In
the run up to the International Women’s Day this year, a mail popped into my
mailbox. HR was inviting us to celebrate the day by (among other stuff) wearing
purple. That made perfect sense. Purple is the official color of International
Women’s Day, founded more than a century ago after some 15,000 women marched in
New York City to demand better working conditions and voting rights.
I
was thrown into a quandary. Running through a mental catalogue of my wardrobe, I
realized that I did not have any outfit in that colour. Till…wait! There was
that gorgeous silk sari that my sister had gifted me for my birthday a year
back. Yes. Problem solved. I would wear a sari to work on the designated day.
Now sari
wearing plans are easier made than executed. At least for me. It requires
meticulous planning, at least 24 hours in advance. The sari has to be matched
with the correct blouse and petticoat. And most importantly, the blouse has to
fit.
Fit –
a tiny three letter word. But with enormous significance when regarded in terms
of the commute to work and back and an eight hour work day. It had to show off
one’s silhouette perfectly, while also allowing sufficient space to breathe
comfortably. Be snug and loose at the same time. A huge ask for an item of clothing,
especially for those of us flirting with the wrong side of the body mass index.
Ever
the optimist, I took said sari out of my cupboard, hunted for and found the ‘matching
blouse’. Made of the same fabric, it was of recent antiquity, having been
stitched just a year and a half ago. So I was pretty sure it would fit in the
way that I want it to. Did I try it out to be sure? No. Did I note that the cut
was different? No. Did I remember that, unlike my other blouses, it did not
have buttons down the front, but a zipper down the side, under my left arm? Of
course not.
Imagine
my horror then, when, come D-Day, I stepped out of the shower and realized that
the blouse could not be worn without assistance. So I hollered for the husband,
who, prince among men that he is, stepped up readily to the task. And gave up thirty
seconds later.
“The
fabric will tear if I pull”
“Hold
the ends together and then pull. It won’t tear”
“Turn
this side. I need more light. Wait, let me put on my glasses”
Some
progress. But there was quite a way to go.
“How
long has it been since you stitched this blouse?”
“About
a year and a half. Why?”
“You’ve
put on weight”
“Do
you do this on purpose?! Get some perverse pleasure in pissing me off?”
After
much tugging and pulling, the zipper finally slid into place. And left me
feeling like a swaddled baby. Barely able to breathe.
Further
conversation ensues with the husband.
“I
can barely breathe”
“Yeah.
Risky”
“What?”
“Better
carry a spare blouse with you”
“And
how do you suppose I’m going to take it off without assistance?”
“So
what do we do now?”
“Help
me get it off!”
More tugging
and pulling ensues, till I’m finally free of the torturous blouse. Oxygen
floods my lungs. I start breathing again.
“What
will you do now? You’re supposed to wear purple”
“Well
I like breathing and staying alive”
I
finally settle on a blue top and beige trousers and take myself off to work.
When
a colleague points out that my outfit isn’t exactly purple, I snap “Well,
its purple adjacent!”
