Advantage, Men

It’s not just a tennis court phenomenon. It’s advantage, men: off the court too.

Sample this.

Buying brassiere/lingerie is such an exhilarating experience these days. You get to try umpteen brands and shapes before you choose one. Or you could simply pick one off the shelf in any of those up market malls.

But there still are women in this part of the world who need to walk into a hosiery store, many of which have a salesman at the counter. When you state the required size, chances are, he’ll eye you like a pro, who has done nothing but measure up bosoms all his life, and state confidently: "That would be one size too short for you. Size ----- would fit you like a glove."

If you are a naïve behenji or an aapajaan, you’ll of course find such visual scan offensive. But, if you are smarter than him, which you probably are, you look him in the eye and shatter his confidence: "The size I want fits my granny to the T. Now, do you mind?"

Ever been to a chuRiwala? Ever had him slide bangles down your wrists?

If he were Farooque Sheikh as in Baazaar, then of course, you’ll want him and only him to fill your wrists with them jingling bangles. But not all of us are as fortunate as Supriya Pathak. Still, you should try the experience at least once in your life time. He’ll take your hand in his, press it from all sides and continue to do so as if it were a mango, till you too realize that it’s not a mango but your hand, and inform him: "Bhai saab, haath kaa’fi narm hochuka hai. Ab aap chuRi pehna sakte hain."

If there is ever a man who is privy to your vital statistics apart from the man in your life, it’s your good old tailor master. I’ve actually seen women walk into a 2x2 feet cubicle with the privileged master follow them like a puppy and deftly close the door behind him. After what seems like an eternity to those waiting outside, both emerge – he with a beatific smile on his countenance and she, still fumbling with her buttons/ shawl/ burqa/ whatever with the admonition so typical of us women: "Theek say silna; last time measurement deneke baad bhi aap nay loose rakh diya tha!"

If it’s a blouse that’s given on order, he’ll ask in all innocence: "Is baar katori wala banoo ya padded rakhoon?"

But unlike the adage, familiarity doesn’t breed contempt in this relationship. As with a spouse, it is one based on trust. You simply toss the material at the counter and issue the ultimatum: "Do din may chahiye."

Initially, he’ll mumble a meek, "measurement"?

You can hand over an old piece or simply say: "Andaze say si dena."

Sometimes, the andaza surpasses the real measurement in exactness. My sister-in-law is forever complaining about our tailor master: "Gadha, ullu ka patha, without measurement apke dresses itne fit silta hai; even after giving him the measurement, he stitches mine as if it were a tent!"

Thank God, for being in shape!

Last week, having finished my transactions at the bank, I headed straight to the show room on the opposite side, without realizing that it was a hot blazing afternoon outside with not a customer inside. The burly seth at the counter was aiming his fountain pen at imaginary goblins in the air.

Salesmen here and there were dusting boots and shoes for the eighth time probably since opening time. Others were rearranging the already rearranged samples in the glass paneled show cases. As I slid into a surprisingly comfy seat, one eager beaver approached me. He had a variety of models of the footwear I required placed at my feet and made himself, comfortable right there and proceeded to check the size of my foot as if I were Cinderella.

It’s de rigueur to do so here so I did not object or react. But my red alert sounded when, having put the straps of the stilettos in place, he pushed my shalwar an inch or two further up.

As a teenager I would have shrieked, What the h….? And invited the attention of the man at the counter, the dozen odd salesmen and the two dozen odd customers around, less to what the fuss was about and more to my exposed ankle.

But as age is supposed to mellow you down I decided against exercising my vocal chords and charged up the few gray cells that I have. I let him enjoy his 5 seconds of erection and pointing at four different sandals in four different corners of the showroom, sent him off to fetch me a pair each. He returned, huffing and puffing and panting (too much excitement, see) and again made himself comfortable at my feet. This time I was on guard. With the air of Cleopatra, I stopped him right in his track with the motion of my hand, tried the stilettos myself, picked one pair, headed to the counter, made the payment and walked out through the sliding door.

Not all men, ok, make that all salesmen, are such perverts though. You still have a gentlemanly breed, at your neighborhood pharmacies, which unfailingly wrap the sanitary napkin of your choice in a newspaper, tie it up with a thread and put it in a shopper, which again is black, never the transparent white.

Such men give me hope and courage. I might just walk into a pharmacy one of these days (I know, I know, such stuff as I want is easily available elsewhere, but still) and ask for a …… pack of condoms.