The Clothes Problem Again

I was late to class today. Not by much (the university clocktower was striking 11:00 as I ran into the building) but late nonetheless.

I was late because I didn't have anything to wear.

I didn't buy spring/summer clothes last year. While I was still in the US, I survived temping by cycling through three pairs of polyester slacks alternated with about five work-appropriate blouses. There was no air-conditioning in my apartment, so I would come home and strip to a pair of gym shorts and a tank top.

In India, I bought seven blue salwars (and one purple one -- and received one orange salwar and one silver salwar as gifts).

Long story short, there's not much in my closet that's appropriate to wear -- especially to teach -- on a warm spring day. All the temp-clothes have long worn thin. I have tried to rock a kurta over jeans, but even that just looks faded and limp, a reminder that all of my India clothes (and, in fact, all of my jeans) spent three months being washed and wrung out in a five-gallon bucket.

When I did slip into the large lecture hall, late and miserably shabby, one of the other TAs leaned over and whispered to me "don't worry, I still think you look hot."

In preparation for the upcoming move, I have started selling off seven years' worth of accumulated textbooks; I went to the theatre building lounge with a few large (and heavy) boxes, set up a makeshift display, and within the first day made $139. If I sell them all I'll have around $220. I had hoped to save the money for the move, but some of it may have to go toward clothes.

We will see.

We Just Figured Out Blue's Shoes

I first noticed it this morning, when I went in for my first interview of the week.

The look starts at the top of the head: sleek, shiny hair, pearls, crisp dotted-swiss blouse, decent suit, tidy manicure... and then it stops.

The eyes wrinkle. The meaning is clear.

What are these horrible shoes doing on this poor girl's feet?


I didn't think they were that bad when I bought them. Sure, they have the telltale orthopedic sole, but they don't really look like old lady shoes, right?

Yet in a world where every other woman is wearing calf-length stiletto boots, these shoes are 100% wrong.

I kept getting the look, particularly as the day wore on and my foot started to tire out. Of course, by then the look was changing from what's with the terrible fashion choice? to poor thing, there's obviously something wrong with her.

So I've got to figure out some way of preventing people from ever noticing my shoes. This might involve a longer pant cuff, or a distractive measure like a sudden burst of conversation.

It's a shame that I can't wear a handicapped tag like the one I currently have on my car. Something that says "Inside this ugly shoe is a toe that is still, technically, broken; the bone has only formed a hard callus and will take another month or so to fully heal."

Then there should be an asterisk with the note "And she was not drunk or anything like that when she broke it!" ^__^

Duct Tape Solves Everything

So... remember how I duct-taped the word "VOTE" to my sweatshirt for Super Tuesday?

Tonight I'm going to an Oscar party.

Racked my brains trying to think of a costume. (Everyone's going to go as Juno, right?)

Then I came up with a brilliant solution.

Grabbed duct tape, a jacket, and set out to spell "PUNK IS NOT DED."

Problem solved!

Meezes!

For those of you not in the know, one of my favorite games is the "can I make it look like me?" avatar game.

Today's adventure took me to Meez.com, home of the 3D Animated Avatar!

I've never been rendered in three-dimensional animation before.

Neither has my cat.

But I think she's enjoying all the petting.

Oh, and I did have the option to clothe myself in a blue salwar, although for some reason it did not include a dupatta, so I elected not to wear it (it would feel so... incomplete).

Anyway.

Here it is!

Happy Thanksgiving!

I am certainly the only person in my hometown -- perhaps the only person in the state -- who is wearing a blue jute silk salwar for Thanksgiving dinner. But... clothing that pretty shouldn't stay in a box.

We're also having kheer for dessert, along with the pumpkin pie. (That is, if it turns out. It ought to, unless there are unforeseen complications in the whole "boiling rice in milk" thing.)

Happy Thanksgiving!

Never Wear A Chiffon Sari Garba-Dancing. Seriously.

Now that we're into Navarati/Dussera, people are starting to organize garba and dandiya parties. I had been hoping to attend one, and had carefully packed the dandiya sticks I bought at last year's Navarati (hosted by my university's Indian Students' Association) and carried them to India with me in my suitcase.

So I was very excited to be invited to a garba/dandiya party in Bangalore.

Being the prepared type that I am, I had also packed a delicate jute silk salwar (ten points if you can guess the color) which I had planned to wear while dancing. However, on the morning of the party we learned that women who wore saris (Gujarati-style, of course) would get into the event for free.

