Covetous

by Gauri Trivedi

[box]What happens when you become a part of a women’s club that meets every fortnight to discuss ‘important’ issues? A new entrant to this club discovers quite a bit. Gauri Trivedi writes a story.[/box]

Inspiration comes in various forms. To me it came one day in the form of a woman running towards a school bus in a crumpled night gown, disheveled hair and breathless words.

I was the newest entrant to the CCC (Cultural Club with a Cause) which met every fortnight in one of the residences of Spring Belle apartment homes. A mere 30 minutes or so in the presence of its members convinced me that it was indeed nothing but a ladies “kitty” party with a complex appellation. And I say this not in a derogatory sense.

On the seventh day of our arrival here in the apartment, we were awakened to the incessant ringing of the door bell at 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Two healthy looking ladies with radiant faces and a perfumed presence greeted us like long-lost relatives, giving out details of their apartments and phone numbers, their husbands’ professions and their children’s academic achievements; all in a matter of 10 minutes and at the front door. A minute of interlude followed as they caught their breath and recovered from the brief introduction, during which I turned around for a quick eye-to-eye signal with the better half to decide on the next course of action, only to discover that the object of my affection had retreated soundlessly into the bedroom. Whether to call them inside and expose my housekeeping skills (or rather the lack of them over the weekend) or gently dismiss them from the front door with the promise of a pending invitation was the problem at hand. Thankfully, I did not have to make a choice. Rima, the taller of the two, thrust her business card in my hand and invited me to her house the coming Tuesday for an upcoming meeting of the CCC. “It gets really lonely here if you are not a member,” the other lady remarked before waving goodbye – point taken! Sleepily I glanced at the card in my hand before going back to la-la land; “Imported Beautician” it said. Now wait, was that even a profession? On second thoughts though, it explained the radiance and the fragrance.

So there I was on a Tuesday afternoon at Rima’s place; being welcomed with delicate questions and investigative eyes by a group of well-dressed ladies. In fact, if you asked me, they were too well-dressed for the occasion. More than an hour had passed and I had yet to discover the noble cause of this particular cultural club. This meeting clearly had no agenda other than the display of ownership over fine cutlery and critical acclamation of each other’s designer wear.

Now and then a name ‘Sweety’ revolved around the group in hushed tones. After a little probing and intent hearing, I gathered Sweety was a member of the club still to arrive (she always runs late, probably putting on her layers of makeup!) and looked upon by the other ladies as some kind of a fake, supercilious woman.  As for me, I was still having trouble getting past the name; it sounded like a nickname that got stuck on you forever.

“She spends thousands of her husband’s hard earned money on good-for-nothing beauty treatments just to look young,” the host initiated. Earlier, when I had arrived, Rima took me on a tour of her house. We stopped some extra minutes in one particular room which had been turned into her beauty parlour. “I use only imported products,” she said, pointing towards a range of cosmetics lined up against the wall and so whatever doubts I had in my mind about she being the “imported” one were put to rest. The business card was just a classic example of the wrong prefix at the right place! Obviously our Sweety here was not one of Rima’s clients, I chuckled within.  “And did you notice how she goes to the gym every single day wearing shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt? Not an inkling of shame,” Natasha chipped in.  “Just the other day we met her at the market and when my husband remarked ‘Bhabhiji, nobody can say you are a mother of two grown-up children’, she was blushing all over like a teenager,” she continued. Hmm, and what did you have to say to your husband about paying that compliment, I wanted to ask Natasha but decided against it; the conversation was getting bitchy and interesting. “But how does she manage to keep her tummy so flat and toned?” someone whose name I didn’t know yet, asked matter-of-fact-ly. The other ladies gave her a scornful look, enough to shut her up from asking any further questions, the answers to which may highlight Sweety’s virtues.  “She wears those tummy tuckers and always positions herself such that her paunch remains hidden,” Sheila (the one who had accompanied Rima at my door) revealed as if she had unrestrained access to Sweety’s wardrobe and bedroom. A swift scrutiny around the room confirmed my suspicion. For each one of the present occupants, belly fat was a problem area. No wonder they found it exceedingly difficult to accept another woman’s good fortune! I wondered if they were next going to accuse Sweety of not breathing to appear attractive!

