The New Dress

by Deepthi Krishnamurthy

I was still working on the copy for the dud stuff we were pushing for a weekend sale. It was 4:00 PM already and I felt I’d achieved squat. I got my fifth mug of coffee for the day. I know that’s bad, but it had been a particularly crazy day today. It was the day that bitch Nitasha was getting her welcome party. It was also the day I could finally ‘do something’ about the whole Sourav thing.

Reema knocked on my cubicle. Was she really wearing green eyeshadow? And this too-much-for-our-office off-shoulder top? I lifted my head to face her with my eyes still on my laptop. I let her linger for five whole seconds before looking at her.

“So, what’re you wearing tonight?” she chirped. “Isn’t that the only thing that’s been on your mind all week?” I wanted to ask. But I didn’t.
“I guess I’ll just be wearing this sexy outfit,” I giggled. She tilted her head to a side to squint at the kurta I had hastily pulled over my head this morning. What she didn’t know was that a button had snapped, and a safety pin held my modesty.
“What nonsense!” she said. “You’re such a bore.”
“Well, I have so much to do.”
“We all do, babe. Try and chill, na, for once. It’s Friday! Anyway, Pari and I are planning to hop over to hers and deck up. Just letting you know, FYI. You’re welcome to join.”
I quickly imagined myself, an oddity in Pari’s cutesy apartment, in my drab kurta and mom jeans… and I looked down at my feet. Good God! Flip-flops?
“Accha. But I’ll need to check on my flatmate. She’s sort of sick. See you guys there.”
“Oo-kay. Whatevs!”

I had lied about work. The copy I was working on was done if I could stop obsessing over it. I had lied about my flatmate. In a way, me seeming content in kurta and jeans, and disgraceful flip-flops was also a lie. I glanced at Sourav; his back was usually towards me. Oddly, the fact that he’s not always looking at me brought me relief and hope.

I found myself taking nervous drags on a cigarette on the terrace when I saw Nitasha strut out of her car on the street downstairs. I couldn’t believe this was the same girl who used to pin her dupattas in college. In school, she used to beg for my notes and looked horrid with her hairy legs and rag bunch plaits. I see her now −light as a feather, straightened hair, delicate eyebrows and deep red lipstick. She even has an accent from her year in an American university studying god-knows-what.

The sight of her disgusted me. I’m pretty sure that seeing me frightened the bejesus out of her. But she put on a show, calling me her ‘oh-so talented chaddi-buddy from St. Mary’s’. I had pulled out our high school photo album last week. Sure enough, she looked worse than I remembered. Yesterday, she was presenting something in the ‘all-hands’ meeting, hair tied up in a pretentious bun, wearing a blazer and suit skirt and the makeup! What an elaborate charade. Our manager couldn’t stop with his ‘Nitasha this’ and ‘Nitasha that’. And there I was, feeling like office furniture.

My cigarette had burned out and it was 5:00 PM. I came back to my desk and read the copy I’d been working on for the millionth time. I wanted to throw up. I mailed the document off and got up to leave. Sourav swivelled in his chair and gestured to ask where I was off to. “I’ll see you guys at 8…” I said, “feel I should check on my flatmate.”

He was looking smart in his blue shirt even though he hadn’t cared to shave. I knew he was going to say something nice about my shitty copy on mail. I knew he was going to turn the nonsense into pure gold. But a part of me suspected that he wasn’t immune to the charms of the Reemas and the Paris. Maybe it was time I turned into one of those types?

As I was riding my scooter, I remembered the time Sourav and I got talking over a couple of beers. We were the only two at the table, not dancing. He told me I was a lot like a character in the graphic novel he was working on. He showed me some of the drawings he had on his phone. I must have come across as a snooty person when I said something critical about the drawings, though in my mind, I was completely bowled over. I’m not sure if that was when this warm gooey feeling started to ooze whenever I saw him. For a whole year, I felt this feeling, secretly. I would find myself grinning at his jokes and thinking up ways I’d ask him out, if I ever did, which I never did.