And so I wore my pink synthetic-chiffon sari (with its horribly "frumpy" blouse, as some of you have noted) to the dancing arena.

When I wore the sari to the opening night of Tempest, I had such a good time and wore it so easily that I thought I might begin to invest in a small collection.

After last night, I am thinking that one pink sari is probably one sari enough.

When we arrived at the arena, we were told that no footwear could be worn inside the dancing tent. Off came my strappy heeled sandals, and I was left kicking at the pleats of a sari that was now about two inches too long.

As we began the dancing, I found myself struggling to keep both my sari and my hair from falling down. (Since I stopped using hairspray, my hair has become much happier but has also taken on a life of its own. It cannot be contained, and comes loose from every braid or bun into which it is tied. And how a twenty-inch strand of hair can work its way out of a French braid is beyond me.)

Undoing my hair was easy (and Rohit likes it better that way anyway), but I couldn't very well undo my sari. My host, realizing the problem, pinned the front pallu to my blouse in a few strategic locations, but I still had to be very careful where I stepped (particularly when dancing backwards) and occasionally resorted to hiking the thing up in one hand.

The arena itself was crowded. It was like dancing on a bus. When we formed the circles for dandiya, we were pressed so tightly together that most of us were dandiya-ing with only one stick, since there was only room to extend one arm. ^__^ Also, no one seemed to agree on the pattern of tapping and turning, so (although the music was clearly in five) I would turn to meet partners who would be working in patterns of six or eight. So it was not a very synchronized dandiya, but it was great fun.

Next year, though -- salwar all the way. ^__^

Yay! Show!

Well, we had us a show.

The house was packed. People were sitting in the aisles. My students were energetic, and (thank goodness) focused. They held for laughs. They didn't forget any props. They told their story neatly and succinctly -- and with a bit of flair, too!

Afterwards, there were two kilos of ladoos waiting for them. (That comes out to two per student, but it sounds better by weight.)

I want to post pictures. I desperately want to post some pictures. But I know I should ask their permission first, and I don't know how to mention "I want to put your faces on the internets" without mentioning where, and... so... yeah.

In the meanwhile, you may have my picture. In the sari, of course. The face is my "you have a show to prepare for, why are you taking this time to take my picture!" face. ^__^

Oh, and to the right you can see Prospero's winged staff. The one the students built, after all. Doesn't it look great?

An Unexpected Pedicure

My blog's attracted some new readers as of late (yay! and welcome!), so you might not all remember this post, in which I painted my toenails with some nasty pink polish I bought at a kirana.

I've been reapplying said nail polish about once a week thereafter -- and dreaming about a proper pedicure.

Too expensive, I thought. Just keep enough paint slapped on those nails so they don't look gross, and you'll do fine.

Oh, I retaliated (to myself, of course), but you want your feet to look pretty for the opening of Tempest, especially since you'll be wearing that pretty pink sari...

So today curiosity got the best of me and I poked my head into Santoshi's Herbal Beauty Salon (Ladies Only), the on-campus beauty parlor. The place had always looked a little creepy because the owners had taken it upon themselves to paint all of the windows black, probably to prevent wandering male eyes. The result, of course, was that Santoshi's looked rather like the Herbal Beauty Salon of Evil. Which is why it took me seven weeks to walk inside.

Behind the black-painted windows was a colorful, vibrant room full of young women getting threaded, pop music on the stereo, and posters of film stars.

"Hello!" a cheerful woman called out to me. "What do you want?"

"Um..." I thought about how to phrase this. "Do you paint toenails?"

The woman turned to a student who was getting her hair cut and said something in Telugu, probably something along the lines of "What is this crazy American woman asking me to do?"

"I mean... a pedicure?"

The woman smiled and nodded. Evidently "pedicure" translated. Of course, obviously it would. The language of beauty is universal.

I had meant to say something along the lines of "Do you do pedicures, and how much does it cost, and can I come back in a few days?" but my cheerful host had already begun filling a small bowl with hot water. "Come!" she said. I came.

I've only had a pedicure once before, and it was a singularly delicious experience. Hot paraffin, fluffy towels, little rows of cotton between the toes, a massaging chair, etc. This pedicure was... well... it was effective, and efficient, and (as it turns out) ridiculously inexpensive, but much, much more painful. We're talking "scrubbing off the callouses at my heels with a piece of ridged metal" painful. And -- for whatever reason -- instead of clipping my toenails, the length was rubbed off with a nail file.

Still, one can't knock the results. Don't they look pretty?



