chaddi into a fashion statement.

Don’t know why Adidas, Nike and their ilk spend millions on Climacool technology. The Indian man doesn’t need any technology sheknology. He can keep his cool in his boxers. No wonder he’s not scared of global warming. He’s ready to face it in his chaddis.

I shop till my mouse says, please stop!

Image courtesy - indiatoday.intoday.in

Spending money is addictive, especially when you don’t have it. And who knows it better than Vijay Mallya! In this age of buy now, pay later or get beaten up by bank agents for defaulting, it’s tough not to succumb to the joys of shopping; the shortcut to instant happiness. It doesn’t help that the only thing stopping my impulsive buying urges is my will-power which is as weak as the Indian cricket team’s bowling order. I take solace from the fact that I am not engaging in wanton behaviour. On the contrary I’m fulfilling my social responsibility towards the downtrodden community of retailers and propping up the country’s GDP. The only way I can uplift them is by buying everything I don’t want. It’s easier to get Hrithik and Kangana to patch up than convince a woman that she has everything she needs for the next half a century. In fact the world of commerce thrives on our insatiable hunger. While the unevolved male of the species is content with a blue shirt in stripes, checks and plain, we cannot rest in peace till we have it in midnight blue, azure blue, navy blue, powdered blue, peacock blue and indigo. To make it worse, there’s the maddening variety of frills, snug fit, blouson, scoop-back, halter, polo, front-detailing to choose from. And the male has the audacity to wonder why we take so long to shop!

There was a time in my life when I thought I had achieved the unachievable. The very thought of going to a mall would made me sick. It wasn’t always like this. When shopping malls first started mushrooming in Gurgaon, they were the coolest place to hang out, literally! Rows of stores in swanky air-conditioned buildings with clean restrooms were a welcome change from Karol Bagh where you had to search for a deserted bye-lane every time your child wanted to pee. One could spend hours ambling through floors and floors of decadence and follow it with up a movie and dinner.

It didn’t take too long to discover, malls are like cathedrals. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. All of them have the same set of stores, the same aroma of stale popcorn and a sad corner selling donuts. Irrespective of the shopping mall’s location, its uppity quotient and parking challenges, there’s no way you can avoid the holy triumvirate of ‘Adidas/Nike/Reebok, Pantaloons and McDonalds.’

How to Martyr Yourself to Fashion

Pic courtesy - HindustanTimes.com

Also on Huffington Post India

Once you start writing for pleasure, you get into the awful habit of observing people around you. You note down their peculiarities, eavesdrop into their conversations and get a glimpse of their exciting lives of truant maids and unfaithful husbands. An addictive pastime but sometimes you end up displeasing others with your not so flattering observations. It’s the same reason why some of us love reading advice columns (mostly concerning sex) in magazines and dailies where shy adults confide their love for masturbation using a banana skin. Or a gentleman complains about his wife who makes him wear lingerie and bangles and ties his hair into a pony, every time they make love. No, I absolutely did not make these up.

What I am going to write about has nothing to do with people’s bizarre sexual fetishes. It is about the Indian woman’s love for dressing not according to her shape, but just her state of mind. Go to any mall or multiplex and you’ll see a parade of jiggly bottoms and generous tyres spilling out of dresses two sizes too small. I’m always in a fix how to react. While a part of me says a silent yay for women who dress for themselves and not others, the other part of me wonders if they have a mirror at home.

I understand what a liberating feeling it is to slip into an apparel that makes you feel fashionable and sexy, the rest of the world be damned. But knowing what’s in fashion may not necessarily look good on you, is also a great liberator. Just like tights. Someone wise once said, drunks, children and tights never lie. In fact, they betray your secrets and indulgences in the most embarrassing manner. Just because Cheenu looked drop-dead gorgeous in that halter neck red bandage dress and got 450 likes on Facebook, doesn’t mean it will transform you into her glamorous avatar. What she didn’t tell you is, she only eats seeds and leaves and when she’s feeling adventurous, adds a pinch of sugar to her tea. And if your friends insist you look fabulous in that leopard print jumpsuit that makes you feel asthmatic, they are lying. While I understand girlfriends are meant to make you feel good about yourself and call you gorgeous even if you’re anything but that, an occasional dose of honesty is needed. It forces you to move your complacent ass out of your comfort zone.

