Proper or Economy?

“So, how are you going to travel to Mumbai? Train?” asked my grandmother when I called to tell her that I am travelling to the city of dreams for the first time on work. “Ajji, they’re sending me by flight. Indian Airlines from Bangalore to Mumbai and Kingfisher on my way back home.” What followed was an elation of sorts. My grandmother could just not stop beaming over the phone. Her granddaughter would be FLYING to Mumbai. FLYING. A privilege enjoyed by a few. To be frank not a few but by those who could afford flying from one destination to another or by those who worked for organizations who could afford plane tickets for their employees.

The news spread like wildfire. Grandma pictured her granddaughter (yours truly) well dressed, high heels, clutching a handbag and pulling her luggage at the airport, boarding a flight to be made comfy by a host of beautiful smiling women inside the aircraft. What she expected post my return was a call from my end to describe my experience inside the aircraft. She couldn’t care less about Mumbai. She has heard about it from my granddad.

I felt like a celebrity. From all the attention I got. Be it my grandmother or from the lovely stewards mid air.

Such was the song and dance that enveloped an airline user. By the way this was 8 years ago.

Today, the mention of the word ‘Fly’ makes my grandmother ask anybody just one question. Economy or proper?

She’s abreast with all the news and gossip that we grandkids feed the entire family with. So the élan with which she treated an air traveler has vanished.

She’s not the only one though. I boarded an economy flight for the first time when I had to travel to Ahmedabad. Someone who has always flown with Kingfisher and Jet, I expected a similar reception. I patiently waited for my turn to board and trust me the sight that met my eyes made me stop in my tracks. What greeted me inside the aircraft was a long narrow stretch of space lined with seats that looked like a well furnished KSRTC bus.

Reminding myself that the definition of economy has been through a metamorphosis I squeezed myself in the narrow aisle making my way towards my seat amidst a lot of people.

As soon as the pilot geared up for take off, I jostled myself out of my new found ‘economy depression’ and allowed some blood to flow to my face. After all, we were taking off, which means we would be served food in a short while from now. I was starving.

Straight up mid air when the pilot had settled comfortably, I saw an airhostess handing out menu cards. I was impressed. I mean, you call yourself economy but hand out menu cards to manifest your options? Fantastic! My heart was pumping extra blood.

But what drained the color off my face was the price tag attached to every option inside. What? You expect me to pay 75 bucks for a lousy sandwich? That too without extra cheese? Ridiculous.

I bought it. I was starving you see.

The lack of in – flight entertainment made me chew the lousy cold sandwich whilst looking at the vast stretch of beautiful clouds. That was the first time I wished I could apparate from one place to another.

The three hours journey seemingly was taking a lifetime when suddenly I glimpsed terrain. Green and brown patches of land below. We were landing. And slowly my soul which had slipped into coma was coming back to life. We were landing and for the first time three whole hours I was genuinely happy. My countdown to land had started.

Just a few feet above the ground my mind wandered to the most significant aspect of flying. Smooth Landing. Suddenly, my worst fears started haunting me. None of my expectations were coming true right from the time I stepped inside this aircraft. Do I cross my fingers or do I …………..BHAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

We landed. And how? I was curious if we had left a mark on the spot where our aircraft kissed the land.

Coming to think of it, the ‘Good Old Days’ as we term them had an elite sense of being and boasted of an unmatched quality. These days airlines have turned into mere Page 3’s of the aviation industry. Cram up everybody into a single place and call them celebrities.

Turning 28

Was it yesterday that I beamed at my ecstatic pals that I turned 18? I remember standing in one of the corridors of Seshadripuram College huddled with my friends, celebrating a milestone that added an extra zing to the already raging estrogens. I was 18. Yes. 18. Always wanted to be since I was a five year old. According to the rule book I had attained majority, I could exercise my right to vote, and I could walk into the RTO and demand for a driver’s license for my bike. Fringe benefits apart I was a major who could be entrusted with responsibilities, my parents could find a suitable match and dispose me off and I could have inherited a fortune had anyone left me a handsome will.

I was a free spirit, threw caution to the wind, dint bother knowing how ‘responsibility’ was spelt and dint care about the days ahead. I was living in the minute and I liked it that way. I never felt 18 years OLD. I was growing younger in thoughts, words and ideas. A trait, according to my mom, that would sober down through the years to come. And then, I was 20. Then 21, 22……


Saw the world change. Girls my age blossomed into young women. Some got hitched early. Some, a little late. Many of them are mothers and some have two children. A prominent change that I noticed in most of them was that they had realised a dream that most 18 year olds would dream of. To be a successful adult eliminating every trace of the teenager they once were. When they speak business, they mean business and they’re damn serious about it. They can no more tolerate loose talks, girly gossips and the latest tech news. They would even show inhibitions to express their feelings about Daniel Radcliffe. He’s younger than them you see. It’s a taboo.
So this is where I don’t fit in. Unlike them, I am not an evolved specie and highly unpopular in their circle. But sorry to offend you ladies take a minute and see how lovely my life still is.


