“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!” The sound was unmistakable- like a screech owl being hit on the head. It was indeed her.
Oh noooooooooo!!! I frantically searched for a place to hide. But where? I wished I had the power to disappear into thin air. But who can stop fate on the tracks? I stood, frozen; drinking in the fact that I am going to face one of the worst ordeals life could offer- my aunt (my grandmother’s cousin’s someone, for convenience called ‘aunt’, taking into consideration her age). I gathered for a minute as to what to say, my thoughts travelling at the light of speed, collecting (polite) replies to all questions I anticipate she’ll ask, or rather know for a reason she will definitely. I turned, (promising in my mind to avenge my mom for dragging me to family weddings when I am at home on holidays) with a sickly sweet smile, ready to face the torture.
“Goodness!! You haven’t put on any weight at all!! You’re still so thinnnn” she began in her irritating, sing-song voice.
Ha! How cliché!
She never believed in wasting time with “how are you”-s or “when did you come”-s.
The questioning began, just the way I thought it would.
“I am maintaining my weight, aunty”. I replied curtly, but politely.
She looked at me, head to toe, as if she bit into a raw bitter gourd. She never approved of my lean build. She believed being lean means you can fall and die anytime.
I never actually felt the need to explain to her that I weigh enough to be counted as 'healthy' and her BMI index, if ever calculated, would be a joke. or even an insult.“No, no…this isn’t the way girls should look like! You should be fat to look good!”
Hang your heads in shame, fitness freaks!
I smiled again, as that was the only way I could respond to her theory of fat : looking good.
“Don’t you eat anything??” she asked holding up my hand as if she’s sizing up the amount of meat on a goat’s leg at the butcher's. I half doubt she was actually checking out my bangles in the process, as she’s a ‘certified’ sucker for jewellery.
“I must blame YOU for that! You don’t give her anything to eat or what??” she turned to my mom, who was standing there, with a plastic-y smile pulled across her face. And before she could open her mouth to defend the atrocious allegation of under feeding her only child, aunty, gauging the weight of my necklace with her fingers, said “give her something GOOD to eat for God’s sake...look at her state!!”
“Great!” I thought. “Do you even know what healthy eating means?”“So how have you been?” asked my mom, to change the topic (or seeing my expression?)
“Me? I am doing great. I have high cholesterol, you know!” she said proudly.
I dint know whether to laugh or cry.
“By the way, dint you see Baby???” she screeched again.
‘Baby’ means her daughter. She's no cute toddler by any means; Baby's her name.
She's almost my age, 9th fail (dint bother to go to school after that coz her mommy thought studies were inflicting too much of stress, strain and what not on her delicate-as-crystal 'baby'!!), settled in Dubai post marriage.
And lo!
her ‘a-little-too-healthy' daughter rolled in (not walked in) at that very moment.
“Dint you see themmm?” she cooed to her overgrown, oversized ‘baby’.
My face: double sweet (sick) smile + sympathy for the ‘baby’ who seemed to be bursting at the seams.“She just came from Dubai last week...”, she said, stroking her daughter’s beefy shoulder fondly.
“...and look at her...my darling baby... she’s lost so much weight, hasn't she??…the climate in Dubai isn’t suiting her at all!”
“What the &*&*?” my expression said it all.
I shook my head in disbelief. “This thing…and lost weight???"
Arrgghhhhhh!
I couldn’t take the torture any longer!
I desperately thought of reasons to end this conversation. And just as I figured out that I’ll excuse myself saying I want to go to the loo, Baby threw a question at me.
“You working?”
Damn. This isn’t ending or what?
“Yes, I still am” I replied.
“Where?” she put on a wierd expression- half haughty, half painfully blank.
She actually resembled a boiled egg then.
“For an ad agency”
“Ohh! so... what do you do now?”
What on the earth does that “now” mean?
“I am into advertising”
“Eh?" she snorted.
"...I thought you learnt some graphics something”
“Yeah…graphic arts, editing... But I chose to become a copywriter”
“TYPEWRITERRRR?????”
It took a few seconds for that to actually hit me. And sink in.
Aunty had struck. Yet again.
I felt dizzy; sort of paralyzed- in- agony.
