Srilaaji: the Gilded Life and Longings of a Marwari Goodwife by Shobhaa De

Author:Shobhaa De
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: S&S India
Published: 2020-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

WIDOW

Men still stared at my breasts. That was nice! Why lie? I hate it when women pretend they get offended when men look pointedly at their breasts. It is natural. Normal. Yes, women don’t stare at men’s crotches. Unless the men are wearing ‘langots’. Then, of course, that is the only place the eyes go. Langots and ballet-dancer tights. Those, too. They conceal just enough to arouse our curiosity. Rather, forget curiosity—to arouse. I enjoy being aroused. It makes me feel wiggly and slightly giddy. Especially if I am in a car and there are many speed breakers on the road.

I had once asked a friend if she also felt the same, and she glared at me. ‘You are a pervert … you know that, Srilaa? A full pervert! Good, clean girls don’t feel dirty things like that. We keep that part which is down there only for our husbands. Not for ourselves.’ I ignored her. And in any case, she stopped talking to me. How stupid! So, even though, I was happy with my breasts and all that, I was not happy-happy. I was missing having a man in my life. A proper man. My precious solitaires were gone. ‘That Man’ had pocketed them neatly, after almost choking me to death. I realised I had left them in the hotel room. I started calling them my ‘bad luck’ solitaires. But they were a small price to pay for my freedom. I wasn’t paralysed any more. I was breathing better. My voice was back. So was my appetite—for everything.

I looked at myself in the full length bathroom mirror—not bad! Well … not perfect, either. Everyone in my circle was doing pilates, had personal trainers, went to the gym regularly, walked and swam. I did nothing. Men still talked to my chest, though. So, I felt fine! Here I was, hitting forty (actually, I had hit it long ago, but I always lied), and my breasts were holding up really nicely—not droopy at all. Even I talked to my breasts from time to time. They were sweet and comforting and I enjoyed staring at their different shapes, which altered according to my posture. I was not body obsessed, as such. But which woman is not vain? Despite feeling confident about myself on most levels, I still felt a lack of energy. I think it had to do with my diet. And an overall sense of non-fulfilment, which wasn’t directly related to men and how they treated me. I hated my daily life and what appeared on the dining table. Even though Marwari kitchens had undergone a dramatic change, our meals were far too rich and oil soaked. I developed acidity and a bad temper.

One day, while I was arguing with a very grouchy Maharaj about the amount of oil he used in our everyday meals, an idea struck me—‘Diet food for Marwaris’. Especially for Marwaris. Sounded like a contradiction in terms, I know, but the Marwaris of my generation had also changed.

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