(And yes, now you have proof. I have big feet and I cannot lie.)

Wearing the Sari

I have a problem with my pink sari. Actually, two problems. Length and width. ^__^

I know how to drape it; that is, I know the mechanics of draping it. Tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck all the way around, pleat, fold the pleats into the waistband, wrap the length around the body without tucking and throw the pallu over the shoulder. (If we’re doing it Gujarati-style, the pallu hangs in front.)

And when I drape my pretty pink sari, it looks like it should… from the front. I looked in the mirror and thought “wow, I did it!” Then I glanced behind me and noticed that the pallu was trailing onto the floor. That is to say, the length of the part “tossed over my shoulder” was longer than I was tall, and dragged behind me by nearly eighteen inches.

So I did it again. This time I tried to use up that length by making many more pleats. This was partially successful; but to really bring the pallu to where it should be (the decorative part begins at my shoulder, yes?) I would need to make enough pleats to cover several feet of fabric.

Which brings me, of course, to the second problem: that all the folded and tucked material is extremely bulky around my waist. To get it to the right height, I have to tuck a good deal of it into the ghagra, and it makes everything look all puffy. Which, combined with the lingering effects of “rice belly,” is not exactly attractive.

Perhaps I should wear the sari only in situations where I will be viewed exclusively from the front. From this view, I look like a glamorous Bollywood heroine. But from the side and the back, I look disastrous.

Or I could just learn how to wear it properly. ^__^

Editor’s Note: You’re probably wondering why there are no pictures. She made a veiled reference to an “important item” she bought a few days ago; it had to do with getting her camera fixed and in working condition. Unfortunately, the camera is still (like the lead character in a Karan Johar film) incomplete. Thus… no pictures, for now.

Pretty Pink Sari!

I now own my first sari. I bought it at Lakshmi Bazaar, in Koti. It’s a ridiculously cheap sari in synthetic chiffon, but I couldn’t see the value in paying a lot of money for something I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to wear.

So this one I’m treating kind of like a test. If I can keep it on, manage it gracefully, etc. in the privacy of my hostel room (and maybe on the visiting faculty verandah), then I’ll invest in something a little nicer. If not, it was Rs 200 including ghagra and choli, and every firengi who goes to India comes back with a sari, right?

It’s pink. I have five blue salwars, now, but one pink sari.

After all, I promised Vikram Seth that the first sari I bought in India would be pink.

Here’s the story: after I finished reading Suitable Boy I wrote Vikram Seth a fan letter. It’s the only fan letter I’ve ever written in my life. (I wrote Stephen Sondheim, once, but that was to ask for an internship. He sent a sweet personal note in return, declining.) I knew it was awfully silly to write a fan letter to an author who rarely interacted with his readers, and I didn’t expect a response, and I don’t even know if he ever got it (sent it via his publisher). But in it I wrote that… well, I’ll just reproduce it for you.

And so I wanted to write you, because one can’t write Mr. Pasternak or Ms. Austen or Mr. Shakespeare, even though sometimes we wish we could, and because I wanted to tell you that I am going to India for the first time this August, to study and direct a play in Hyderabad, and that my first sari, when I get one, will be a pink sari, as a subtle but definite expression of thanks. I’ve done things in honor of books I’ve loved before (I named my first cat Dinah) but I have never had the privilege of being able to tell the author.

Yeah, I know. (And it’s pink because Lata was always described wearing pink saris, except for the blue one she wore at the railway station, the blue one Meenakshi loaned her, and the one which Haresh could not tell was blue or green.)

And I wrote that letter a long time ago, but I still kept my promise. I always keep the promises I make to literary figures, even if they never knew I made them. ^__^

Thoughts on Salwars, Part Two

Here's a quiz.

The extra material around the waist of a salwar pant was originally included because:

A. It helps the woman to look "prosperous" and thus improves her status.
B. It allows for expansion/contraction as a woman's figure changes, e.g. pregnancy.
C. It has some other cultural significance that I haven't yet thought of (or read).
D. It's just the quickest way to sew up a pair of pants.

Survey says?

The "None Of My Clothes Fit Me Anymore" Post

As you can tell, my favorite subjects seem to be "education" and "my appearance."

I know. Am v. shallow.

At any rate, am astonished at the amount of weight I've lost since arriving in India. Some of it may have to do with the additional miles I walk every day; some of it may have had to do with a bit of gastric distress (it's over now, as far as I can tell), and some of it may have to do with the food.

Or, as one of my students asked this afternoon, "Do Americans really eat potato chips every day?"