I am 28 and ………

I can openly talk about the hotness of Daniel Radcliffe’s nude backside. It’s hot. He is hot too. And is he young? Who cares? Now YOU say this in front of your husband.

I am not married. And not going to be for another two years. I don’t intend to say that all married women turn out to be evolved species like you. Just that some of you have a pre conceived notion that married women are supposed to be the ‘screw your brow for every tomfoolery’ types. I know ten girls from my school and college who’ve remained 18 even after tying the knot.

I am still experimenting. An interesting career opportunity always gets me excited and if I get bored, I find another one. And if you are muttering about my sabbaticals then let me give you a reality check. I pay for my parlour, landline and mobile telephone, my clothes, make up and also shoulder a few other responsibilities at home using the money that I wisely saved for winter.

I still gossip like a teenager. And it does not include topics such as X’s jewellery, Y’s sarees, Z’s husband’s car and certainly not about Saif Ali Khan and Kareena Kapoor.

I am loud. I haven’t sobered down one bit. I may have some feminine qualities but that’s that.

I am still 18. Honestly, I have never felt anything less or more than that. But just because I don’t manifest the maturity a 28 year old has doesn’t mean I am not sensible to sniff responsibilities. I know them better than you.

Just that, when I was 18, my heart had a conviction that kept every inhibition at bay and I simply chose to follow the same.

Hence I am still 18 and will be till I die :)

Outcast

Yes, I noticed that I sported undone eyebrows compared to the pretty ‘Bong’ ladies gathered at the Durga Pooja. I also noticed that what I wore to the said occasion was simple sans any bling and if I would have worn the same in a place like Delhi I would have successfully scandalize twenty dozen Delhi women, fashionistas or otherwise. And yes, I accept that compared to all the one thousand and fifty odd people who had gathered there, I had a bad hair day.

If these three reasons are enough for you to not accompany me anywhere in future, then let me tell you, I don’t fancy sporting a bushy eyebrow myself. Do you think I crave to look like Rubeus Hagrid? Unfortunately, it’s not like your beard that I can shave off even at the slightest sprout. And if I am forbid from visiting a beauty parlour for ten whole days of navratri due to religious sentiments, I don’t intend to break the rule either as it is easy to follow it than get an earful. You just have to wait.

Yes, what I wore was plain but let me add, I am not an exception. And also I don’t detest getting dressed in grand and shiny clothes. But honestly after having spent all morning cleaning the entire house and decorating it for the festivities, if I am given a ten minutes notice period to look my best, be my guest to press my festive clothes neat. Moreover, I have to choose clothes that can go with my slightly healthier body type. You see I can’t lose weight overnight. I wish I really could though.

If I’ve had a bad hair day, then yes I’ve had a bad hair day. I can’t help it.

But what you’ve failed to notice is that I am what I am. I can’t perhaps change in a million light years, because if I did, I wouldn’t be me. And if you still have a problem hanging out with me or accompanying me to any place whatsoever, do me a favour. Don’t ask me to go with you because when you come with me, I don’t care what you look like, what you’ve worn or what you smell like. I care for those few minutes that I spend with you which I would cherish as a memory for years to come.

I am not an outcast you see. I am just me.

The Devil Wears Prada

I was randomly cruising through the web portal of ‘Vogue’ India when I stumbled into a post written by a blogger (a renowned fashionista) who had inferred that when she mixed and matched the various pieces of couture, haute or not, with a pair of sandals bought from local brands, they could put Jimmy Choo to shame.

If it wasn’t for the last seven words, I would have moved from the current page of the portal to another that discussed new lip colours for the season. But it was exactly these seven words – They Could Put Jimmy Choo to Shame – that brought out the Miranda Priestly alive in me. An impersonator of Michael Jackson can only impersonate him. He cannot become Michael Jackson himself. It’s the same with the local footwear too. Their designs were shamelessly stolen from Jimmy Choo itself which made them look like hopeless impersonators. Just when I thought of writing back to this lady (blogger) and reprimand her for the drab of a taste that she had in couture, I shot myself back to reality. I was not Miranda Priestly and she was not my assistant.

