I walked into my hairdressers’ for a long overdue haircut. Sorry, the word is no longer hairdresser. The humble hairdresser morphed into a unisex salon which morphed into a spa which currently stands in its mutated avtaar as a wellness centre that promised everything for the tired city slicker’s senses.
Soft piped instrumental music, liveried attendants, and the mandatory frangipani flowers that one associates with such places lure me in.
My immediate need for a haircut is brushed aside. I need much more, I’m told ominously. The sales pitch of wholesome rejuvenation combined with the fragrance of essential oils and scented candles begin take effect on me. I surrender to the place.
I have to answer many objectionable questions before they can decide what to do with me.
All I need is a hair cut, I begin to protest … Does it really matter how many ounces of alcohol or water I have consumed in the last one month. Or for that matter whether I suffer from anxiety or depression or carpel tunnel syndrome? My meek protests about intrusion of privacy fall on deaf ears and the next thing I know, I am filling out a form in triplicate with the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
‘Ma’am your hair is too dry…too brittle. What you need is a hair spa treatment that uses marine algae for infusing life into dead hair.
'..Er isn’t all hair dead ?', the partially awake rational part of my brain wants to question.
And algae! Since when did this lowly unicellular life form attain such an exalted position in the wellness world? These questions never leave my lips, as by now the irrational part of my brain has signed me up for the signature algae hair treatment.
After hair comes face. I’m made to peer into a seemingly innocuous looking monitor and what stares back at me is a grotesque surface with giant white, black and blue spots and craters not unlike what one sees in telescopic pictures of the moon. The haircut I came for is suddenly rendered unimportant. Its more critical to address the craters on my face.
They start with a de-tanning treatment. I should have told them I was dark skinned, not tanned. But then I had already surrendered my senses (and wallet) unto them completely. They cleanse, tone, exfoliate and subject my facial tissues to various other processes. I dont recall how long I had been in that state of suspended reality... till suddenly, I am jolted out of my seat, wincing with pain.
'What are you doing to me ?'
'Ma'am we are removing a stubborn blackhead… '
'That is not a blackhead you moron. it’s a birthmark I was born with'.
And as you may have guessed, that ended my session at the wellness centre. The place was good neither for the wellness of my senses nor my self esteem. The only wellness I saw was that of their ringing cash registers.
I had decided to make peace with my facial craters, dead hair follicles, dusky skin tone and all my other imperfections! It was all in the larger interest of my longterm wellness!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
I love my India
This list was brewing in my head since Independence Day, nearly a month ago... here it is, though overdue and ill timed!
I love being an Indian in India because...
1. We don’t need an excuse to celebrate – we can choose from 258 festivals each year, one for each god we worship and love.
2. When we run out of gods, we have festivals to celebrate harvest, spring, monsoon, colour, lights, etc.
3. If that doesn’t satisfy us, we can choose to celebrate the birthdays of freedom fighters and regional icons
4. We can choose from 300 different items for breakfast, not one of which includes bread or body parts of animals
5. We can have pizza with chettinad chicken or kadai paneer topping and save ourselves the guilt of having sold our souls to the west.
6. We have a unique name for every relationship in our extended family as opposed to the ubiquitous uncle / aunty. Only complete strangers are addressed uncle/aunty here.
7. We can live -in with our parents even after the age of 35, and not be branded dysfunctional
8. We can pass the onus of finding a spouse onto parents and extended family, and not spend every weekend prowling the marketplace for a suitable date and hoping it turns into something of consequence
9. We can always blame the parents if the marriage doesn’t work (most often it works or we make it work!)
10. We don't need to take our children to zoos or farms to see cows, goats, horses and monkeys (Sometimes even leopards can be spotted in our backyards).
11. The vegetable vendor comes home, so do the fruit seller, milkman, tailor and the friendly neighbourhood chemist if we make a call.