“It isn’t typewriting, aunty” I said weakly. “It’s copywriting. I write ads”
"and typewriter is a machine, aunty...."
“Oh so you design the letters in advertisements, is it?”
wow.“Noooo aunty…I write ads. I mean I write the sentences in the ads. And those who write ads are called copywriters”
“Oh…i see...aaaaa! whatever!!” she said, very dispassionately.
The ‘baby’ dint seem to understand as much even. She just looked at me, blankly.
"Numbhead", I thought. And she ratified that the next second.
“Ok. Tell me some of the sentences you’ve written in advertisements”, she said, suddenly, with the dumbest expression I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Whaa..?? but…” I was at total loss for words.
“Tell!” she insisted, even more stupidly.
It was then I realized that I was paralyzed with anger and not agony, as my face began to burn, my ‘temper’ rature soaring up steadily.
I pulled my mother by her arm. It was a signal to leave, which she knew, if ignored, would lead to dire consequences.
“I guess it’s time for us to leave. We’ve got a wedding reception to attend in the evening...” mumbled mom.
“Oh…oke…so, till when will you be in town?” asked aunty, her 'I-am-a-queen' look back on her face.
“12th”, my voice no longer in the ‘polite’ range.
My mother, totally aware of how bad and ugly things can get when I am angry, looked at me, petrified, her eyes pleading me to remain normal and composed.
“I’ll try coming to your house before that. May be you could teach Baby something about copy-ing writing, you know. She too sits at home in Dubai doing nothing. It’ll be a pastime for her if she learns copy-ing writing…right Babyyyy??” she said, looking at her baby darling, who was still standing there, her pasty face screwed up in a painful way, probably in the attempt to understand what the whole thing is all about.
That was the last straw. I knew was turning maniacal. I wanted to pull her hair off. Scratch her face. Or probably stamp and stand on her thick, clumsy feet with my stilettos. Or…better still...aaaaaaaarrrggghhhh!!!!
And before I could do anything, my mom pulled my hand with all her might, and walked away, mumbling a quick "bye" to aunty.
She actually pulled me away from becoming a murderer, at the right time.
Oh noooooooooo!!! I frantically searched for a place to hide. But where? I wished I had the power to disappear into thin air. But who can stop fate on the tracks? I stood, frozen; drinking in the fact that I am going to face one of the worst ordeals life could offer- my aunt (my grandmother’s cousin’s someone, for convenience called ‘aunt’, taking into consideration her age). I gathered for a minute as to what to say, my thoughts travelling at the light of speed, collecting (polite) replies to all questions I anticipate she’ll ask, or rather know for a reason she will definitely. I turned, (promising in my mind to avenge my mom for dragging me to family weddings when I am at home on holidays) with a sickly sweet smile, ready to face the torture.
“Goodness!! You haven’t put on any weight at all!! You’re still so thinnnn” she began in her irritating, sing-song voice.
Ha! How cliché!
She never believed in wasting time with “how are you”-s or “when did you come”-s.
The questioning began, just the way I thought it would.
“I am maintaining my weight, aunty”. I replied curtly, but politely.
She looked at me, head to toe, as if she bit into a raw bitter gourd. She never approved of my lean build. She believed being lean means you can fall and die anytime.
I never actually felt the need to explain to her that I weigh enough to be counted as 'healthy' and her BMI index, if ever calculated, would be a joke. or even an insult.“No, no…this isn’t the way girls should look like! You should be fat to look good!”
Hang your heads in shame, fitness freaks!
I smiled again, as that was the only way I could respond to her theory of fat : looking good.
“Don’t you eat anything??” she asked holding up my hand as if she’s sizing up the amount of meat on a goat’s leg at the butcher's. I half doubt she was actually checking out my bangles in the process, as she’s a ‘certified’ sucker for jewellery.
“I must blame YOU for that! You don’t give her anything to eat or what??” she turned to my mom, who was standing there, with a plastic-y smile pulled across her face. And before she could open her mouth to defend the atrocious allegation of under feeding her only child, aunty, gauging the weight of my necklace with her fingers, said “give her something GOOD to eat for God’s sake...look at her state!!”
