“Shaadi ke do saal ho gaye, abhi tak koi issue nehi? Kyun?” Mrs. A asks me very casually. That is when, five minutes into our introductory conversation, I see the red light first. Shocked that one could ask such personal questions at the very first meeting, I smile politely and try to change the topic. But Mrs. A clings on, stubbornly – with an expression that seems to say, “You don’t know, what a strenuous dirt digger I am.” Desperate to shake her off, I say something about our non-readiness for parenthood as yet and walk on hastily. A little further down the hall, I spot a younger group of women giggling heartily. Feeling optimistic I move closer. Yes, I am in a party - a party of Indians living in and around the city. In the younger group, Mrs B is saying, “So the paediatrician said not to overdose my daughter (a four year old) on television. Daily one hour of cartoons should be sufficient *giggles*. But what to do? You know what a big fan of serials I am, so I just let her sit beside me and watch. Now she has become so smart that she is giving me expressions like the sad heroine all the time *giggles*.” Mrs. C chimes in, “Aww, that’s so cute!” Mrs. D is seemingly the queen of the group; she sits in the middle, like a glittering jewel in the crown formed by the gorgeously dressed beautifully made-up ladies. She is distributing wisdom on how to keep your husband under your pallu. On learning that I live in a different location than my husband she advises me good-naturedly against it. When I tell her that I had been living in India for the past one year while my husband was here in the USA, she gives me pitiful looks, convinced that my relationship with my husband is a goner. Mrs. E, on the other hand, is a blogger. She posts photos of herself in different outfits, hairdos and makeups on her blog and boasts a followership of over 3000. She also looks at me pitifully when I tell her that I also have a blog but haven’t even crossed the mark of 100 followers. She also very politely tells me that my attire is not at all in accordance with rest of the guests and next time onwards I must dress appropriately. Feeling incredibly small, I drift away yet again. I eye through the entire room looking desperately for a group or a person, a single person, I could have a chat with. An elderly group catches my eye. They too are laughing, with an attractive openness. I approach them gingerly, too weak after double onslaughts to take on another. I catch one or two phrases- they are talking about visiting places. Not bad. I inch closer. They tell each other about their voyages, long drives and camping. I am drawn in. But the moment I decide to tell them about my recent NYC trip, Aunty A starts talking about an antique and expensive mask she got from Bahamas. Aunty B, at this point feels obligated to let us know that she possesses some original Bruce Gray. And after that it really goes out of hand. Everyone starts speaking about the beach houses they own and celebrities who are regular to their restaurants. I quietly take a sip from my glass and move away. I notice children playing at the furthest corner attended by their nannies – some whites, mostly blacks. I feel too claustrophobic. I hurry off to the secluded place and grit my teeth. Being the odd one out makes me doubt my sanity. I try to think of topics I commonly discuss with my friends. And the things that come to the top of my head seem really laughable and lame - even to me. One time in one such get together (with my friends) we had had a really long conversation about a money plant and a goldfish! I feel so stupid. I am a married woman (?) who still flinches at being called a woman! I would rather prefer being called a girl. I am still afraid to wear a saree as I fear that my pleats may come off and I may trip over it. I am clumsy and feel uncomfortable in talking about topics other women so easily discuss about. I won’t be able to put on such gorgeous makeup in a thousand years to come. I sit there reflecting silently on the ways I should groom myself to fit in. But then suddenly like waking up from a bad dream, I hear few of them discussing which business deals their respective husbands closed last week or which organisational award they were nominated for. They talk with the proud faces of the children competing for, “my daddy strongest”. I realize, no matter how hard I try I can never find any common interest with them. These women, all of them, are basking in the reflected glory of their husbands. All the achievements are their husbands’ while they wear expensive clothes and makeups, vacation in exotic places and buy famous artists’ works to decorate their houses. Then they sit on the couches with a glass of wine and admire their “collections” while the nannies watch over the kids. They are just content to be their husbands’ arm candy. Will I ever be able to satisfy myself with those things? No. I don’t relate to their world. The prism of judgment is reversed this time. This time I pity them. They know the joy of riding luxurious BMWs, yet they are deprived of the exhilaration of riding a Scooty bought with your own hard earned money. They enjoy the air-conditioning in their posh apartments, yet they so pitifully miss the heat of the first sense of true independence in the small attic rented apartment.
Yet in reality they are happy. And I am happy too. Maybe nobody’s wrong or nobody’s right. It’s just that we belong to different worlds. It’s ridiculous to be influenced or try to influence each other. So what to do next? Just behave like the Romans when in Rome. Then come out, wipe your forehead and say, “Uff, those Romans!” Love
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Riot of Random
