MUCH ADO ABOUT SOCKS!
But as for me, the half yearly annoying rituals of exchanging clothes had commenced in bits and parts around Diwali. By exchanging, I mean the winter stuff out of the lofts and high up shelves over the cupboards and the summer wear stuffed and tucked in old bedsheets, generously garnished with naphthalene balls and stored in. (Yes, first world problems). All this done by yours truly, standing on a rickety iron ladder that probably became rickety in the first place due to the pressure of all of my weight.
So bhabhiji (that's me) takes the "gathrees" out on her head, one by one and passes them to my maid in waiting, whose aghast facial expressions are silently shrieking "bas bhabhiji girna mat" and sometimes loud and vocally too. Like it is my favourite hobby and I do this madness every half year hoping this year I'll win the certificate of "The Greatest Fall Ever".
Anyway, the freak I am with the OCD of putting things in perfect piles - not one shirt coming even slightly out of the lot than the others, all hangers facing in a particular direction, things separated by their genre and packed in different bags and sometimes even tagged - life looks like Marco Polo's from my end. Scrutinising the unexplored world every time I look around - Travel a bit and there's still so bloody more to go.
So by the time I clean one cupboard and move to the next one of G's and then the next of Seeya's and then on in a loop the others, there's time for the first one to return to. (Kill me please). And then they ask why don't I write a book! Like my OCDs will ever let me.
Anyway, so I have this packet of socks that I maintain. Now, finally we reach to the backbone of this longish post. This packet is considered with sacred solemnity as my arsenal against winter. It has skin colour/black socks, stockings, panty hoses and the likes that help me bear the cold. Each year new additions are made and it's all resulted in this becoming a thick, precious bag.
Now last year in winter 2015, for some obnoxious reason or maybe old age's short term memory loss trickling in, I could not trace this dear bag. The loft cupboards were somewhat ceremoniously searched for I had lost the patience to go through the entire jig again after being done with and it wasn't found.Blasphemy!
But the elder sister attitude I have with regards to money, I wouldn't buy beyond the absolutely necessary three pairs because I knew about thirty of them were peacefully resting somewhere in my bloody cupboards. How on Earth can I go on wasting money on socks, ON SOCKS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, when there are malnutritioned children dying of hunger everywhere on the planet!- I reasoned.
So that winter ended and spring and summer tip toed in and the excruciatingly painful ritual began again of packing the woollens. And voila, in March, I rediscovered the socks packet, much to my joy. I wondered if Columbus felt the same upon his discoveries. I hugged the packet tight to my heaving chest - "Come here to mommy. I knew you were here only. You wouldn't desert me. This time I'll take good care of you and not let you out of sight". I shed a few happy tears and patted the packet gently and kept it safe. Really safe this time.
Cut to now- winters 2016. THE RITUAL is done. And hold your breath ladies and gentlemen - the bloody packet has not been discovered again. AGAIN! Why lord why! What sins am I paying for? Don't you have any mercy left in your hard heart for my cold feet? The excuses I'll have to throw out again of "Oh I don't feel cold" when my poor soles are shedding invisible tears of sufferings. I've searched again with Holmes like ability and KRK like success. Looks like I'll have to wait till March to see those dearies with my naked eyes again.
Moral of the story you ask- Beta, hell and heaven yahin dharti pe hain. Live in my head for a while and see.
P.S. Off the record, I really don't feel cold. Like really. I DON'T NEED SOCKS. I'm a strong woman.