Skip to main content

Suited N Booted

Dear MLK Jr., 

Forgive me for shamelessly borrowing your inspiring phrase to describe a yearning that is as insipid and shallow as your's was noble and glorious. But I too have a dream. 

That one day, I will watch a movie where the male protagonist, needing an urgent change of clothes, is handed these on cue by the comely heroine or casually finds them on a clothesline or a hole-in-the-wall emporium. As he puts on the shirt and trousers, he locks smoldering eyes with the woman, the electricity in the air enough to power a small city. And then stops with a puzzled expression. 

Because the fucking clothes don't fit. 

Never, and I do not exaggerate, have clothes I have received as gifts fit me perfectly. Some well-wishers who last saw me as a small boy blamelessly assume that Nature would have taken its course, and that I'd become a strapping young man. They (and I, come to that) have been cheated by Nature, because I stopped growing in height at 17. 

Leaving school as a chap of average height amongst my peers, I returned to junior college a pygmy amongst Redwood trees. While the rest of my classmates experienced growth spurts that would have any gardener waxing soliloquent, my pituitary gland never got the memo and oiled off to a long lunch. I was left in an awkward (a word that I'd exemplify completely) shirt size; a shade too big for the largest size in the kids section and a jot too small for the smallest size in the adults section. 

Not wanting to leave my torso feeling lonely no doubt, my waist joined the melee too. Trousers and shorts therefore either choke off all circulation or slip off with all the soundless finesse of any on-screen towel. 

Then there are those kind-hearted souls who glance at me thoughtfully and think of me as a native Tom Thumb. Their idea of clothes for me misses the mark by about 3 sizes, leaving every protuberance startlingly visible. 

It's a great pity that custom-made clothes are out of fashion because I was born for them. I don't have all my clothes tailored because good outfitters are hard to find and their fees so dear, I could only afford a loincloth. Besides, (and consistently enough) I can't, in all honesty, call my body a sartorial dream. It is more a jumbled mound of boulders than an elegant crag; a baobab rather than a pine; a yam rather than... Anyway, you get the idea.

So, whenever I receive unsolicited gifts that happen to be clothes, I sort them into 2 piles; the swaddling type coveted by shepherds and children in Bethlehem mangers, or the hideously tight collection favoured by greasy, sunglasses-sporting men and certain film stars who shall remain nameless.

 Meanwhile, I wait to discover the clothing line that understands my pain and welcomes me with nice long-sleeved shirts and smart trousers that fit me like a dream. Needless to say, I will provide my saviour enough doubloons and shekels to send their children to fancy universities, on foreign junkets and help with a lifetime's supply of dental care. Until then, I shall make do with that sad and defeat-soaked word - 'alterations'.

Don't even get me started on shoes. 

Song for the moment: Middle Man - Jack Johnson

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Night Boat

I usually don't write honest pieces. They're true to facts but I tend to lather my emotions and thoughts with a heavy dose of attempted humour or misdirection. This post deserves some raw emotional honesty, though.

Yesterday, 29th August, a Tuesday (or should I say, another Tuesday) was about me making choices. It was raining quite heavily when I left for office, sheeted down the windows of the train throughout the 1-hour journey to Churchgate and kept going with renewed intensity by the time I made it to the entrance, looking verily like something that had drowned in a gutter and lain there a while before being discovered by a cat and dragged in. I made the choice to go to work as I suspected my boss would be there and not because I wanted to go.

I was right about my boss but that cardiac fizz of being right flattened out rather rapidly once I realised, around 11:30 am, that no one else from my team of 20 had bothered to make a similar effort. And, some of these guys live 5 …

Last of my kind

(This post hasn't come out as well as I wanted. But I'm still pissed off, so.)

Why do we have heroes? What is it about someone that triggers a decision to nail our colours to their mast? I don't have a neat answer so what you read from here on is both an explanation and an exploration. In a post-modern world driven by counter-points, certainty is a luxury.

I missed the boat when it came to India's ODI cricket madness. We moved abroad in the late 80s. When I left, my friends and I wanted to be Kapil, Kris or Sunil. When I returned, god was getting comfortable on his heavenly couch and all was right with a world I did not recognise. I had missed Sachin's opening batsman debut against New Zealand, the hullabaloo of the Hero Cup and other notable moments. So, I was interested in cricket, not any particular sportsman. Not even during the '96 World Cup. When India muffed it against Sri Lanka, I hurt for the team, not for a player.

Then came Dravid. And, personally, …

Drink up and be somebody

Dear Reader,

History will boldly testify that your favourite blogger is usually slow on the uptake, a state of affairs that's blooming with each passing year like a reverse-Revital. "Why this self-harshness, G", you may ask? Well...

I've been doing the Bom-Pune-Bom trips for 9 years and it's taken about that long to accept that MSRTC Shivneri, still the best bus service of them all, simply cannot (or, realistically, will not) cope with 3-day weekends. Since my job profile does not allow me to plan my travel in advance on said Fridays, I land up at Dadar, view the queue of potential passengers snaking a long way from the ticket window and mentally prepare to arrive home at the hour of morning reserved for sheepish teenagers and dacoits. The Expressway doesn't help anyone's cause thanks to truck drivers spreading themselves generously across 3 lanes and clogging the Lonavala pass to a point where the traffic jam is about 3 km long. A stretch that would tak…