Death by Fashion

Image courtesy - Google images

Recently a Melbourne based woman collapsed in her skinnies because it had cut off the blood supply to her calf muscles. What took me by surprise was the flurry of headlines decrying the fad of skinny jeans being bad for health. It’s pretty obvious these ignorant fools haven’t had the pleasure of wriggling themselves in jeans two sizes too small and experienced its health benefits. It’s only after you’ve spent 20 minutes huffing and puffing, trying to stuff your curves inside these drainpipes designed for women sans a butt and thighs, that you experience its cardio benefits. Not only do you burn calories, you also get to spend the rest of the day standing because you feel stiff as a stick. Since your jeans have also managed the commendable feat of bringing your stomach closer to your heart, you also end up eating almost nothing.

Breathlessness is but a small price for looking breathtaking.

Most of us would rather die than be seen in loose and comfortable clothing. Just the other day when I draped myself in a sack and tied my hair in a tight bun for an Iftaar foodwalk at Jama Masjid, I refused to get myself clicked. And when someone did manage some candid clicks, I promptly disowned myself.

We are willing to brave back problems, bunions, fall flat on our faces as we totter on impossibly high heels. We’ll gladly walk half step at a time in pencil skirts, give up breathing in corset dresses, all for the sake of looking fabulous. So, when a woman lies sprawled on the floor, unable to move her legs because her skinnies sucked the life out of them, she has rightfully earned herself the label of a martyr and definitely not ‘aww, poor thing’!

If people can give up their lives fighting for justice and freedom, why can’t we give up comfort, maybe a limb or two, carbs, sugary treats, peace of mind for the sake of looking hip and fashionable? People die all the time, don’t they? Rather die trying to look gorgeous.

Women, who dress in skin-tight jeans in the searing heat and wear the skimpiest of outfits in freezing temperature, while ordinary mortals choose to shiver in layers of woollies, are the ones who have truly achieved Nirvana. It is they who have understood the concept of Maya and have readily discarded bodily comforts for the greater good of mankind.

Only an evolved soul will go through unimaginable pain getting rid of hair, layers of fat, frown lines and all that they have deemed ugly only because their beauty makes others happy. Yet, we choose to call them fashion victims!

Discovering Nirvana through Nightie

 Image courtesy -  www.city-connect.org

It’s time aam aurats of India conveyed their heartfelt gratitude to the lady who was too lazy to change out of her nightdress and ended up sparking a revolution that led women to discover the delights of an unhindered, unclasped and drawstringless existence. Had it not been for her genius, Bhartiya Naaris would not have known Nirvana through Nightie.

Agreed that a fashion conscious, brand flaunting woman wouldn’t be seen dead in a shapeless nightwear masquerading as a maxi that does a perfect job of making you look like a dowdy behenji, but it is through its loose character, sweat soaked women all over India were exposed to the comforts of air-conditioning. Is there a greater satisfaction than slipping into a sack made of the softest cotton that lets you be yourself in all your hanging and paunchy glory? Who cares that the flowers printed on it outnumber the stars in the sky and its front has a bib like thing with even more flowers embroidered on it!

Its dusting cloth like texture is perfect for wiping your kitchen weary palms and your sweaty forehead with. It’s the perfect attire to slip into after a long day at work and what’s more, it gives you more space than your relationship!

The ubiquitous nightie is to women what lungi is to her husband - its comfort factor more than making up for its ewwness, bestowing its wearer with a beatific smile.

And who has the time and inclination to be that woman who slogs for hours at the gym and has three carrots for dinner before slipping into a lacy Armani that lovingly hugs her detoxed and toned body!

Of course, there is an emerging woman-force that has adopted the middle path and anointed pyjamas and loose t-shirts as their new nightie. These are women who spent their childhood traumatised by the vision of their Moms and neighbourhood Aunties flapping around in these hideous tents. I’m sure, all sabziwalas of certain Delhi localities like Lajpat Nagar and Rajinder Nagar have fond ‘mammaries’ of Chinki and Chunnu ki Mummy haggling for an extra bunch of coriander in her nightie-chunni. Or Raju Raddiwala who forgot his trademark manoeuvre to take the extra kilos off the stack of newspapers, the moment he sighted Mrs Mehra spilling out of her checked nightie with a waistband hugging her ample middle.

