That Colorful Saree
Mr Sharma and Mr Joshi were at their verandahs again. They were anticipating the arrival of Smitha. She was a beauty to reckon with. Bold doe shaped eyes, those lined with deep kohl, lipstick - always a shade of deep red, pouty, that voluptuous body draped in hues of colorful sarees, clinging to her curves, accentuating them making her seem utmost desirable to everyone around.
"See the men are at it again," said the uppity lipped women. Awaiting that tramp. Escorting her with their naked eyes till her car where she hops and moves on to her next victim. Shameless totally, they snorted and declared her guilty.
In a moment, they heard the sound of her heels.
"There she comes, let us see what she's wearing that slut of a woman," they quipped.
Red heels, a multicolored striped saree, sequinned at the borders, tasseled at the pallu, complacent with the mood emerged in a mortal body that was the cynosure of all eyes. She smiled as she walked. That arrogant stride of hers. Conquering the world. She looked back and arranged her revealing blouse. Her saree played hide and seek with her cleavage and she knew the effect that she was having on everyone at that moment. Lips dried and tempers rose. But eyes stayed and stared. She cared less. She got into that infamous black sedan and sped away.
"There she goes, must be another man to bed in the early morning. Imagine her libido. But such women fake it all the time. It's her occupational hazard. Look at all these oldies here, leering at her, getting a turn on by simply gazing. Such a shame," the women lamented and judged her.
It was way past midnight when the bright lights outside her window woke her up. Mrs Sharma looked out in curiosity. There the bloody tramp comes, she contorted her face deviously.
"Arre, Mrs Joshi, sunte ho. That man eater has come just now. Let us gather tommorow morning to form a committee meeting. We cannot have such wayward people dwell here in a respectable society," she said.
Phew, let me go to bed. Tomorrow is a big day she mused.
The morning saw all residents gather at the courtyard. The men had gathered to see THAT lady and the women were simply waiting to get even with THAT lady who made them feel inferior.
"There she comes," someone called out.
Heads turned to reveal a surreal version of a woman clad in a grey, black and yellow hued saree. It cascaded on her ever so gracefully that it seemed to never let her go from it's sanguine clasp. She wore a deep cut blouse with yellow tassels that made a deep throaty chime when she walked. Her back glistened in the sunlight and her anklets lend music to sore senses. She was a vision, that day as she was always.
She walked past the crowd and got into the black car. The onlookers looked on mesmerized.
Mrs Sharma was more irate than ever. I will deal with her once she comes back, that vixen has everyone in her spell, let her be damned, she surmised.
Come back she did not. Not that day, nay the next. She must have fled looking at our turnout, thought an amused Mrs Sharma. Good riddance.
"The battle at the LOC is stronger than ever. Indian soldiers have been subject to continuous shelling and the casualties are higher than usual," boomed a familiar voice from the TV.
"This is Arpita, reporting live from Laksa."
As heads turned to look at the face to which the assertive voice belonged, they saw their famous slutty lady who was clad in a Nehru Jacket, on top of a plain black kurti. She bore the assemblage of a true blood journalist. And that is when all prejudices shrunk into oblivion. She seemed different and so pure in her work. She no longer seemed, well like a tramp.
The Colorful Dress,
The Multihued Sarees and the image of the tramp
had disappeared and in their minds a change evolved. Mrs Sharma and Mrs Joshi evaded their respective husbands and the societal public for sometime, lest anyone commented and confronted them for the misconceptions and misdoings. Life continued on as usual in the society.
As the black sedan screeched to a halt and she strode out in her colourful attire, all hands automatically met in unison to applaud for the fearless reporter who had braved the war to report from the frontier.
Let us simply ponder over some facts :
Is it right to judge someone based on their attire?
Is it right to come to a conclusion about someone just because they chose to be single?
Is it right to have prejudices formed on the basis of simply a profession?
Does the lack of a family mean moral values have been compromised?
Does one need to be in a noble profession to be applauded?
If a woman dresses up to please herself, is it wrong? Does it mean she's a whore?
I won't opine on the above questions. Those are for my readers to comment on. However, I will look forward to some much needed answers.