They went on and on about other things, now and then returning to their favourite topic. And the more I heard, the more eagerly I waited for our infamous member to show up. Based on her attributes as characterised by the group making generous assumptions, if I had to say a few lines about Sweety before even meeting her, I would have said: “Sweety is always dressed up to attract attention SO she must be spending all her time in front of the mirror THEREBY not having any time to take care of her home and kids MAKING her a careless homemaker and an imperfect mother”.  They all dressed up words to hide their innermost sentiments, but this is exactly how they felt.

Being a good mother and an efficient homemaker epitomized success for them and they wanted Sweety to fail in what they regarded as the two most pivotal roles of life because she bothered to maintain her figure and look appealing even after giving birth to and raising two children.

When Sweety finally did turn up one-and-a-half-hour late, the ladies did a complete turn around and I could see why. She inched herself out of thin high pencil heels and cooed “Hi girls” in a sexy voice. The “girls” in their late thirties felt younger by the mere address of it. Impeccably dressed in a low cut kurti over skin tight jeans, she had the club going gaga over the new shade of her lipstick (It’s called fuchsia, she pouted). She charmed her way into the group as effortlessly as one puts on a bracelet.

“Hi, you must be our newest neighbour,” she said making her way towards me, “I am Sweety,” she introduced herself. “I know,” I smiled.  Later in the day, I returned with a stomach full of delicacies and stories to tell.

At the next get-together of the club, someone mentioned that Sweety’s daughter had been admitted to the hospital with a severe case of pneumonia. Apparently a neighbour who had visited, came back with the news that even with a sick child in the hospital, Sweety had managed to paint her nails and comb her hair to perfection. Talk like that made me sick to my stomach. I saved Sweety’s phone number and made a mental note to call her after a couple of days. It didn’t happen so soon and by the time I realised my oversight, it was too late to call.

Ten days later I was walking towards home after the usual morning walk, when the school bus came to a halt near the gate. I waited by the side for the crowd of kids to get in and suddenly out of nowhere came a figure, running right in front of the bus, waving wildly. The bus was about to leave and sensing that, the figure leaped into the bus and spoke in hurried words to the driver. From the distance that I stood at, the figure appeared to be that of a woman not very aptly dressed to step out of the house. Her nightgown was crumpled and she looked like someone who had jumped right out of bed and onto the road. Her hair was roughly tied in a knot but probably without using a comb which only highlighted the unkempt look. She had a bottle of what looked like medicine in one hand and a spoon in another. At her request, the driver called out for someone seated somewhere behind and a slim teenager slid near the front row in slow steps. This woman shook the bottle hard, poured a tablespoon of liquid and made the teenager gulp the whole of it and even rubbed the extra off the recipient’s mouth with the sleeve of her nightgown. Looking at the whole scenario, I put two and two together and summed that a child had forgotten to take her dose of medicine for the day and it was important enough for her mother to rush out towards the bus in an unflattering state to ensure it wasn’t missed.

As the woman stepped out of the bus nearly missing the last step, I was surprised to see someone I would have never expected to see in a shapeless nightgown and sans makeup. It must have always been there, this facet of hers. I admitted feeling embarrassed for being a mute part of the underlying accusations hurled behind her back. It was the jealousy of not being like her that kept everybody from acknowledging it.

She was breathless and suddenly aware of many familiar faces staring at her. No high heels marked her exit as she walked back bare-footed. To me though, she never looked more beautiful.

 

Gauri Trivedi is a former business law professional who makes the law at home these days. A Mom to two lovely daughters, her days are filled with constant learning and non- stop fun. All of her “mommy time” goes into writing and finds itself on her blog pages http://messyhomelovelykids.blogspot.com/ and  http://pastaandparatha.blogspot.com/ and if she is not writing she is definitely reading something!

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