But no garment can beat the versatility of the Indianised version of the nightie that doubles up as a lounging, going out to buy groceries, screaming at presswala, gossiping with maid or even night-walk dress. What’s more, it doesn’t discriminate fat and the slim, lovely and ugly, and uniformly transforms everyone into a frumpy aunty jee. It doesn’t expect you to shape up or tidy up and goes perfectly with your no-make up look, bed head or even puffy eyes. A frock that fits all and covers all, it can be customised to suit your lack of fashion sensibilities. If floral fantasies make you sick, you can always opt for polka dots, checks or even cute hearts in pink. Sleeveless, side-slits, block-prints, flowy kaftans or even jhabla style. It is a garment that’s as forgiving of your indulgences as your conscience. Pair it Bata flip-flops for an outing to the grocer. For a more formal look slip into the pink beaded sandals that you bought for 650/- at the sale and if you’re feeling sporty, pair it with keds and voila you’re ready to conquer the world. Why, just the other day I spotted an elderly Indian lady in her nightie and sports shoes at a swanky shopping precinct in Brisbane! She looked cool as a cucumber.

Divine Powers of Brahood

Love is like a paintbrush that adds colour to the canvas of our lives. It is that elusive emotion that makes us bloom like a flower, hum like a bee even when stuck in a traffic snarl, oblivious to the chaos and skanky people with no civic sense. You circle around the object of your affection like a love-sick satellite, waiting to melt like Cadbury’s Silk in heat at the very sight of him.

Here lies the catch. How do you find out if he’s the one your soul has been waiting for to call him its mate! Do you fall in love with the first guy who’s struck by your beauty and brains, and find out many expensive dates later what a complete asshole he is? How many frogs must you kiss before you find your Prince! I mean, how many heartbreaks can your poor heart take!

When it comes sifting out true love from the chaff, your inner voices are not too helpful and have the uncanny ability to confuse you further. And your friends are all jealous bitches who love annoying you with their “there’s more to life than men” philosophy.

So, what does a girl do? Does she say no to love and starts scouring for a life-mate at Shaadi.com!

They say a girl’s distress calls never go answered. So what, if it’s a company in far off Japan that has finally come up with a solution that every girl has been waiting for– a bra that unhooks itself but only at the sight of true love. Finally a brassiere that understands your true feelings. 

Image Courtesy - akihabaranews.com

Sleebeless in Sealdah

Courtesy - Google Images

Long before the world discovered a fashion phenomenon called sleeveless, sleeveless discovered the Bengali woman. This was the time that Marxism was still a respected ideology in Bengal when the bhodro-mohila embraced the sleeveless blouse and sent the dormant hormones of the bhodrolok on an overdrive.

Thousands of kakis, jethis, pishis and mashis took to this garment like hilsa to water and achieved nirvana. I grew up in the company of flabby arms encased in these sleeveless wonders, getting an unhindered view of subcutaneous fat swinging in gay abandon, wincing a little at the sight of sweat forming lazy pools under the arms. For a young girl growing up on Krishi Darshan, this was my wicked pleasure.

This bare-dare act was confined more to the urbane Kolkata woman who was more comfortable with her sexuality and didn’t mind flaunting it. Her not so fortunate counterpart scattered around the country would wait for her annual trip to Kolkata to stock up on these flimsy nothings. Sleeveless, backless and a neck that was deeper than the Grand Canyon ravine – this was Bhictoria’s secret! Truth be told, a Bengali lady fancies herself more as Moonmoon Sen rather than Mamata Banerjee - perfectly complimenting the Bengali ethos that doesn’t let work interfere with its quest for pleasure.

Long before an aging beer baron anointed himself as the king of good times, the bhodrolok was living it.

The grooming starts at a very young age. While the young male prefers spending his youth doing adda on a rock, his female counterpart is busy loving humanity. For her prem-kora(doing love) is a day job. For a girl growing up in dry, desolate Delhi, this was beyond fascinating. In fact it was my curiosity for her penchant for romance that got me to learn reading Bangla. Reading salacious details about a 12 year old’s love for her Math tutor in an Agony aunt column of a Bengali magazine...Chronicles of the Boudi in her frilly floral nighty serenaded by her love-sick neighbour – all of 30, useless and jobless (unless you count prem-kora as a full- fledged job). Mills and Boons seemed pale in comparison!