I was not a mere reader when I started from the very first page of The Devil Wears Prada but a part of an entity of the world of fashion that functioned as if a mere 24 hours would be insufficient to put across the best and the most worthwhile effort that would translate itself effortlessly into the most desirable piece d’art of haute couture – The Runway Magazine.

I had watched the movie earlier hence I knew what to expect but was taken aback by the book as it shed more light on Miranda Priestly, the editor in chief of The Runway. Be it the Coco Chanel evening gowns that costs $40000 or the numerous Herme’s silk scarves that got abandoned, lost, forgot or just left behind, everything in the life of Miranda Priestly is high fashion that one could only dream of living. Lauren Weisberger has wonderfully sketched Priestley’s character. A combination of elegance and autocracy, her very arrival is enough to send a jittery staff at The Runway into palpitations to last for a lifetime. Once at her desk she could demand to see a fashion assistants body parts neatly assembled on a tray (she’d want it to like a Michelangelo creation) and shown to her within 30 seconds of her arrival. The poor assistants had no choice but to do so. In short, Miranda Priestley is an unpredictable woman who is hard to please not only because she sets high standards but partly due to her cranky nature and an ego that does not let her respect anybody around her except herself. The shudder that runs through people’s spine when they hear her name has been brilliantly brought out by Weisberger. Little things of her character rubs off on some readers of course (refer to my lament on Jimmy Choo above).

And the balance to a character so ruthless is created by the presence of another with whom most readers I am sure would identify, Andrea Sachs. A lovely girl of 23 who has never had the nerve to make people run errands finds herself in a job at The Runway for which ‘A million girls would die for’ – Miranda Priestley’s assistant. Adding to her misery is a fact that Andrea unlike the other girls at Runway is an aspiring writer who dreams of working for the New Yorker and is not not completely fascinated by the world of fashion at all. Neck deep in the work that she signed up for right after college, she finds herself fetching Miranda’s latte, her Pellegrino, Miranda’s clothes to and from the dry cleaners, locating unpublished copies of the latest Harry Potter series for Miranda’s twins and whole lot of other errands that sometimes were doled out to her without adequate information. The Runway eats up all of Andrea’s time and she discovers that her best friend and her boyfriend are distancing themselves from her as she has no time for them. A year passes by and finally she decides to walk out on Miranda even at the cost of being fired, just to be by her ailing best friend Lily

The Devil Wears Prada is not just another book that oozes of labels that one might have heard but cannot afford. It’s a story of a girl who gets entangled between a tyrannical boss and her personal life which threatens to slip away from her hands. It’s a story of tolerance exercised by Andrea towards a slave driver that finally vanishes when she discovers that it’s better to put her life first and be rude and intolerant to Miranda than having to smile and suffer the auguries of being her assistant.

Four things the book shares with us (something that I’ve lived by from the start of my career) are as follows

• a) You can be a perfectionist like Miranda Priestly in anything that you do. It only takes a few compromises from your end but it does not mean that in the wake of achieving success you turn yourself into a Miranda Priestley. Cold and ruthless.
• b) Engrave one word into your dictionary – RESPECT – which would not only take you places but would also earn you enough goodwill. It can be RESPECT towards an assistant, a co worker, and a piece of art or just anything good and genuine. Miranda respected haute couture only, which made her intolerable and disgusting.
• c) We can choose to be what we want to be. An autocratic boss or an inspiring leader. But remember, meaningless vendetta would only create fear in others. So if your boss had been cruel to you, it’s not necessary that you have to repeat history.
• d) There’s a great learning from Andrea Sachs character. A lot of us forsake personal obligations to fulfil commitments from an over demanding authority. But not always do we realise that in the process we could see an entire life pass by without living it. So when in dilemma, know your priorities, even if it makes you say something obscene to your boss, just like what Andy did to MP.

I immensely loved the book and would recommend it to one and all. It’s engaging and of course has shades of sarcasm and dry humour that makes it more interesting to read. Pick it up. I am sure you’ll like it.

PS: Jimmy Choo is really a piece of art. For heaven sake don’t you dare compare it to any other sad looking foot wear.

Why……………….again?

Why do people get married and make babies? To screw our weekends. That’s when THEY celebrate.

Why do babies cry when you try wooing them at parties and refuse to look into your eyes? Face it, you dint want to be there either and the toddlers too feel that weddings and birthday parties are not the best alternative for a peaceful - ‘let me drool on my dress without my mom having to bother about it’ - weekend.

