Pay it forward
Some years ago, we had to attend a wedding from hell. It was taking place across town through some of the worst weekend traffic, so bad that the kids opted to get there by local train. We had to escort my mom and dad there and back and so were stuck with them on a nightmarish two hour drive to the suburbs. We limped in finally, only to be told that the bride was running late and the wedding ceremony wouldn’t kick off for at least another hour. Add bickering aunts and sulking cousins to the mix. Nerves were shredded finer than the potato salli on the very average boti (spicy mutton). Mom needed constant help getting around on the uneven ground and suffice it to say that by the time we found ourselves at the gate waiting for the spouse to bring the car around, I was very ready to go home.
That’s when it happened. A young lady, a friend of one of my younger cousins possibly, came up behind me and said: “You are so beautiful – I love your saree and the way you’re carrying yourself.”
I only managed a Thank you before the car arrived and I had to help Mum. By the time I turned around, the lady had disappeared, taking with her my bad mood and all the little irritants of the evening. I could have floated home on the back of that simple compliment.
I’ve spent the next many years paying back that compliment. There is always that one person who dresses quietly and elegantly, even in these days of bling and OTT excess. The lady who doesn’t try too hard, and therefore stands out from the crowd. I make it a point to go up to her and pay her a compliment. More often than not, she looks bewildered and confused before the smile breaks out on her face. I leave before conversation is initiated.
But lately, there haven’t been many social occasions to attend. I don’t look forward to the few to which we do accept invitations. The energy levels are low, the frozen shoulder doesn’t cooperate and then there’s the small matter of a half dozen extra kilos in all the wrong places – getting dressed up has come to mean frustration, a slight resentment and an overwhelming sense of inadequacy.
These are first world problems, I know. In the face of unspeakable suffering and inhuman atrocities, I tell myself that this brain freeze, this incapacity to enjoy the good things in my life is just selfishness. A monumental case of self pity, the likes of which I had supposedly talked myself out of a few years ago. But no. There’s a vague sense of malaise hanging around my head. The cobwebs have taken up residence in the old familiar corners of my brain. The writing is at a near standstill. The words are false, they sit heavily on my computer screen and show me that I’m just a minor one hit wonder. My publisher doesn’t take my calls.The birds have stopped visiting my balcony. It’s the monsoon, which manages to kill the plants on my balcony, while elsewhere it brings nourishment and growth. It’s a pity party and only I’m invited.
Yesterday was one of those rare social occasions where I had to show up and look presentable. I slapped on the make up – do you know it makes every faultline far more visible? Still, it’s habit. Then I wiped off most of it with a tissue. Stop looking in the mirror, I ordered myself, get ready. Make up, hair, jewellery, saree, heels. I had chosen the lightest dressy saree I possess – the hot flashes hit at the worst moments and I wasn’t about to risk a meltdown in an heirloom saree.
Thirty minutes later, we found ourselves in a very bright, very noisy room full of people we didn’t know. We made the obligatory small talk with the father of the bride, then stationed ourselves as close to an air conditioner as possible. My better half headed off to the bar, while I discreetly adjusted an errant pallu, smiling vaguely in case I made eye contact with someone I was supposed to recognise.
The evening dragged on, the lightweight saree troubling me first with the slippery pallu, then with pleats that threatened to pool around my feet. Only one hot flash – that’s par for the course, so not complaining. Finally, it was time to leave. As we threaded our way through the throng, a young lady caught my eye.
“I love how you’ve draped your saree, Aunty, you’re carrying it off so well,” she chirped, flashed me a smile and disappeared into the crowd.
The cobwebs didn’t quite melt away but I looked at my balcony and at my writing draft with a less jaundiced eye for the next few days.
Soon afterwards, I was downstairs, waiting to leave for work. There was a queue at the bus stop outside our building, and amongst all the neatly dressed women, a lady wearing the most beautiful pink and green tissue saree caught my eye. I ran up to her, tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Aap bahut sundar lag rahi hai.” Her smile lit up the gloomy morning and made my day…
Gotta keep paying it forward. Less criticism and a few more compliments (especially to strangers you might never meet again) never harmed anyone. That’s a lesson I’ve learnt twice over.