When I was old enough to make my own sartorial choices, I was more coy than daring. For the longest I was convinced that that going sleeveless was the prerogative of the plump. But when I finally succumbed there was no looking back.

The modern nari has the choice to ditch the sleeves, go backless, have her garment hanging precariously from noodles, defy gravity and go stringless or even embellish her bra with crystals and pass it off as a blouse. Who doesn’t like the feel of sun and air on her assorted body parts?

Alas, good times come with an expiry date! Just when we were having fun playing femme fatales, some dork declared that it’s not okay to sweat and stink and had us clamouring for deo-sticks. And just as we were getting used to smelling of lavender and other flowers with difficult to spell names, there comes another dork and says –Hey girls, shouldn’t you be doing something about your yucky, dark armpits?

Ah! The unbearable pressure of going sleeveless – pour hot wax over hair follicles, rub copious quantities of deodorant and now put a shade card to check if you are fair enough! Raising your arms was never this stressful.

Imagine being judged on the basis of our armpits! No thank you, I would like have my sleeves back please.

Suddenly, the Bengali bhordromohila in her sweat soaked Ladies Dream blouse, flaunting her tuft a la Julia Roberts seems ultra-cool.

An obituary for the dear departed Sari

Courtesy -> Desicolours.com

I have fond memories of the sari.  Coming home to bury my face in the softness of my grandmother’s customary white un-starched taant, keys dangling at its end, inhaling the scents – a heady mix of incense sticks, and paan and kitchen spices.   Watching my Maa wrap herself in silken splendour, the intricate motifs shimmering under the lights, the aanchal flowing over her shoulder like a cascading waterfall.  

For me it was not just a sari but a six yard fantasy.  As a young girl, I badly wanted one for myself, to feel the swish of the silk as I would glide around the room feeling like a princess.  It is in a sari that I took my first step into womanhood, ready to take flight from my cocooned existence. 

There was a time when I used to wear one everyday – not because I was a six yard fanatic, but simply because it was the dress code at work. Initially I found it a menace.  Having to get up early in the morning, spending anxious moments in front of the mirror to get the pleats right.  Walking in an ungainly manner, tripping over the pleats at the most inopportune moments.  I felt it cramped my natural athletic style of climbing three stairs at a time.  So petrified I was of my sari coming undone that I would overdose on safety pins.  Yes, I singlehandedly managed to make even the lungi look elegant.  One look at me and my friends would shove me into the cabin, bang the door shut and re-tie it for me.   Slowly I mastered the art of draping - a tuck here, a nip there, the subtle dip that brings out the essence of femininity so beautifully. 

Very few attires hold as much mystery and allure as a sari.  One can wear it a little low to show off our newly discovered washboard abs, pair it with a backless blouse to bring out the diva in us.  And on days we feel like Mother Teresa and crave for world peace, we can drape it to cover every visible inch of our body.  Now which other garment can match such versatility?  

And the mind boggling variety of patterns, weaves and hues it comes in – each with its distinctive legacy. From flirty Chanderis, to elegant Gadhwals, to the opulent Banarasis, to the gorgeous Dhakai Jamdanis, to colourful Ikkats, we are spoilt for choice.  

Skirting the issue

Image courtesy : fotolia.com

Last month when Obama joked that his prayers tend to revolve around the length of his 12 year old daughter, Malia’s skirt - it triggered a wave-like effect on parents worldwide, with all of them nodding their heads in understanding.   Suntee ho Chinki ki Mummy...even the President of the most powerful country in the world has no control over his daughter!  And look at our beti, always in a salwar kameez.   Chinki blushes a beetroot red and hides her pile of minis deeper in her closet. Why burst Papajee's bubble? 

Only a man can understand how a hormonally charged teenaged boy’s mind works. And since he’s been there and done that, he has all the reasons to be alarmed.  What he doesn’t comprehend is, that it’s her way of asserting “I’m not a baby anymore and am ready to take flight”.   The poor Dad didn’t even realize when his baby grew up and now reality has hit him with a thud.

