Down To Bra Stacks

They’re right up there on my “Yech! Hate it” list along with lizards, queue cutters and people who say “I am looking forward FOR”……

Who?

The salesgirls in lingerie shops. Indian lingerie shops at least.

I’ll tell you this: we Indian women are a disadvantaged lot when it comes to undergarments. The number of brands available - limited. The sizes, colours and styles - limited. Sales personnel knowledge on the subject - limited.

After an SOS from KO, who needed just the right kind of bra to go with some newly acquired dresses, I accompanied her to just about every lingerie store on Bangalore’s Commercial Street. While the search was quite fruitless for the most part, the attitude - or more pertinently, ineptitude - of the sales personnel really got our goat.

At the end of the ordeal, I had a thing or ten to tell lingerie sales women:

1. Do not judge your customer and throw her holier-than-thou looks; as if she is morally less upright than yourself for not having asked to see your cloth-bag-cum-emergency-parachute range of brassieres that would put her rosary-counting great grandma to shame, opting instead for racier numbers

2. You will never be an expert judge of size. Period.

3. If you don’t have it, don’t put posters of it up on the wall and then nod forlornly when asked for it

4. Do not assume that everyone needs a white bra; not all women like to shroud what nature gave them in Indian mourning attire

5. Not every customer is Winona Ryder; if you are convinced that all lingerie tryouts are guaranteed shoplifts, put those bar code thingies on the undergarments instead of shouting across the floor, “Madam, where is your bra?”

6. Finally, “Multiplay” is a line of multi-way bras (from Enamor), new on the market; do not act like we’re nincompoops who walked into a lingerie store asking for contraception

Interestingly, we found exactly what we were looking for in a little section of Arihant Plaza… ably guided by… a man.

A Spa-sitive Start to the New Year

I am not one for New Year resolutions – simple because I see no point in making something only to break it later. That appears to be more the norm than the exception at least.

Of course, I rather hope the Saab is one of the exceptions seeing as he has resolved not to touch another ciggy ever. If you’re thinking “Coercion! What a b!$%*!” – you’re right and didn’t anyone teach you that it is rude to point fingers?

Anyway, this post isn’t really about new year resolutions or their dissolutions, it is about a first for me. I decided to lose the “spa virgin” tag. If you’re a spa junkie and gasping in disbelief, I’ll have you know that I am icky about being touched by “non-designated” people and coy about baring all to a perfect stranger.

However, with years of being a ‘mouse potato’ beginning to take a toll on my back, I decided to kick off the new year with a visit to Asian Woman, a spa which promised a touch of Bali in the heart of Bangalore. Recommended by the minx KO, whose opinion I hold in great esteem (what with her being related to the Queen of England et al), Asian Woman was serene, calm and welcoming as a pal I shall call "B-Complex" and I entered.

B-Complex opted for the hot stone therapy, while I went with the traditional Balinese massage that promised to relax tired muscles and de-stress mired minds.

After leaving our footwear at the entrance, we were ushered into a room and asked to change out of our clothes. I shall quickly skip through the next few minutes, because it involves an embarrassing moment when one of us inadvertently flashed the other....*reliving horror*....at least now we know those things are diaphanous, eh, B-C?

The massage with aromatic oils lasted an hour and a half, lulling me into a semi-consciousness broken only by the rattling of pebbles on the floor courtesy B-Complex’s somewhat butter-fingered masseuse.

Masseuses at Asian Woman are extremely polite and professional. No giggles, awkwardness, nosey questions, nothing. At the end of it all, I was completely relaxed with not a knot to complain about.

Once done, I chose to take a shower while B-Complex opted for a scrub in the large tub. We wrapped it up with some Chinese tea while we settled our bills and haggled over where to head for lunch.

What a day! Pure bliss!

Asian Woman – The Villa
3rd Block, Koramangala, No. 374,
Sarjapur Road (Near Greenwood High School),
Bangalore 560 034
email: info@e-asianwoman.com
Call 080 32510725 / 080 41219198 / 98457 70764 for appointments

A "Rose" By Any Other Name

It’s that time of year again when everybody is absolutely sloshing around in festive bonhomie.

Almost everyone I know seems especially fond of this time of year, barring an otherwise-genial former boss – although I suspect his animosity was more to do with Rudolf’s red nose than anything else. But that’s another story.

So this is that time of year when my neighbour puts out her garish thermacol cut-outs of bells and scary Santa faces that can only be termed paedophilic to say the least. Not to be outdone, I string up my single green tinsel wreath and single string of twinkie lights.

After baking a batch of choux buns to be served at a small Christmas brunch being hosted at my place – well, just a brunch that was convenient since Christmas is a non-working day – I settled down to a conversation with my old pal KO.

So much for festive bonhomie! The vile... oh, wait, I shall call her names until after her Wine & Cheese Xmas eve party this evening... Well, the woman calls me an anti-national.

The reason for this slight upon my oozing patriotism you ask?

Rose cookies!

Yes, I shall still call them “Rose Cookies”. KO, who balks at saying anything vernacular in nature for fear of her innate Britishness buggering the pronunciation , mocks me for calling them “Rose Cookies” as opposed to what she deems is the proper name – “Achappam”.

Achappam? “Who, outside of Kerala, even knows that term” I spat and sparked off a long-drawn argument with Her Royal Highness over what the real and proper term for these fried Christmas delicacies is.

Finally, I decided to settle the matter. Who else would be a better judge than Lord Google? Final scores read: Rose Cookies 84,30,000, Achappam 7,680.

KO, what do I say? A rose cookie by any other name may taste just as sweet – to slightly borrow a phrase – but I and 84,30,000 search results prefer sticking to Rose Cookies!

