Yes, a PHUNNY/FUN space this world is especially when you get into the observatory mode!
~Stand in an escalator going up and you’ll know what I mean.
It can be a purely sensual experience-one that involves all the senses.
A conflux of hundreds of influences and shades coming together or rather going up together!
~A hesitant newly-wed from the outskirts, on her virginal step to the big city “mall” making it almost like the ‘giant leap for mankind’. She’s dressed in a gawdy, loud manifestation of six yards of silk with a super fragrant gajra, adorning her long, jet black, silken tresses, plaited meticulously makes you sniff down at your own Chanel No.5 probably to ascertain who’s/what’s stronger. There’s a chunky, gilded mangal sutra tossing against her bosom that is filled with an equal bounce of thrill, along with an armful of marital circles termed as bangles let’s call them the marriage arsenal or cuffs as her situation may be. These bangles jingle with one another as they reflect the blinding mall lights which seem to fade before the glow of the “just married bliss” that fills up her countenance and ear to ear grin.
You watch with half annoyance and half fascination as she tries to take a step onto the fast moving planks and then hesitates, shaking her head with a visible fright that could match the one that she probably had on her first ‘golden’ night.
You see how her husband holds her hand so gently and yet assuredly and takes her on board, almost symbolic of what he’d be like in life even otherwise.
~And then again would be gym-going wanna-be’s in tight fitting t-shirts with rippling muscles that could give away at the first hint of pressure; Folded sleeves of the shirt, never mind the sweating armpits and adding to the burst of sad whiff, would be the chameli ka tel on their heads, that settles the side flicks in a gel-like illusion. They would be wearing sunglasses, never mind the interiors and standing proud on heeled boots that would creak even when they stand still. The gold printed on their clothes would make you want to wear eye protectors for yourself. And also wish you had got ear plugs too for defence against their on-the-mobile-phone, blaring verbal attacks termed as ‘conversation’ made more on your poor ear drums.
I am not prejudiced against the have-nots, I just don’t understand why go out of your league to be what you are not. I would rather carry a good leather bag from the store around the corner than a fake Louis Vitton please mind the pronunciation as you read that surname, walking with a toffee-nosed air that says ‘look at me world, I am too good for thou’.
~In walks a teenager girl in the shortest of mini-skirts. She flaunts ‘a figure to die for and brands to kill for’-the embodiment of size zero, never mind if there’s no body to speak of as such. The pumps make her appear taller than her frame would otherwise allow, solving the purpose of standing up to the equally supercilious onlookers she would be aiming at. A ‘omg, wtf-blah blah’ on the mobile in one hand and locks of her hair being settled perennially with the other, she forgot perhaps that she might have to go up the stairs somewhere and have people below stretching their necks to find out if it would be their lucky day to get a peek.
*You make your way to the most happening lounge-cum-bar-cum-pub I never really understood the difference between each of them being claimed separately to fame, as though you would not be served drinks at a lounge that was not called a bar or as if there would not be a lounge to sit onto if the pub is not a lounge...ah, never mind. The party of the year is supposed to be taking place here with an elite theme and fringes to boot. A pole dancer and bartenders have been flown in for the occasion-the DJ has just returned from a successful stint in Singapore and thereby added another zero to his charging/changing figure. The swanky lights that cost a bomb for each bulb, the drinks flowing freely as though it was Ganga-jal and costing as though it was liquid gold, the over dressed and under dressed as in they look in dire need of clothes going by their current shreds. There is techno music that you cannot mouth to match and beats where you can do not much but gyrate as though the fits engulfed you.
The people there are swooning in your joy although they don’t care two hoots if it was your wedding anniversary or anniversary with another new dish by your arm. They are not interested in you but whether you would invite them to the next bash you throw. They inquire about who’s walked in and why Mr. X’s wife is giving so many pecks on the cheek to Mr. Z or even Mrs. Z. They fall over each other in the name of having fun and the men try to feel the bare backs of women out of their leagues taking advantage of the lack of inhibitions and maybe deciphering if they could have their chances now otherwise claim later “Ah, I was too drunk then to remember now...I hope I did not go out of line?”
And you wonder, being in the naive, vulnerable shelled inhibitions of that new bride on the escalator is better or being the uninhabited, exhibited, hip social bug at the next happening party?