Thursday, October 24, 2013

24th October 2013

On days like these I feel boorishly burdened in this business of womanhood. So here goes the tale. Today was the third day that our maid gave us a cold shoulder. Having done the dishes for two days, had been grinding and a third day for a row was never in anticipation. To thank the male members of the family, who have been roped in for the outdoor responsibilities of the house, like fetching milk and groceries, the rut of the dirtier duties befalls on me. Laundry and cooking are practices that do not soil your hands much, but when it comes to doing the dishes all hell breaks loose.
Since all the members in my family are meat eaters, and that too crazed compulsive ones on days when fish curry or roasted meat is served, the sight of a plate that counted its calories is not so pleasing. Fish flints that look like fossils to egg shells broken and discarded into twos to the beefy bones of some animal dead and consumed by now can be the greatest, greatest punishment ever for a staunch vegetarian. But then in my case, there are not much choices left at my will. I got to do the dishes, when the maid goes absconding in the alibi, of having fallen ill. It seems to be one of the many conditions of the the "peaceful co-existence pact" that I signed with other members of the family. In my absence, it becomes mom's call of duty, which I avoid giving her. For most of the times she is fatigued and the guillotine of guilt stabs me so badly, that I am left with no options to pull myself out.
Today was one such day when I thought that I was on an excavation exercise in an old civilization which had gorged on its animals. Having held my breath as if out on an underwater mission, I did the dishes, with all the dead tissues from yesterday's dinner and today's lunch molesting my patience. The silent prayer that went out was for a brighter day tomorrow. 

Yesterday was another day, though. To get the feeler of what it is to be out on the Delhi streets I decided to attend the Dance India Dance Indiblogger meet at The Oberoi. With the event heading into the night, I guess we made way from the Jor Bagh metro station at 10.45 pm, along with Mercy a great girl I met at the meet all thanks to Ratika, I was walking the streets of my neighbourhood after having got down from the metro at 11.15 pm. The challenge was to not seek any male escorts in dad, Roger or anyone else (please do not read between the lines!) I was one of the few blessed night traveler women of Delhi who reached home without any eerie eventualities  That of course calls for another post. Maybe tomorrow, I shall grow the nerves to sit through it.
Meanwhile, my hair still remain disobedient filaments of keratin, that can flummox me to madness. Yesterday they looked and felt like dry uncooked Maggi while today they felt like coconut husk. Although it will still take brash boldness to go for a Pixie cut or go bald like Diandra Soares. For now the Pixie cut looks like reality.  

1 comment:

asteria's canvass said...

Oh, i can understand the trauma of washing the dishes , though thankfully no one is a non -veg in my family. Thanks for mentioning me and its been long since i gave up the fear of late nights and streets, 2004 to be exact..all thanks to one incident while returning from coaching at night. As far as hair is concerned thats not my forte, as i have been a victim of bad hair days often.