“Great!” I thought. “Do you even know what healthy eating means?”“So how have you been?” asked my mom, to change the topic (or seeing my expression?)
“Me? I am doing great. I have high cholesterol, you know!” she said proudly.
I dint know whether to laugh or cry.
“By the way, dint you see Baby???” she screeched again.
‘Baby’ means her daughter. She's no cute toddler by any means; Baby's her name.
She's almost my age, 9th fail (dint bother to go to school after that coz her mommy thought studies were inflicting too much of stress, strain and what not on her delicate-as-crystal 'baby'!!), settled in Dubai post marriage.
And lo!
her ‘a-little-too-healthy' daughter rolled in (not walked in) at that very moment.
“Dint you see themmm?” she cooed to her overgrown, oversized ‘baby’.
My face: double sweet (sick) smile + sympathy for the ‘baby’ who seemed to be bursting at the seams.“She just came from Dubai last week...”, she said, stroking her daughter’s beefy shoulder fondly.
“...and look at her...my darling baby... she’s lost so much weight, hasn't she??…the climate in Dubai isn’t suiting her at all!”
“What the &*&*?” my expression said it all.
I shook my head in disbelief. “This thing…and lost weight???"
Arrgghhhhhh!
I couldn’t take the torture any longer!
I desperately thought of reasons to end this conversation. And just as I figured out that I’ll excuse myself saying I want to go to the loo, Baby threw a question at me.
“You working?”
Damn. This isn’t ending or what?
“Yes, I still am” I replied.
“Where?” she put on a wierd expression- half haughty, half painfully blank.
She actually resembled a boiled egg then.
“For an ad agency”
“Ohh! so... what do you do now?”
What on the earth does that “now” mean?
“I am into advertising”
“Eh?" she snorted.
"...I thought you learnt some graphics something”
“Yeah…graphic arts, editing... But I chose to become a copywriter”
“TYPEWRITERRRR?????”
It took a few seconds for that to actually hit me. And sink in.
Aunty had struck. Yet again.
I felt dizzy; sort of paralyzed- in- agony.
“It isn’t typewriting, aunty” I said weakly. “It’s copywriting. I write ads”
"and typewriter is a machine, aunty...."
“Oh so you design the letters in advertisements, is it?”
wow.“Noooo aunty…I write ads. I mean I write the sentences in the ads. And those who write ads are called copywriters”
“Oh…i see...aaaaa! whatever!!” she said, very dispassionately.
The ‘baby’ dint seem to understand as much even. She just looked at me, blankly.
"Numbhead", I thought. And she ratified that the next second.
“Ok. Tell me some of the sentences you’ve written in advertisements”, she said, suddenly, with the dumbest expression I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Whaa..?? but…” I was at total loss for words.
“Tell!” she insisted, even more stupidly.
It was then I realized that I was paralyzed with anger and not agony, as my face began to burn, my ‘temper’ rature soaring up steadily.
I pulled my mother by her arm. It was a signal to leave, which she knew, if ignored, would lead to dire consequences.
“I guess it’s time for us to leave. We’ve got a wedding reception to attend in the evening...” mumbled mom.
“Oh…oke…so, till when will you be in town?” asked aunty, her 'I-am-a-queen' look back on her face.
“12th”, my voice no longer in the ‘polite’ range.
My mother, totally aware of how bad and ugly things can get when I am angry, looked at me, petrified, her eyes pleading me to remain normal and composed.
“I’ll try coming to your house before that. May be you could teach Baby something about copy-ing writing, you know. She too sits at home in Dubai doing nothing. It’ll be a pastime for her if she learns copy-ing writing…right Babyyyy??” she said, looking at her baby darling, who was still standing there, her pasty face screwed up in a painful way, probably in the attempt to understand what the whole thing is all about.
That was the last straw. I knew was turning maniacal. I wanted to pull her hair off. Scratch her face. Or probably stamp and stand on her thick, clumsy feet with my stilettos. Or…better still...aaaaaaaarrrggghhhh!!!!
And before I could do anything, my mom pulled my hand with all her might, and walked away, mumbling a quick "bye" to aunty.
She actually pulled me away from becoming a murderer, at the right time.