12. We don’t need to be Oprahs to ride in the back seat of our own car or to afford an impressive array of domestic staff that includes a cleaner, dishwasher, chef and butler (all rolled in one at that)
13. We have Hinglish, we have Gobi Manchurian, we have Paan, we have Vegetarian Hamburgers and Chicken steaks
14. We can call Sachin Tendulkar, Amitabh Bachchan and A R Rehman our very own
15. We make 5 times as many movies as Hollywood in 15 different languages and unapologetically surrender our brains to them for a good 3 hours every Friday evening.
And finally
16. We have something in common with every fifth person in this world – he/she is also Indian.
I love being an Indian in India because...
1. We don’t need an excuse to celebrate – we can choose from 258 festivals each year, one for each god we worship and love.
2. When we run out of gods, we have festivals to celebrate harvest, spring, monsoon, colour, lights, etc.
3. If that doesn’t satisfy us, we can choose to celebrate the birthdays of freedom fighters and regional icons
4. We can choose from 300 different items for breakfast, not one of which includes bread or body parts of animals
5. We can have pizza with chettinad chicken or kadai paneer topping and save ourselves the guilt of having sold our souls to the west.
6. We have a unique name for every relationship in our extended family as opposed to the ubiquitous uncle / aunty. Only complete strangers are addressed uncle/aunty here.
7. We can live -in with our parents even after the age of 35, and not be branded dysfunctional
8. We can pass the onus of finding a spouse onto parents and extended family, and not spend every weekend prowling the marketplace for a suitable date and hoping it turns into something of consequence
9. We can always blame the parents if the marriage doesn’t work (most often it works or we make it work!)
10. We don't need to take our children to zoos or farms to see cows, goats, horses and monkeys (Sometimes even leopards can be spotted in our backyards).
11. The vegetable vendor comes home, so do the fruit seller, milkman, tailor and the friendly neighbourhood chemist if we make a call.
12. We don’t need to be Oprahs to ride in the back seat of our own car or to afford an impressive array of domestic staff that includes a cleaner, dishwasher, chef and butler (all rolled in one at that)
13. We have Hinglish, we have Gobi Manchurian, we have Paan, we have Vegetarian Hamburgers and Chicken steaks
14. We can call Sachin Tendulkar, Amitabh Bachchan and A R Rehman our very own
15. We make 5 times as many movies as Hollywood in 15 different languages and unapologetically surrender our brains to them for a good 3 hours every Friday evening.
And finally
16. We have something in common with every fifth person in this world – he/she is also Indian.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Weekends
The weekend is finally here. Its that part of the week we eagerly await right from the beginning of the week! It seems almost as if we spend 5/7th of our lives in anticipation of the remaining 2/7th.
I plan my weekend as I plough through the week, enduring rough commutes, breakfasts on the run, unfinished domestic chores, sick children and ambitious deadlines. My weekend must-do list that starts off as a lazy Saturday evening movie with friends and a relaxed Sunday afternoon at the spa has slowly expanded and before I realize, the post-it I started scrawling on is now an A4 sheet staring at me menacingly from above my desk.
Saturday morning starts early. Unlike adults whose idea of a good weekend begins with staying up in bed late, kids don’t see the point in wasting their precious weekend on insignificant pursuits such as sleep, (which they are happy to do on school days). So I’m jolted out of my wits and sleep by a couple of livewire tiggers pouncing on me and reminding me of what a glorious day it will be when day eventually breaks.
With the tone for the day set, my pursuit of happiness for the weekend starts by pursuing an elusive plumber across the remote bylanes and gullies of the unfashionable part of the neighborhood before the leaky faucet is fixed. Beaming from the success of this mission, I move on to change fused lightbulbs and burnt mixer cables. Bills are paid, at least one of them overdue and one of them wrongly charged, which leads me to the now ritualistic weekend call to the nameless faceless call centre executive whose calm through the one way shouting match angers me even more.
Before I know, it is evening. There is dinner party to attend, which means there is hair to be fixed, skin to be polished, and long overdue new shoes to be bought. Parties are no longer simple fun get- togethers for friends. They are well managed and at times outsourced events, and need to showcase the host’s creativity and guest list. Today’s theme is Hawaiian, yes, right in the middle of our concrete jungle. I have no problem with that except now I need to procure new clothes that not only match the theme but also my well proportioned Indian frame. Add to that a creative gift for the creative hosts. Too many things to do, too little time, I’m already palpitating.
