Gaze of the goddess

The sari-frock to sari-blouse transition generated more excitement than a cricket world cup. And there were the inevitable fashion faux pas. Like the time a friend teamed up plastic butterfly clips with a pearl choker. Conversations were mostly on conquests, mostly imaginary. And there were the laments about what we’d do when we don’t have a school to go to. It was about feeling good and making others feel good. I remember once, after yet another disastrous maths exam, I appeared in a foul mood and the grubbiest sari I could find. I ended up getting compliments for a beautiful skin! Somehow bonhomie flowed — you talked to people you otherwise avoided. A classmate I spoke to on my last puja at school set herself on fire three months later. That was the last conversation we had had.

And there were gleaming aluminium buckets of steaming khichdi, cabbage curry and tangy tomato chutney. It was always the senior girls who served. They’d laugh and joke and, between servings, feed each other with the ubiquitous syrupy sweets. They were graceful, even when carrying buckets of dirty banana leaves. And we wondered whether we would be able to carry it off as well. Alas, our turn never came. By the time we were in Class X, the world had changed somewhat and liveried caterers were the order of the day.

Today, strangely, I find I couldn’t care less. A clean dress, the smell of marigolds and the incantations that I-thought-I-forgot-but-remember-somehow, and the day just perfect for me.