deviousways

Yup, my body's out of whack. It is too. Actually, it's like a before and after. First there was only me, variously known as MC Daily and the hourglass (among friends and admirers!). Now, there's little C and me. In fact, for a time, it was both of us, inside me! Actually, the female human body, per se, kinda blows me away. While I was pregnant, my body grew and made sure baby grew, as well. Despite all the odds. Yep, pregnancy is among the most studied of states, but it's still miraculous (to me, at any rate) how a little thing no bigger than a pea can become a full-fledged squirming little person, with lungs to match! And what happens after the birth, that's no less wondrous. Somewhere, something inside triggered the making of breast milk. For me, that's the most precious liquid on earth. Truly. Look it up, there's nothing else like it. There I was, happy-go-lucky (or so I thought), head filled with lippies and liners and what have you, and suddenly, here ...

I dress up more now if I'm going to meet my girl friends. Yup it's true. That's when I fish out the tweezers, give the brows the obligatory wriggle-stretch-and-stare and then do the oh-god-have-I-put-on-weight, and need-I-do-the-razor-thingie routine, again. And it's not just me. My 19-year-old niece did exactly that when she was meeting her girlmates. Soul Sisters from school, no less. In my case, my rare night out gave me a lovely case of the girlies. (Okay, even I don't know what that means). So, I chose my clothes with care. Does the skirt hug the hips? Yep. Now, where's that heavy fake-silver chain from Mapsa fleamarket which invariably gives me neckpain. Check. Eyebrows? Not bad. Slippers? Comfy but in a nice warm shade so glam as well. And then, we did the breezers, the fishy cutlets, the fried chips, the cold pizza, the silly giggles. And it was such a good feeling. There's nothing quite like getting together with friends, female friends, and then le...

Having baby's been life-changing, of course. But beyond that, I've come to cherish every moment. Nope, that's not a cliche. I literally live minute to minute. So a spare half hour of quiet is soul-nourishing. A chance to enjoy just being by myself. A little window of self-reflection. A walk is not just a stroll, it's my time to cleanse my body and mind of bad thoughts and ill will and sloth. A hug is affirmation that a little person finds me lovable, warts and all. Watching baby say hullo to stray dogs, kambli poochies (blanket worms, ugh!!), and even, dead cockroaches, makes me realise children really are pure beings. There's no malice in baby. Yup, there are tantrums and bouts of bad temper but that, to my eternal regret, he's probably learnt watching me being angry and mad. Every day, I see the world anew. Every day, I learn I can be good and yet, in a flash, be very very bad as well. It's humbling, enriching and a learning process. Every single day.

Don't know why, but every time I need a pick-me-up, I reach for the scissors. Usually, it's just after I've read some fashion magazine full of impossibly beautiful people with perfect skin and to-die-for bodies. And of course, amazing hair. So then, I tell myself, I need something new. Ergo the scissors. A snip here, a slash here, some maneuvering elsewhere and I look up expectantly. Something, some inner hope blossoms. And I run to the mirror. Is that a stylish fringe I see?Or a sassy bang shaping my face in new, wondrous ways? Am I a glamazon at last? Freeing my inner spirited self while shedding all that's old-fashioned and tired. Yup, there is the small matter of tidying up those snipped-off locks lying forlorn on the floor. And yes, the cut is inexpert. But what the heck. There's something extremely liberating about brandishing those scissors. Maybe it's my devil-may-care self surfacing. Or my inner hairstylist breaking out of it's chryalis. Whatever. I...

Caf é au lait. That's me. Okay, not really. More of the caf é , less of the lait, would be just right. Yep, like millions of my countrypeople, I am, what a fashion mag would call, "gloriously tanned". But I didn't know that when I was smaller. I just heard people call me dark-skinned. Sounds so hurtful, so much less glam, doesn't it? Took me ages or rather, years, to come to terms with my colour. If only my face was the light brown that shaded the insides of my wrist, I'd think. If only I looked like my fair-skinned mother. If only. Would I even actually get my knight on a white charger? That was my unspoken fear, fuelled by too many Mills&Boons and seeing college pals happily chirp about this boy or that; getting roses from unknown admirers on Valentines', and even, being shadowed by faithful followers on their way home. Then boyfriends happened to me. Surprisingly, all lighter-skinned, except for one my mother charitably described as a Rajnikant-typ...