We finally make it to dinner, at 10 pm, after having dinner at home. My mom calls just as I get ready to leave for the party, wanting to know how the party went! There was no point in explaining to her that the party wouldn’t begin till a little later! She would never understand why I go to parties where the hosts don’t serve dinner before1 am, where the success of the party depends on how late the last guest leaves and the ones who eat at 1am will be branded losers who want to head back home early. We are no losers, so we eat at home and even manage a power nap to put up a brave front and party hard till 4 am.
Sunday morning… the tiggers are up before daybreak again, giving not so gentle reminders of the promised family outing. I see the relaxed Sunday of my dream fading as quickly as my sleep. A lot is achieved on this Sunday. An outing to fun-city, a not so fun experience for anyone over 15, an elaborate cake making project, an even more elaborate cleaning project and a 11th hour shopping trip to buy school supplies.
The weekend is over and I note that there are still two items waiting to be crossed off my to-do list. Maybe next week, when my list is just a harmless post-it note and not a menacing A4 sheet, I will be able to catch that movie and go to that spa!
I plan my weekend as I plough through the week, enduring rough commutes, breakfasts on the run, unfinished domestic chores, sick children and ambitious deadlines. My weekend must-do list that starts off as a lazy Saturday evening movie with friends and a relaxed Sunday afternoon at the spa has slowly expanded and before I realize, the post-it I started scrawling on is now an A4 sheet staring at me menacingly from above my desk.
Saturday morning starts early. Unlike adults whose idea of a good weekend begins with staying up in bed late, kids don’t see the point in wasting their precious weekend on insignificant pursuits such as sleep, (which they are happy to do on school days). So I’m jolted out of my wits and sleep by a couple of livewire tiggers pouncing on me and reminding me of what a glorious day it will be when day eventually breaks.
With the tone for the day set, my pursuit of happiness for the weekend starts by pursuing an elusive plumber across the remote bylanes and gullies of the unfashionable part of the neighborhood before the leaky faucet is fixed. Beaming from the success of this mission, I move on to change fused lightbulbs and burnt mixer cables. Bills are paid, at least one of them overdue and one of them wrongly charged, which leads me to the now ritualistic weekend call to the nameless faceless call centre executive whose calm through the one way shouting match angers me even more.
Before I know, it is evening. There is dinner party to attend, which means there is hair to be fixed, skin to be polished, and long overdue new shoes to be bought. Parties are no longer simple fun get- togethers for friends. They are well managed and at times outsourced events, and need to showcase the host’s creativity and guest list. Today’s theme is Hawaiian, yes, right in the middle of our concrete jungle. I have no problem with that except now I need to procure new clothes that not only match the theme but also my well proportioned Indian frame. Add to that a creative gift for the creative hosts. Too many things to do, too little time, I’m already palpitating.
We finally make it to dinner, at 10 pm, after having dinner at home. My mom calls just as I get ready to leave for the party, wanting to know how the party went! There was no point in explaining to her that the party wouldn’t begin till a little later! She would never understand why I go to parties where the hosts don’t serve dinner before1 am, where the success of the party depends on how late the last guest leaves and the ones who eat at 1am will be branded losers who want to head back home early. We are no losers, so we eat at home and even manage a power nap to put up a brave front and party hard till 4 am.
Sunday morning… the tiggers are up before daybreak again, giving not so gentle reminders of the promised family outing. I see the relaxed Sunday of my dream fading as quickly as my sleep. A lot is achieved on this Sunday. An outing to fun-city, a not so fun experience for anyone over 15, an elaborate cake making project, an even more elaborate cleaning project and a 11th hour shopping trip to buy school supplies.
The weekend is over and I note that there are still two items waiting to be crossed off my to-do list. Maybe next week, when my list is just a harmless post-it note and not a menacing A4 sheet, I will be able to catch that movie and go to that spa!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)