This sent me on a flashback.  My daughter insists that all this reminiscing for the sake of blogging is playing tricks on my memory.  Of late I have started forgetting things alarmingly.  The other day the husband rang the bell and I asked with a genuinely puzzled expression ‘You look familiar, do I know you”?   He of course wasn’t amused.   Agreed he works very hard and his face is mostly hidden behind his laptop, but this is unpardonable!  Damn, I’m deviating and will soon forget what I was writing about in the first place.  The point is I pressed the rewind button and stopped at my school girl days – the time when I was my parents’ worst nightmare.  But my shrinking skirt did not give them sleepless nights.  They were either too busy to notice or pretended not to notice and I merrily took advantage of it.  In school the length of our skirts was a matter of prestige - the higher it went, the more it upped our coolness quotient.  It helped that our principal was one those ladies who thought long skirts were meant for behenjees and even went to the extent of announcing her preference for short skirts in the assembly.  It was greeted with loud cheers especially from the guys and we girls did our very best to make her feel proud.

Bring back the lungi I say...

Baba, this one is for you

In India, most of us sweat buckets most of the year.  Rivulets of perspiration, trickling down our back is an all too familiar feeling. In Delhi’s scorching summer, I start sporting the tomato-trapped-in-a-hot–sauna look. With my back permanently soaked with sweat, the face a flaming red and my hair frizzy beyond belief, I look quite a sight.  I refuse to meet most of my friends in summer – what if they start thinking I’m ugly? What if they don’t recognize me at all??

This is the season when I discard all my noble endeavours towards energy conservation, carbon footprints and gleefully help burn some more holes in the ozone layer.  I’d rather keep my cool than save the environment! But what gets my goat is when I see people attired in skin-tight summer unfriendly clothes.  As the mercury hits the roof, the last thing you need is squeezing yourself into your jeans or wearing trousers with full sleeved shirts. Just the sight of it makes me break into a sweat.

And this despite the many options we women have. Saris for the breezy feel, skirts of all shapes and sizes, sarongs for convenience and shorts if you don’t mind men gawking at your legs! Men sadly only have a choice of length – short, mid way or full length. 

A few days back as I was twiddling my thumbs and counting the cobwebs, I came up with a designer of an idea!  And believe me it’s far better than Baby B’s - the one that he keeps hawking on national TV.

Men-folk can now expect deliverance and break free from the tyranny of their trousered existence.  Guys!  time is ripe to go back to your roots and embrace the preferred attire of our forefathers.  It’s time to say yes to our desi lungi.  

Courtesy : Google images

Look how our Mallu brothers and our Tam uncles fearlessly show off their hairy legs in their mundus.  This one-size-fits-all-bottoms garment is simple, down to Earth and extremely pocket friendly. 

As a kid I used to find its north Indian counterpart, the lungi, truly appalling.  A lungi which usually comes in flamboyant floral or window-curtain patterns has an instant eww appeal.  Ask me, I know.  My Dad in his heydays had a vibrant collection, each one more colourful than the last and no amount of glaring or cajoling worked.  At home when he was relaxing, Baba was surgically attached to his lungi!  When my fiancé and I were courting each other, I was plagued with thoughts of my guy in a lungi.  One day I finally managed to stutter “I hope you don’t wear a lungi’?  Naah I prefer shorts.  It was only when we started co-habiting I discovered his stunning collection of shorts – each one more hideous than the last.   Why he even had a pair in red with something in French printed on it!

A Suit-able Expedition

With the festive season approaching, I decided I wanted a traditional outfit for myself. Not that I don’t have enough of them, my closet is crammed with my largely unworn saris. In Gurgaon, if you wear saris for a casual occasion, people look at you as if you’ve landed from Mars.

Now we women have this unique talent of creating islands of needs even if we are swimming in a sea of plenty. You can’t possibly expect me to wear one of the many outfits I purchased this season, do you? (Insert horrified expression). And on festivals I wouldn’t be caught dead in a western outfit. I want a formal churidar suit for myself and come to think of it, I don’t even have a single one.

So one pleasant evening, we headed to one of the popular malls of Gurgaon. The husband wanted a new pair of spectacles and I would be surveying the many boutiques for “the perfect one”. The mall on a weekday is a pleasant place to be in. It’s surprisingly uncrowded , you don’t run the risk of your toes getting trampled upon and landing an elbow or two in your stomach. The husband busied himself with the onerous task of selecting the perfect pair (yes, both of us are a match made in heaven) and I trundled off for my survey.