Why do you wake up wide eyed to attend a wedding early in the morning but can’t do the same on other days? You don’t have to bear the burden of making your own breakfast on other days. Weddings save you the trouble.

Why do all the old people in the family occupy only the front row in the wedding hall? Actually, why?

Why do all old women stare at your neckline when you’re introduced? Hell it was not all that plunging.

Why do all old men have the ‘I know what you did last summer and winter also ‘(evil grin follows) look on their face when you’re introduced to them?

Why does the ride back home from such places take forever when you actually reached that place much before you could realise it?

Why are all your friends free on the same weekend when you’re watching a one year old chew on his cake or two grown up adults vowing to share everything under the sun except for their side of the bed?

And why do all good movies come on television when you’re watching an unrehearsed drama unfold?

The Self Proclaimed Fashionista

“Oh, the wedding was amazing but I expected more out of Kate’s gown. It was lame.” A lady invited to the studios of a news channel commented during the broadcast of the royal wedding. I suppose she’s one of those fashionistas, who gets a two inch space once in a while on page 3 and wouldn't have given up the chance of hogging any amount of limelight that shone on her all thanks to William and Kate.

Before I speak about the spill over members of our fashion industry, let’s once mull upon the most exquisite piece of couture created under extreme caution and secrecy which finally gave one young lady memories she would cherish for the rest of her life. The wedding gown created by Sarah Burton, Alexander McQueen’s protégé. Burton designed a gown for Kate Middleton. Not just any other girl but someone who was to wed a man who is second in succession to the throne of England. And naturally the presence of the royal who’s who had to be borne in mind while designing the gown as it had to be befitting of a royal wedding and not that of a Hollywood sex kitten turned jewellery designer. The queen would have beheaded her at the altar of the abbey itself had the gown exuded an iota of sleaze.

I liked the gown personally and most of all what mattered was that Kate liked it else she would not have chosen to wear it on her big day. So why bring a blunt comment by calling the gown lame and comparing it to the ‘BLING’ (she said it, not me) that Indian brides wear. The entire concept of marriage differs from one tradition to another. An Indian bride is different from an American bride and a bride from the Middle East is an ethereal beauty in her own rights. A comparison is a complete no. And just how many of such self proclaimed fashoinistas are going to rule supreme and dictate the rules of fashion to millions of aspiring couturiers in the nation, without knowledge or responsibility of the field they are associated with?

Shobha De was perhaps the only one who remarked that as long as the bride was happy the rest of us had no say in the matter whatsoever. My thoughts on it, one region in the nation cannot control fashion in the entire nation even if it has coveted the title of the fashion capital recently. And people belonging to that region should shed the holier than thou image before making any statements about any creation that sees the light of the day. Responsible journalism should ensure that the right kinds of people are included in the panel for any discussion and not mere wannabes.

PS – Ms Fashionista, Kate was wearing a veil on her head and it’s NOT a mosquito net. And no, we can’t have bling on it either.

Marriage and Heaven.................?

Let me begin this post by stating the most abused, exploited and over used clichéd statement that somehow does not seem to have caught any rust during the passage of time, ‘Marriages are made in heaven’. I wonder, is that really true? I mean, is there someone hired by Human Resource Department in heaven to handle the wedding department? If yes then let me tell you then the guy hired must have been some government official when alive on earth. Never on time for work, never knew what he worked on, extended lunch and tea time and left early from work to reach home. The files on his table never moved unless one of them brought him some extra cash under the table. Thanks to the lousy guy, a lot of young beautiful boys and girls wander single these days.

Frankly, let’s for once give the govt guy above a benefit of doubt and try unearthing a fact. Marriages are not made in heaven. They are made on earth by you, me and a lot of other people around us. It could be either love, arranged or according to my school of thought, just marriage. The very thought of commitment makes most of them shiver timbers. I’ve noticed this trend in girls. The thought of not being emancipated anymore makes the fairer sex push the matter every time it’s presented in a platter. I’ve met a few of them who gingerly sit in their car, come home, talk to my brother, are sweet enough to engage me in a conversation (usually, it gets way too boring) and finally given up on marriage.

Are they being paranoid? Does the loss of emancipation make them sceptic not to explore the grass on the other side of the fence? How exactly do they define the word ‘Matrimony’? it looks more to me that most of us either men or women are definitely looking for a relationship sans commitment. It would be nice if the world could be divided into two places. A hanamachi and the other, rest of the world. That way those of us who are serious could find a lifelong commitment without the fear of the dark clouds of divorce or infidelity looming over us.

Am I asking for too much?