Fashionably Yours. Swati Sharma

       31

       32

       Epilogue

       Copyright

       Prologue

      It was a very cold December morning and I was lying in my bed blissfully with one foot propped out of the warm quilt. A five-foot tall PVC Christmas tree was tree was standing gloriously by the window. It looked almost magical under the layers of twinkling fairy lights and hundreds of ornaments. Though it had been four days since Christmas, I couldn’t bring myself to take down the decorations and transport the tree back to the attic, much to the annoyance of my mom who could never understood that how on earth her by-all-means Punjabi daughter came to loving such a foreign festival. But for me Christmas was the most happy day of my life. Nothing could go wrong around Christmas. I blew a kiss to the tree before reaching for the top drawer of my nightstand.

      As I pulled it open, I felt my heart flutter at the sight of a crisp, white envelope which was going to take me a step closer to my dream. Gingerly I reached inside the envelope and pulled out a letter. I read the job offer for the zillionth time since it had arrived last evening.

       Dear Maya Kapoor,

       Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you the position of ‘Feature Writer’ with the online division of Style magazine.

       Please find the attached draft copy of your offer letter from Style, Mumbai.

       Do go through the letter and let us know if you have any queries with regards to the offer.

      I had waited for this letter for far too long. Though Style was not my first preference, I realized that Glamorous was too posh to recruit someone straight out of Shimla College of Mass Communication and Advertising. But at least Style was situated in the same city as my bible. For the last seven years I had dreamt only one dream, and that was to write for Glamorous. And for this I had fought a tough battle against my mom who was adamant to see me graduate to become a CA or a primary school teacher at the very least. Yuk! According to her, no decent man would marry a girl like me who had had a word ‘media’ written in her bio.

      “Girls in media are considered to have loose character. You have landed yourself in a dark pit,” she grumbled in my ear as we posed for a family photo on my convocation.

      Gazing at the letter in my hands I wonder if she would throw me out of the house, dragging me by my hair or have a minor panic attack when I broke the news to her.

      Fifteen minutes later I was out of the comfort of my bed and ready to spill the beans to my parents. I just wanted to be over with all the drama as soon as possible so that I could finally celebrate my job with a tall cup of hot chocolate before starting to pack my stuff. Trotting along the creaking wooden floor I walked up to my closet and pulled out a jumper to slide over my old GAP T-shirt. It was freezing. It had been a week and it hadn’t stopped snowing.

      Pulling the jumper over my head, I tied my light brown traces in a top knot on my head. Bracing myself for true Punjabi mother drama I tiptoed down the stairs and just when I gave myself one last pump and headed towards the kitchen where she was usually found in the morning hours, I came to the screeching halt at the sight of our neighbourhood ladies. The realisation hit me like a basketball. It was the last Sunday of the month. It was sort of a ritual on Gulmohar Street. On the last Sunday of every month all the women of the colony gathered at one neighbor’s house along with their daughters where they would cook a wide variety of delicious brunch treats. In the meanwhile, their daughters of nearly my age, a.k.a marriageable age, sat in the drawing room and merrily discussed whatever cooking, yoga, knitting or sewing classes they were attending. Then, over the breakfast table, the women discussed possible suitors for their daughters and recommended any eligible bachelors they knew of for each other’s daughters. And while all this happened, all the male members of the colony headed to the town’s sports club where they played squash, tennis, swam and bonded over beer and brandy. To be honest to me it all seemed like a cult where the women tried to brainwash their daughters into thinking that all they needed to do in their lives was to be a good housewife. I was the least favorite member of this cult.

      “Maya, why are you still in your pyjamas?” Mom appeared from the kitchen and looked at me disapprovingly. Suddenly all the girls in the room who were dressed to the nine in their salwar-kameez’s stopped talking and looked at me inquisitively. I bet they were enjoying this moment. Those bitches never liked me.

      “I forgot it’s brunch day!” I said, in a small voice, like a child who had been caught for breaking a cookie jar.

      “Hayo rabba! Kudiya ki kara mai tera?” she waved her hands dramatically in air. “Now go and get ready in five minutes, and I mean five,” she hissed.

      “I’ll be back in four,” I threw a look to the girls whose ears were well trained on our conversation, before heading back to my room and running a quick shower. Three minutes and fifty-five seconds later I was back downstairs, dressed in a delicate chiffon suit with a shawl around my shoulders. I despised wearing suits because they are clumsy and I didn’t feel like me, but today was an exception. I had already screwed up and I didn’t want any more blunders to spoil my mom’s mood, at least until the afternoon when I would finally tell her about my job offer. As I entered the room, mom gave me a brief smile before instructing me and my younger sister, Payal, to lay breakfast on the dining table which was taking a place of pride by the one and only fireplace of the Kapoor residence. While I laid the cutlery, Payal garnished the dishes and very artfully arranged them on the table. Payal was every inch the part of this cult. She had attended the sewing class and was currently attending the cooking class. As much as she was loved by all the members of the colony and by my mother for her dutiful nature, I was looked down upon for being rebellious and ultra-modern.

       OK, now I wanted to spew.

      Payal wasn’t always like this. In fact we used to be really close till recently and she told me about everything from her first fag to her first shag. But three months ago one of the girls in our neighborhood, fresh out of the high school, got married to one of the rich men in the town courtesy her parents. When Payal saw a girl who couldn’t even afford a taxi ride, proudly travelling in a BMW, she decided to get married to a richer guy and up her standard and status in town. And this new Payal made me cringe every single time we were in the same room.

      “Breakfast is served,” I announced to all the ladies and their dying-to-get-married daughters. As everyone helped themselves to the deep-fried and oil-laden dishes, I piled my plate with egg bhurji and perched myself on one of the sofa seats. As I was hungrily scoffing down my breakfast, I heard the girls around me discussing TV serials from last night.

      “I can’t believe Ram left her …” said a girl in a gaudily embroided patiala salwar-kameez.

      “… and that fight in Big Boss last night was so amazing, yaar …” said another, through a mouthful of pav bhaji.

      “I am sure she will win it this time,” Payal remarked about a girl with an awfully long face who was one of the top finalists of Big Boss.

      “Hey, who do you think will get evicted this week?” out of nowhere Sharma Aunty’s daughter directed a question to me. Or was that Verma Aunty’s daughter?

      “Ummm … I have no idea. I don’t watch Big Boss,” I retorted.

      “You are kidding, right?” she asked and I felt something in the air suddenly shift.

      “Err