The setting sun had spread a crimson hue over the horizon. This hue kissed the ocean, caressed the clouds, met the smog over our charming suburb and turned into a fetching shade of grey, an appropriate color for the mood in the little coffee parlor where our group of thinkers assembles every evening.
Every one was happy, of course, with Rehman winning two Oscars and the movie Slumdog sweeping the Awards in general.
As a Strawberry Slush pointed out "If our municipal corporation swept these streets as thoroughly as Slumdog Millionaire has the Awards, life would be so much better"
But the greyness of mood was because of the low levels that womens clothes seem to have plumbed.
"This Freida Pinto", said a DoubleShot Espresso, "couldn't she have worn a saree or a salwar?"
"It's not just Freida. All of them, including Jessica Biel manage to look like hastily wrapped cotton bales", our impulsive host Mr. Shenoy averred, polishing the cups with agitation.
"I think it is time the truth was told" said Mrs. Shenoy. Our yearning eyes had turned towards her and as usual, the intelligent gleam in hers did not disappoint
It goes back to the time when my distant connexion SS went to the Oscars as an invitee. She had been part of the team that produced the movie "Gandhi" having discharged the valuable function of arranging an airconditioner on hire for the editing room ("Without which all this would never have been possible" -Richard Attenborough)
Back then (said Mrs. Shenoy, sipping her cappucino with a dash of cinnamon) as now, women invitees to the Awards function had to stand out in the crowd. Since the best way to stand out it a crowd is to look ridiculous, they all tried their best to look ridiculous, with the result that ridiculous became the norm.
Now my distant connexion thought she would try the clever strategy of looking ridiculous by not looking ridiculous, and draped a Kanjivaram. Imagine her shock and surprise when, just as she was getting into her Rolls, she found a burlap sack rudely put over her head and unceremoniously hurled into what smelt like a truck dedicated to the tuna transportation business.
After what seemed like an eternity, she was taken to a dark, dingy cellar where the designers Versace, Ralph Lauren, Galliano, Yves St. Laurent and Prada were sullenly standing in a line.
"Pick one", said a rough voice from the shadows, "and make it quick, before my trigger finger gets really itchy".
"Hahahaha!", the voice added sinisterly, and my connexion says nothing has curdled her blood more since the time her mother-in-law came to stay with her two sisters and an aunt.
Seeing no alternative other than compliance, she selected Galliano, who pulled out several large swathes of furnishing fabric and asked her to choose one.
"But...But this is curtain cloth!", my connexion exclaimed.
"Hush!" said Galliano. "You don't know who you're dealing with!"
"Who am I dealing with?" she asked
His voice now down to a whisper, Galliano told her that the entire operation was controlled by an international gang with the chief sitting in Russia. The gang, he said, picked up obsolete curtain cloth at distress sale prices and converted them into fashion garments retailing at $10,000 each.
"All of us are under their control!" he sobbed.
My connexion was moved. She chose a very large floral print and smuggled Galliano out by pretending he was part of the design.
"I had always believed Galliano was free, but the Jessica Biel dress shows that they must have caught up with him."
"Ah well, karma!"