Walking in the evening metamorphosed from a simple exercise in health , to a full blown fashion show. It was long skirts with short tops , a high bun with a lilac flower stuck into it , and a pair of sandals on one day ; to flared bottoms with those silly flowing kurtis , which billowed endlessly in the evening breeze , and a pair of kolhapuris . Now , which serious walker walks in kolhapuris ?
It was an excuse to parade one’s sartorial preferences and the entire wardrobe . The fault lay with the choice of home . She had chosen to live amongst fields and mooing cows , where a simple breeze became a wind , rustling the fragrant basmati ears and whoohooing in a ghostly manner at the windows . There were no discos , red carpet events , or parties . What would she do with the endless array of clothes she had bought .
Go walking , of course .
It became a daily spectacle. Old women bitched and rubbed their arthritic knees ; masculine jaws dropped mid -sentence when she passed by , gliding on a cloud of expensive perfume , her alabaster skin in great contrast to her blood red lips.
All conversation would cease , when she made her appearance . Occasionally , she had two ill- dressed cronies , flank her , giggling at her jokes , giving soppy admiration-filled looks , or she would go solo. Either way , she hogged the lime light . Like a good show-person , she would not even throw a glance at the various porticos , verandahs , balconies , where people would gather in the evening , to enjoy the breeze , and comment at her dress.
"Kamaal hai ! she hasn't repeated a dress for the past three weeks ."
Mrs. Khurana would say , furiously fanning herself with a fragile Chinese fan , her face resembling a wobbly bowl of raspberry jelly.
Old Mr. Khurana ,tone -deaf, squatting on the floor mat , would stop mid - kapaal bharti , and peer through his money-plants .
"Naah ! Yeh to kal waali jooti hai ." ( Shoes the same as yesterday ) he would comment loudly.
"Shhh!" Mrs. Khurana would hiss. "Sun legi" Playfully poking her husband's yoga strengthened back with her frayed fan .
She would begin a hysterical giggling all the same , and the raspberry jelly would wobble violently. That was a cue for Mr. Khurana to laugh too, and Oh, Boy! Did he laugh!
A loud booming would ensue from behind the dense green jungle , which was the Khurana's balcony , and the money plants would quake in fear.
She would sail through , either unaware of the seismic side effects of her presence , or thoroughly enjoying it , or pretending not to notice . She became the prima donna , the colony diva , the undisputed fashionista. The envy of all women worth their mascaras , and a drool-worthy item for all men , irrespective of age .
It was an excuse to parade one’s sartorial preferences and the entire wardrobe . The fault lay with the choice of home . She had chosen to live amongst fields and mooing cows , where a simple breeze became a wind , rustling the fragrant basmati ears and whoohooing in a ghostly manner at the windows . There were no discos , red carpet events , or parties . What would she do with the endless array of clothes she had bought .
Go walking , of course .
It became a daily spectacle. Old women bitched and rubbed their arthritic knees ; masculine jaws dropped mid -sentence when she passed by , gliding on a cloud of expensive perfume , her alabaster skin in great contrast to her blood red lips.
All conversation would cease , when she made her appearance . Occasionally , she had two ill- dressed cronies , flank her , giggling at her jokes , giving soppy admiration-filled looks , or she would go solo. Either way , she hogged the lime light . Like a good show-person , she would not even throw a glance at the various porticos , verandahs , balconies , where people would gather in the evening , to enjoy the breeze , and comment at her dress.
"Kamaal hai ! she hasn't repeated a dress for the past three weeks ."
Mrs. Khurana would say , furiously fanning herself with a fragile Chinese fan , her face resembling a wobbly bowl of raspberry jelly.
Old Mr. Khurana ,tone -deaf, squatting on the floor mat , would stop mid - kapaal bharti , and peer through his money-plants .
"Naah ! Yeh to kal waali jooti hai ." ( Shoes the same as yesterday ) he would comment loudly.
"Shhh!" Mrs. Khurana would hiss. "Sun legi" Playfully poking her husband's yoga strengthened back with her frayed fan .
She would begin a hysterical giggling all the same , and the raspberry jelly would wobble violently. That was a cue for Mr. Khurana to laugh too, and Oh, Boy! Did he laugh!
A loud booming would ensue from behind the dense green jungle , which was the Khurana's balcony , and the money plants would quake in fear.
She would sail through , either unaware of the seismic side effects of her presence , or thoroughly enjoying it , or pretending not to notice . She became the prima donna , the colony diva , the undisputed fashionista. The envy of all women worth their mascaras , and a drool-worthy item for all men , irrespective of age .
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