She wondered where life was
leading her. I mean think about it, one had to be size zero, challo at least a
size 4, thin but not so thin a butt and boobs to match. Didn’t one have to eat
to sustain this law of shape and attraction? I wish, there was an app where you
could send the weight to the required place and the rest could be deleted! Ok,
the advertisement for the new Beetle proudly said, Curves are back but did any
available guy want them?
They all had a long list, men
wanted curvaceous women not too big not too small, just right. Where did one go
for this kind of definition, by the way? Miyan ji nukkad wale had no answer,
and he knew a lot. If one just went by the long long, white beard and toothless
grin and the paan stained lips which just moved mysteriously saying Allah!
Allah! . One had to be successful but also had to be wonder woman at home
doing, cooking cleaning and keeping everything spic n span.
How was Nisha going to
compete with all this? She was just an ordinary person, not too fair not too
dark. She wasn’t well endowed in any department according to the flat wallahs,
she was ok. She had God’s given curves in all the wrong places. Her boobs were
ok, nothing great, no pin up material. Didn’t heavy breasts give a backache? Her
butt was round Aka the 60’s actresses, Sadhana ji type.
She had a job, nothing great,
a copywriter in the town’s biggest advertising company. Stuck in an office
where the men were oily haired, with small and big paunches in ratio to their
ages who were always downloading ‘those sites’ and were always sniggering when
the bai ji walked in and cleaned showing her ample bosom to one and all. She
certainly believed in democracy, no censorship here if you please.
In fact you could sum up her
life as ok. Her mother’s obsessive behavior bordering on Auntyji psychotic soap
opera wali and Dad’s simple silent submissive smile ruled her mornings and
evenings.
She just wanted to live her
life with no boundaries, rules that so governed her right now. The latest was
this bespectacled, fat, ugly broker in Delhi who was an innocent divorcee. What
an oxymoron.
2.
Innocent divorcee, my foot.
Why did she have to marry? No bells rung, no cupids arrow, nothing happened
when she these men, and she was straight as an arrow, no hanky panky, she
didn’t even want to think about the new age fundamental about women and women,
men and men. That was ‘tauba tauba’.
Nisha was sitting on her throne,
“Queen Of potty” as her brother said. Her mother banging on the door and that
snapped her out of the reverie and she said, “Coming’.
Hurry up! Sunita is coming.
Nisha groaned thinking about the beautician who knew her last every beauty
secret and horror. Her pimples, acne scars, hiding her big forehead with those
bangs and all the guinea pig trials to make her look glamorous.
Ok, Aayi Mataji, she replied. She knew there was no way out and she had to
meet Mr. Oily paunchwallah.
She came out and went to her room,
trying to make some space on her bed that had a zillion things on it. She also
needed to find something flattering to wear, maybe a long shirt to her butt
with her tights or the not so new blue suit that always did wonders for her
morale. Sunita walked in with a number
of bags with all the things to make one transform. She lay down and waited for
the magic. Well, magic she did do and she looked presentable. Mr. Oily was
coming in half and hour, she sat down waiting and looked at her mother
fluttering about and setting the cushions right .
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