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Journalism of Courage
For just the right amount of twist and turn at the hip-bone, for the sloping danger curve on which the designer gown stubbornly clings, like a possessive lover’s clamp. For those thighs out of which any hint of sneaky adipose has been wrung out, arms that reflect the stainless steel of gymnasiums, breasts which have been cut down, or blown up, to size, just right for that sheer dress, the bikini, the designer choli.
There is so much beauty in this country, we can’t seem to take it. Even the world, the universe can’t get enough of it. Imagine the thought, history’s signposts of colonialism, yesterday’s Third World case studies, balancing the shiny happy tiaras by evening light. Our new kingdoms, Asia and the Pacific, the World, the Universe.
We always had it in us, we were just waiting for the gift wrapping to make it past the customs and the paperwork. Till then, we practised our charms on people like us. How our hearts blipped like dots on a radar screen when they told us at 15 that finally, in defiance of the process of evolution, we had grown up. That finally, we were in the reckoning too. When we were made to clutch diyas at functions, when we stood with garlands to welcome tourists. When we were pulled out of queue for that all-important school play or folk dance. When we dropped our amply powdered necks like swans when they matched us measurement for measurement with the advertised copy on the classifieds. When we sold blades, bikes, colas, men’s apparel, air conditioners.
So it took the defenders of the faith, the cosmetic companies, the hair care gurus, the powder-and-puff pashas and the geniuses who created the bar-that’s-not-actually-soap to build the stage we now stand on. To give us the podium from where we now tower over those snivelling, non-happening Other Women with uncool paunches and ill-fitting clothing and bad teeth.We are now perfect, like warm eggs, tough on the outside, tender within. Because we care, our eyes stream and our noses run when our worth is evaluated and marked up. Our heats bleed at all those less fortunate, the ones perched outside the borders of our lives, not too far away from our stage of honour. Who don’t have the fortune to visit a beauty parlour and the vision to see this beauty that’s surrounding them, shining high above and blinding in its brilliance.
Both our bustlines and our brains are in perfect sync: our ample supply of grey matter reminds the carping stubborn die-hards that We Are Not Dumb. And our bodies beautiful are our private gifts to those who like it the old-fashioned way, when women only looked good and did little else. Before liberalisation lost a couple of syllables to symbolise liberation.
And like the beautiful sky above, we are spread out far and away. The black and white tube may not convince you about our peachy lips and brown streaked hair, but it’s good enough to capture our Fem-fair skin and our Dove-white complexion. We don’t just rule the neighbourhood, the world and the universe, but the very heart of India, the small and big towns struggling to out-shine the neon-bright urban dreamboats. The streets where we walk hoping to be pulled out of the sheer ordinariness of it all and ushered into the salon of fame and praise. The cinema halls, the malls, the eating places, the campuses, the canteens and the schools, where our mommas and papas and teachers breed and groom us for judgement day.
There is so much beauty in this world, even the men are falling in line, joining us in the gyms and the parlours, matching us facial for facial, accent for accent, profundity for profundity.
Gotta move with the times.
