Much Ado About Socks!

MUCH ADO ABOUT SOCKS! 

So "winters are coming" has now been officially changed to "winters have come" hashtags everywhere. Gorgeous women in their splendid furs and show stopper boots have taken over. They would confuse the fuck out of you with being layered in the most stylish of thick jackets one night and still be shivering and then a backless choli, the next one whereby you can count the goosebumps on their steady skin but they'll flash their pearly teeth instead to count, as if to say "I'm hot enough to take this". And you're like "make up your mind women" and then remember you're a woman too and sigh!

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. 

Somebody Notice Me. Now!

Okay, I'm toying with business ideas these days. Here's something I've been pondering over with vivid cinema-like clarity in my head. I warn beforehand of the fictional essence here because then later I break many little hearts apart from my own that is.

I picture I am invited to a very high profile wedding. Somehow. I'm at the Uday Vilas Palace kinda place of Udaipur, with a scene setting like that of the Kabeera song of Ranbir's. Everyone is dressed in kilos of diamonds and yards of lavish embroidery reeking silks. Sunglasses and bags with phoren brands are making me scrunch my eyes. Ah, so much glitter and glam like Karan Johar was filming something here! The shutterbugs are working round the clock as young Greek gods of men and size-zero women, in teeny weeny cholis pout and pose with ethreal grace and then break into dumb "oh-darling" conversations with an accent that would put a London-er to shame.

Anyway, suddenly a wave of gloom spreads in the high profile pandaal as some khus-phus happens among the guests. Apparently the bride is miffed big time with the groom as the rumour spreads and the cute as button, spoilt little thing wants a written apology from her guy before she agrees to come for the cocktail celebrations tonight. For a second everyone expresses disdain at the childish behaviour but knowing their own offsprings and their tendencies, they soon began to discuss the groom's not-so-wondrous abilities to tackle this. Oh, would there be a wedding at all, they wonder.

Suddenly I spot one of my aunts, coming running towards me, almost breathless, though her body parts continue to jiggle even after she stops. "What, tu yahan selfies le rahe hain when I've looked all around the lake for you!" Exaggeration is the middle name of every aunt by the way. "What yaar aunty! Now a woman can't even tap the possibility of 101 potential future dps at a place like this!"

Anyway, she tells me to hurry up as I was needed more at a place where it was a matter of life and death. I feared an exaggeration again but I oblige. She really seemed hell bent.

The next moment I find myself standing in the grand executive suite, before the very handsome groom. I grow weak in the knees and there bloom dreams in my head of how he saw me and fell in love and decided he would either marry me or no one else (Yes, we only recently saw Inception and hence I know you'd let the dream in the dream sequence pass without raising the ridiculous toast. Thank you)

Turns out my aunt told him how I write amazing Facebook statuses (those are called BLOGS Aunt, please, I whisper) and I was just the right one to help him write that apology note. Sigh! The second dream bubble bursts. I agree without really knowing what I was agreeing to and we spend the next one hour brain storming over how he met his wife-to-be, happy moments that they've shared, their little secrets and a whole lot more. He relives it all as I make notes. Not a bad guy really, just a bit diplomatically challenged.

I then ask him to give me an hour with my notes and voila! We have a little speech ready. Also a brilliant idea by me. We get him to the announcement chamber and I ask him to read the speech out loud for everyone including her, to hear over the loud speakers put all over the hotel that are generally used only to play music. I train him for the pauses and tone, for the emotion in his voice and when exactly to choke as though he's too overwhelmed.

He makes the speech. 30 minutes of pin drop silence in the entire hotel for nobody wanted to move an inch or they'd miss the speech. I stand beside him with bated breath as he finishes. If I had poured every iota of awww-inducing mush in there, he'd delivered a stellar performance.

Another ten minutes pass as we wait in silence, knowing not what to do next, when the door is flung open and we have the dear bride and her menagerie of family and friends standing there. And the poor woman is drenched in tears as she runs to hug the flabbergasted groom. Everyone is beaming as though they just saw Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Ghum live.

The groom's mommy walks upto me "Betaji, tusse to mere munde da vyah bacha lita aaj". And before she could finish, she takes out a big fat solitaire ring from her finger and puts it in mine. "Nahi aunty ji, iske kya zaroorat hain".

"Puttar ji, aaj aap ne yeh jo likha hain woh iss nalayak ke bass ka na tha, usse hamare izzat bach gaye. Isko na mat karna ji. Yeh ehsaan ke keemat nahi, hamara pyar hain". I look at my aunt and she nods and I keep it. The groom's mom gives me a tight hug as though she was drowning, I got her to the shore and gave her the mouth-to-mouth. And the marriage takes place and everyone lives happily ever after.

Oye, don't click off the page yet. Picture abhi baaki hain. Apparently, among the guests was one Arpita Khan, a close friend of the grooms. For all I know, I get a call next week that tells me, they're sending return tickets for me to Mumbai and a signing amount of Rs. 50,000 as advance for me to come over and write the wedding speeches of the bride and groom for an upcoming wedding. The call was from Salman Khan. My reputation had spread like wildfire. A video made of the groom's speech had got 1 million likes on youtube. Everyone wanted to know who is Suruchi Arora

And this is how kids, I start my freelance business of "Speeches By Heart" whereby I travel the world, meet the poshest of people, do what I know best - write eloquent speeches and return with oodles of money to splurge. Well, agar aap log mein se kisse ke pass aisa koi kaam ho to batana. I can start even without the solitaire. Haye, koi mere dreams pe miracles waale blessings sprinkle kyon nahi karta. Sigh!

P.S. I wrote this sometime last year. Sharing it now :)