{Oh, but you and 195,000,000 Mallus say "Achappam"! Sigh!}

Of Knots and Crosses

*Beep beep*

A text message pops up on my cell phone. “Hey, it’s me. I’m getting married in 5 days’ time. See you there!” says the cheery text from a friend of yesteryears. Knowing that I definitely would not be able to make it, I almost replied.

Almost.

Saved by the tiny voice in my head that squeaked, “This so-n-so did not bother to acknowledge even receiving your wedding invitation, let alone attending the wedding.” “So much for friendship”, thought I and hit delete.

As I hastily tried to bury the slight guilt I felt at my discourtesy, it struck me that the issue of weddings seems to be a great ‘sieve’ of friendships. Friendships that have stood the test of time, thus far at least, crumble the moment one announces one’s marital intentions, while others seem to blossom and grow even stronger, as the mayhem in the run-up to D-Day draws everyone even closer.

I thought over the various reactions ‘wedding announcements’ have elicited. Some pleasant, some eyebrow-raising, and some just plain weird.

Silence
This is a common reaction. No response to wedding invitations. Possibly because of an unfamiliarity with the term “RSVP”? No congratulatory messages, no “regrets, I cannot make it”, not even belated wishes. Nothing. Just a stony silence. In this day and age of social networking, instant messaging, email and text messaging... absolute silence.

Just Plain Weird
This is the one where buddies suddenly start acting ... well...plain weird! “Can’t you postpone your engagement? I need you to accompany me to other good buddy’s wedding on that day.” Or they just turn up late for the engagement, missing the exchange of rings, and making it just in time for dinner.
- So what did I miss?
- The ring exchange.
- Oh, that’s all?
- So why you late?
- I got held up at the horse races.
Perfect. The “I shall scream my lungs out at the sight of any four-legged” decides that a day of betting on horses is better than attending so-called buddy’s once-in-a-lifetime engagement. Ouch.

Let’s Pretend This Isn’t Happening
This is the classic response where dear friends suddenly decide not to acknowledge that an old buddy’s wedding is around the corner. So if we happen to talk, we discuss weather, politics, ingrown toe nails, the boss who possibly has an STD, but oh, never ever say the “W” word. Taboo.

The Disappearing Trick
This is the one where friends who have trumpeted everlasting friendship from every rooftop available decide to disappear into thin air. No offers of help, no curious inquiries about cold feet or wedding trousseau arrangements. They do mark their attendance at the wedding though. Or better still, show up for the bachelorette party for all of 15 minutes, leaving some waiting date loitering around on the pavement outside, and then zip out never to show up at the wedding or ever show signs of life again. Charming.

An Attack of the Mumbles
This is the one where a person mumbles unintelligibly about how they couldn’t make it for the wedding because mumble, mumble, errr...mumble. If you can’t show up for a wedding, the least you can do is keep a handy excuse ready!

The Grim Weeper
This is the one you considered a pal that sobs...on your shoulder... as soon as the news is broken and then launches into a lament longer than an Indian epic about how they always fancied you (but never said or did anything about it) and now their heart is broken and now could they please keep weeping on your shoulder even if you have better things to do because boo-hoo-hoo....?

The Jumping Jollies
These are, by far, the friendships that will always stand the test of time. The friends who are genuinely thrilled to bits with the news and make every effort to be involved in every little step along the way. Even if it means sitting up till the wee hours of the morning, making gold gauze bags till your fingers bleed while drinking yourselves silly with fruity cocktails and doing silly dances dressed in gauze!

The Jumping Jollies are the ones who remember even if time and continents decree that they cannot actually make it for D-Day and then hanker for photographs later. The ones who leap on a plane and cross international waters with the sole objective of attending your wedding. The ones who ping you asking about cold feet and other pre-marital symptoms. The ones who overcome personal difficulties and inhibitions just to make it on that day.

The Jumping Jollies are the ones who matter. The only ones who will ever matter. Nothing like saying you are to tie the knot to evaluate the ties that are to be (or not)!

Some respect for privacy, please?

Time and time again, it keeps happening – if you are nice and polite, people take your basic decency to be a sign of weakness. They try to absolutely bulldoze their way through, and heaven forbid, if the nice, decent person finally puts his/her foot down, it is met with a whole lot of surprise, not to mention the proverbial “What a b#$@#!”

This one is for all the married/twosome folks out there. Just where do you draw the line at a couple’s right to privacy?

Being married to an army officer brings with it the trials and tribulations of a distance relationship, often where the existence of a decent and reliable line of communication is a luxury. If there’s one thing I look forward to at the end of a good/bad/decent day it is the long-ish chinwag on the phone with the husband. Go “awww” or “barf!” or whatever – but it’s the truth – that end-of-day chinwag just seems to wrap up the day nicely.

That’s just the way it is with me. So, if you’re with me on this, you can imagine why I choose to draw my claws out when people, not even in immediate family circles, browbeat their way into that “couple time” – which is usually past 10 or 11 at night.

This particular specimen has done it before – calling at an unacceptably late hour and keeping the phone engaged forever, oblivious to the fact that a) there’s a wife who is trying to get through in vain and b) there’s a husband who really has no particular wish to be making small talk with said specimen at such an unearthly hour (or any hour for that matter), but is too much of a gentleman to say “f#%#@^&!” or “!$#@#$@#%” or “$%#!@#!$!!”

There’s a reason said specimen was not given the new telephone number – a cheerful state of affairs that was unwittingly marred by a well-meaning soul who divulged the number.

Now that the transgression has been made twice, do I still remain mum or do I let said specimen have it? Any thoughts or suggestions?