(This was after my students were complaining that they wanted chai, and I told them that I wanted a sandwich and a bag of potato chips, but we couldn't always get what we wanted. ^__^)

At any rate. Everything not including a drawstring is now held up with safety pins. I'm tempted to go buy some more clothes, because it's always fun to buy more clothes, but I've got a sneaking suspicion I'll grow back out of them once I return to Potato Chip Land.

Eh... may do it anyway. At least I'll give those churidar another try. ^__^

I Am My Own Dhobi

When I told the visiting theatre faculty (one day on the veranda, with a cup of chai) that I was planning to wash my own clothes while in Hyderabad, they looked at me like I was out of my mind.

“Get a dhobi,” they said.

“Would that be the woman I saw yesterday rinsing out a stack of men’s dress shirts in the lake?” I retorted. “I’m going to use Woolite and my five-gallon bucket.”

So yesterday I did a big load of clothing, mostly unmentionables and such, agitating them in the bucket and then rinsing them out at the tap. They drip-dried from the clothesline strung across my room (making my room look a bit like the chawl from Guru, minus, of course, Abhishek Bachchan), and came out smelling fresh as roses.

The three pairs of blue jeans I brought with me, however, were another matter. We’ve been having monsoons off and on, and all three pairs were muddy and stinking. I didn’t know if Woolite could handle this much dirt, so I thought I would pay a visit to the dhobi after all.

But upon arrival I found a few unexpected complications. First was that this poor woman was apparently dhobi for the entire university. She had piles and piles of clothes stacked around her, and the young girl hovering nearby told me that it would take three days before there would be room for mine. Second was that the dhobi didn’t speak English and I, of course, didn’t speak Telugu, and so I was a little unsure as to whether I could accurately communicate my name and address, and fearful that I might never get my pants back at all.

So I returned my stinking jeans to my little room and filled up the five-gallon bucket.

When I was finished, the water was so brown it was almost black. But those pants were clean.

Science types, please help me: how is it that by plunging a pair of dirty jeans into a bucket of soapy water and churning them around and around for five minutes, the dirt somehow magically separates from the jeans and sticks to the water? Just curious. ^__^

The Nail Polish Post

Just a quick note, because I know you are all so interested in my couture and makeup.

So I went to the little student canteen yesterday to see if I could find some nail polish. I knew they had soap and things (having gone to purchase it when I was sans luggage), and I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask.

The man behind the counter pulled out an extremely dusty box and set down four tiny bottles of polish: Fire Engine Slut Red, Fruit-of-the-Loom Grape Man Purple, the one shade of brown that you do want to turn down, and (for the theatre techies who will get the reference) Surprise! It's Pink!

I chose Surprise! It's Pink!

I have a sneaking suspicion that this nail polish hit its expiration date long ago, but as I wasn't planning to ingest it, I went ahead and painted it on.

And then I looked at my feet and realized that my toenails were now the same color as the eighty-odd insect bites scattered nearby. (No new ones, btw -- the odomos cream is working well.)

Great. Color me attractive!

The "What Am I Going To Wear (On My Feet) In India" Post

I've had a particular pair of shoes in mind for a while. They would be both pretty and comfortable, suitable for long walks, easy to run quickly in (if necessary), and able to slip on and off.

Thanks to the Fourth of July sales, I was able to nab them. For 50% off!*

Theoretically these should then be the only pair of shoes I need to take with me (as they adorably match all the clothes I've mentally pre-packed), and if I find I need another pair of shoes, I can buy them in Hyderabad.

That should have been all I needed to purchase today, but this past week my beloved boho bag, which I've carried for about four years and which I planned to take with me to India, ripped a big hole into it. (S. asked me how that possibly could have happened. I hinted that it probably had something to do with all the junk I shove in there.)

So I found I needed to buy a purse. And I went to every store in the mall searching for one. And I realized that somewhere in the past four years when I wasn't looking, the style changed from "purses on long straps that can be slung across the chest" to "purses on tiny straps that have to be carried somewhere in the armpit."

I went from store to store looking for something that could actually be worn on the body, instead of having to be clutched or clasped. And of the (few) purses I found that had decent-length straps, I then had to hunt for one that actually closed at the top, instead of leaving itself open for all the pickpockets of the world to slide their fingers in. (You would be surprised at how many purses have no form of top-closure. What is the point?)

And, once I found those purses, I then had to pick out one that matched the shoes. ^__^

The results are below. Darling, yes?



