They looked good. They wrapped around me rather well and I did feel good. So, I swiped my card, paid for them and bought them. Only when my hands dumped those jeans from my bag to my clothesline did I realize I had bought trouble.
There was Mother Dearest - one arm on the hip - looking at it as if I had brought home a Caucasian wife without her permission.
"Oh Mother," I said by way of introduction, "these are the new pair of jeans I bought."
"I know. I can see."
"They look good, don't they?"
In reply to this, she spoilt her face as if I had blundered with her recipe of morals.
"Oh you don't like them," I said , all set to unravel the reason for her distaste.
The arm went down from the hip and prodded her palm to turn and twist the fabric.
"I can't see what you like in this!"
"They are jeans Mother," my tongue replied, as gently as possible, "everyone wears them."
"Well, that's not quite an excuse to wear them."
"Everyone breathes. That's enough of an excuse for me to breathe as well."
"Don't talk rubbish. This looks so so..."
"Yes, yes," I said a little heated in my tone, "say it. Just say it."
"...Vulgar."
"This?" I said as my eyes took in her rather acrid look, "is vulgar?"
"Of course," - her answer was quick and damning - "How can one walk in this?" and her fingers accused my jeans yet again.
"Mother," I said, as I took in a rather long abysmal breath, "what about those sarees that Lily aunty wears?"
"What about them?"
"They are so vulgar you know," I explained, as I allowed my eyebrow to arch and my tone to snipe.
"What rubbish!"
"Of course! That Lily aunty always wears them to show the vast expanse of her stomach!"
"Don't talk rubbish."
Of course it wasn't exactly rubbish. It was pure scandal.
Lily aunty was this woman who loved to sing for weekday Masses. More than that, she loved to caress the mound under her palao - the mound that a decent soul, like Mother Dearest for example, would term the stomach. No, she wouldn't merely adjust her palao. She would brush aside the cloth as brazenly as ever and let her fingers stroll all over the skin before they went to inspect her navel. All this, as she stood at the pulpit, with her tongue doing its best to announce the hymn number in a tone that's best described as being pious. I'm sure even the Lord Almighty must have been scandalized at her two-faced body language.
"Oh you don't talk about that woman!," Mother Dearest snapped, "she was a real character."
"Well she wore sarees."
"So?"
"My point is: No matter what you wear Mother, the way you carry it is all that matters."
"Yes, but these jeans!"
"And those sarees?" I snapped, as I sat down at the table to read John Dryden, "I am sure those sarees were as innocent as lillies. But look at the way she vandalized them! She made them all a piece de resistance for all the wrong reasons!"
"Okay I have work to do," Mother Dearest said suddenly, as she forced her slippers to get onto her feet and march towards the kitchen, "I can't sit here arguing the whole day."
This classic one-liner I now knew meant "I give up."
So I gave in, smiled, and buried myself in Mac Flecknoe.
There was Mother Dearest - one arm on the hip - looking at it as if I had brought home a Caucasian wife without her permission.
"Oh Mother," I said by way of introduction, "these are the new pair of jeans I bought."
"I know. I can see."
"They look good, don't they?"
In reply to this, she spoilt her face as if I had blundered with her recipe of morals.
"Oh you don't like them," I said , all set to unravel the reason for her distaste.
The arm went down from the hip and prodded her palm to turn and twist the fabric.
"I can't see what you like in this!"
"They are jeans Mother," my tongue replied, as gently as possible, "everyone wears them."
"Well, that's not quite an excuse to wear them."
"Everyone breathes. That's enough of an excuse for me to breathe as well."
"Don't talk rubbish. This looks so so..."
"Yes, yes," I said a little heated in my tone, "say it. Just say it."
"...Vulgar."
"This?" I said as my eyes took in her rather acrid look, "is vulgar?"
"Of course," - her answer was quick and damning - "How can one walk in this?" and her fingers accused my jeans yet again.
"Mother," I said, as I took in a rather long abysmal breath, "what about those sarees that Lily aunty wears?"
"What about them?"
"They are so vulgar you know," I explained, as I allowed my eyebrow to arch and my tone to snipe.
"What rubbish!"
"Of course! That Lily aunty always wears them to show the vast expanse of her stomach!"
"Don't talk rubbish."
Of course it wasn't exactly rubbish. It was pure scandal.
Lily aunty was this woman who loved to sing for weekday Masses. More than that, she loved to caress the mound under her palao - the mound that a decent soul, like Mother Dearest for example, would term the stomach. No, she wouldn't merely adjust her palao. She would brush aside the cloth as brazenly as ever and let her fingers stroll all over the skin before they went to inspect her navel. All this, as she stood at the pulpit, with her tongue doing its best to announce the hymn number in a tone that's best described as being pious. I'm sure even the Lord Almighty must have been scandalized at her two-faced body language.
"Oh you don't talk about that woman!," Mother Dearest snapped, "she was a real character."
"Well she wore sarees."
"So?"
"My point is: No matter what you wear Mother, the way you carry it is all that matters."
"Yes, but these jeans!"
"And those sarees?" I snapped, as I sat down at the table to read John Dryden, "I am sure those sarees were as innocent as lillies. But look at the way she vandalized them! She made them all a piece de resistance for all the wrong reasons!"
"Okay I have work to do," Mother Dearest said suddenly, as she forced her slippers to get onto her feet and march towards the kitchen, "I can't sit here arguing the whole day."
This classic one-liner I now knew meant "I give up."
So I gave in, smiled, and buried myself in Mac Flecknoe.
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