If one of my girlfriends ever admitted to feeling like this, I’d be the first to pooh-pooh them for their lovey-dovey cliches. I’d be the one shooting bad-weather warnings at them about the boys till they stopped texting me altogether. And today, I found myself zipping over the flyover at 100 km/hr before clenching the brake. I slowed as I landed on the main road and passed a row of stores. I felt a fever grip me. I parked my scooter in front of one of the shops. There were white bald mannequins in red dresses, frozen in strange ballet poses. I walked into the store in a stupor. I hoped for a makeover and I knew that now was my time. There was a desperate hunger for change. I felt like tearing out of my kurta and jeans and letting out the butterfly that was trapped and miserable inside.

I tried to tune into the sort of running commentary I hear when Reema or Pari ‘review’ other girls’ outfits. ‘That would go so well with boots.’ ‘Why is she wearing that with a scarf?’ ‘I wouldn’t dream of wearing that if my arms were that flabby’. I tried to gather up the collective fashion wisdom from glimpses of people’s Facebook and Instagram feed. I remembered the one video I had saved on YouTube about how to dress for your body shape. Watching it I had thought “Why would I ever need this?” Sure enough, today, I was glad I watched it. The ideal dress shape for me was a fit-and-flare.

The condescending store assistant was sizing me up as I glared into the souls of dresses in the hangers, hoping to recognise the one for me, the soulmate who would rescue me. She asked me if I needed help. I stared at her, wondering what it was that I really needed help on. She helped shortlist half a dozen dresses and I started feeling euphoric. I tucked my tummy in and held my breath as I tried them on. I felt fat and ugly in some and just wanted to sit down and cry about letting myself go. I felt bad about the chips and the samosas. I was the pretty one in school, but look at me now. I knew this was all silly and couldn’t believe it was happening to me. But it was.

Then I tried the last dress I had queued. It was a dusty pink low-cut fit-and-flare. It hugged at all the right places and fell gently over, hiding all the wrong places. It was short enough to show and long enough to hide. My heart throbbed with excitement. Sure, people would be surprised. But this would take away the attention from that bitch. “I’m not bad at all!” I thought. I did a little twirl and it felt perfect. Now all I needed was shoes. I tried dozens of shoes at the mall nearby before picking a pair of red stilettos. There was a voice in me going, “Isn’t it a bit much? What if I fall face down and make a complete ass of myself?” I shut the voice out. I imagined looking into Sourav’s eyes and finding everything I wanted there.

I rode my scooter like I was figure skating on ice till I got home. My flatmate was munching Cheetos and watching Sex and the City. I ran into the bathroom in a delirious daze. I shaved my legs and washed my hair feeling like a fresh flower, a newborn baby. I showed my flatmate my new dress and shoes and she screamed in excitement. “What’s come over you, you donkey?” she cried. When I changed into my new dress, she screamed “Wait!” I froze. She pulled out pouches and clicked open little containers and cases. She got to work on my face with brushes and pencils, asking me to pout and open or close my eyes. What I saw in the mirror surprised me. I couldn’t believe I had this in me all along. It was just not anything I was used to. I felt so put-together, so picture perfect. “Well, the right time had to come,” I said to myself.

I was already late and pulled out my phone to book a cab and noticed a bunch of WhatsApp messages.
“Sorry fellas, down with a fever. You guys enjoy the night.” said Sourav at 7:30 PM.
“Me too. Down with a cold. The weather is really rotten. Can’t believe I’m having to skip out of my own welcome party,” said Nitasha at 7:32 PM.
There was a slew of sad smileys and get-well-soons, after which, our manager had come in and suggested we meet tomorrow. Everyone had agreed.

I logged into Facebook absent-mindedly. I was the only one from work on Nitasha’s friend list. She had posted a selfie of herself and Sourav with animated expressions. The cold air tingled past my hairless legs as my dress fluttered. My red stilettos seemed to dig holes into the earth under my weight. The uneasiness of my transformation began to grow on me. I hung up the dress on the cupboard handle in my room and let the stilettos slide off my feet. “What a relief!” I thought. I placed the stilettos under the dress, facing me, and stared at the person I didn’t become that evening.

Picture from https://www.flickr.com/photos/calotype46/

Facebook

Twitter

Google+

email