* Editor's Note: She is well aware that "50% off" is a mere gimmick designed to lure people into the stores. She is equally aware that she did not actually "save" any money buying these shoes, as they are always priced as high as the market will bear regardless of any 50% signs, and that there is no true "full price," and that she is not planning to put the money the shoes would have cost into a savings account (the only real way to "save" anything).

Also, while she has your attention, she would like to remind everyone that although today is technically an American "holiday," it is also a normal workday for nearly half of the American workforce -- coincidentally the lower-paid half, the half less likely to get the opportunity for a paid vacation day at another time (if ever). She would write more, but she would have to go find a soapbox to match her shoes.

The "I Don't Know What To Wear In India" Post

As I'm just a little over a month from my trip (are you excited???), I am beginning to put together a packing list of sorts for Hyderabad.

One of my primary concerns is that I will be working at the university as a guest director/teacher, but all of my current clothing screams "starving threadbare graduate student."

Sure, I could play that, but I'd rather not. I'd like to dress -- well, if not "to impress," at least "to radiate competence and professionalism."

In short, to look like a for-real grownup teacher. ^__^

The faculty uniform in the US, of course, is fairly casual, although a good few levels above the things I generally wear (not by choice, Team Readers -- by economic necessity ^__^).

I don't really know what the faculty uniform is like in India, though, particularly for women.

Skirts? Slacks? Salwar? Saris? Blue jeans?

As you can see my head is all in a tizzy.

For those who have been there: what would a woman working at a university wear?

Thanks in advance. Y'all rock.

International Fair: Pretty Red Kurta!

The International Fair was a great deal of fun. The town in which my university is located has an extraordinarily high desi population, so the Indian booths were quite the star of the show.

I must say, though, that I was a little piqued by the advertising. The signs all said "Eat Your Way Around The World! Admission $2!" and so I went up to the door and paid my two dollars, and then discovered that the $2 only gave me the privilege of walking through the door and smelling the food, as everything inside was an additional... well... more dollars.

In addition to food, the various student organizations were selling "stuff." Team Japan brought Hello Kitty dolls and male and female Pocky ("male Pocky" is bitter chocolate, and "female Pocky" is sweet -- yes, this was written on the packaging), Team Korea was selling Barbie-style plastic dolls in traditional Korean clothing... and Team India was selling kurtas.

I could not believe it. They were beautiful. And, as my eyes lingered over the delicate embroidery, in swooped the official Student Sales Representative (whom, incidentally, I really, really liked -- the following story is not meant to be pejorative, but rather a testament to his skill).

And he began holding each kurta out in turn, folding, refolding, holding them up to my skin, telling me about their history and condition and the student who brought them all the way from Bombay to sell at this student fair, and of course I mentioned that I was planning to travel to India, so then each kurta became "This one will look beautiful on you in India. You could also think about getting more than one for your travels. This one will look beautiful too!"

In the end, I ended up with the most expensive and elaborately ornamented kurta of the lot. Before anyone accuses me of spendthriftiness, it was the only one which actually fit me -- I am a petite woman by any country's standards. It was priced at $20.

"Do you like that one?" the Sales Rep asked. "I can get you a discount because you are going to India and I want to make sure you get a pretty kurta. What if we said, say, $17.50?"

Shit! I thought. This is where I'm supposed to haggle and I don't know how!

"$17.50 sounds great!"

So I went home with a pretty red kurta (that is to say, white cotton with red embroidery and beadwork). It came, like a Karan Johar film, incomplete -- I had to stitch on the sleeves myself, but stitch them on I did.

I went back to the second day of the International Fair, because my lunch break between paper tech and rehearsal coincided with the Indian Student Association's scheduled "cultural performance." I was hoping for some kind of Audience Participatory Bhangra, but it turned out to be a classical music performance... still perfectly enjoyable.

And I wore the pretty red kurta, just to see what would happen. I went over to the food station to buy a samosa, and this whisper began circulating through the group gathered there -- "She's the one who bought it. She's the one who bought the red kurta." And suddenly people were talking to me, asking me about my trip, telling me about themselves, and offering me free food because I was a "friend of India."

It turns out that I was the only person who bought any of the beautiful kurtas. At the end of the fair they were all sitting on the table just like they were when I first saw them. It seems a shame. I suppose, though, that if any of them sold, it was a good thing for the student group that they were able to sell the prettiest, most expensive one.

And now I have a pretty red kurta to wear in turn with my pretty blue salwar. Soon I will try to post a picture.