Weddings!! To me, the word signals delicious food; not to speak of the prospect of uploading my picture on social media after draping myself in an elegant saree. So, I have my task cut out.
The Curtain Raiser:
The wardrobe is thrown open to the public (read yours truly & Mr. Hubby). I take multiple sarees out, which I have hoarded over the years, and lay them carefully on the bed. I stretch my arms like a cat and let my eyes wander. Sarees with matching long-sleeved blouses are eliminated (Women will understand the connection). Out comes the weather app on mobile. The forecast looks encouraging. And evenings are anyway pleasant. It is time for ‘silk’ to emerge out of her hibernation. The textile department is taken care of, finally. My stock of ethnic jewellery being limited (I am not fond of gold), the selection of accessories is a cakewalk. Oh, I forgot to mention! Mr. Hubby selects a white kurta pajama. That’s it!!!
The Play Begins:
The moment I dread the most arrives. The fan is switched off. Thankfully the AC runs, sparing me the ignominy of being bathed in my own sweat. I take a deep breath and a “Raam kA naam” and tuck in the saree. A wrap later, I am in a dilemma. Should I keep a single pallu? Or do it the air-hostess style? The former is easy. And less time-consuming. Then come to those wretched pleats. 15 minutes gone, and I am still struggling. I curse the patriarchal society for enforcing sarees on women, and our culture for not making the “salwar kameez” the staple dress for ladies. Luckily, a semblance of sanity is restored, and I manage to pin the pleats. The pallu taken care of, I proceed to work on my make-up, which is anyway minimal. A dash of kohl and a lipstick, and I’m ready to rock the party.
Intermission:
Mr. Hubby by this time has played 3 virtual football games and has defeated Argentina, Brazil and Germany. As I put on my gold-threaded ethnic slippers, he has scored a brace against France. I hand over my mobile to him. Sofas are moved, the pile of papers on the center table are shoved aside with disdain, and Mr. Hubby chooses that precise moment to fiddle with the camera settings. An hour and 45 pictures later, I am ready to grace the party with my presence. I get into the car and almost trip myself. By now, ho I am beyond caring.
(Anti) Climax:
I reach the venue finally. With a Renuka Shahane like smile plastered on my face for the next couple of hours, I greet the hosts and retreat to a corner. I select two of the best pictures and delete the remaining 43, do some filtering and social media is ready to be adorned by ‘Yani in ethnic wear’. The demure version belongs to Facebook; my Demi Moore look occupies a pride of place in my Instagram page. I then look for tell-tale signs. Like, the announcement for dinner! I proceed to gorge myself on lip-smacking food and while ignoring the calories being consumed, I am thankful that I can never outgrow a saree. L,XL,XXL – why worry?
By Narayani V Manapadam
“Narayani is an IT Professional lost in the dreary world of Excel. When time permits, she loves to get lost in the maze of Word(s). But nothing makes her happier than being a cat momma to her beloved Uttam.”
She can be contacted at fraunara@gmail.com.
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