Sartorial Gaucherie

Recently, a friend of mine, who doesn't quite maintain a certain minimum standard in wearing decent clothes, told me, quite sheepishly ofcourse, about a very amusing incident. It seems he was standing in some shop waiting for the shopkeeper to hand over to him the items he had ordered. A lady entering the shop was deceived by his appearance into thinking that he was the shopkeeper's assistant boy. She apparently stood in front of him and was staring at him, expecting him to ask her 'Memsaab, kya chaahiye ?". My dear friend was oblivious to this, and was staring somewhere into deep space, one hand on his hips, the other drumming the latest tune of some Tamil film. Ofcourse, the lady mistook his idyllic behaviour for dereliction of duty and, much to his surprise, poked him in his side, near the ribs, and snapped, "Ja, mere liye woh Fair and Lovely ka cream leke aa."

Something like that happened with me too, many years ago. Now, I am not overly fastidious as far as clothes go, but I do enjoy wearing good clothes. I may not be fashionable, but the clothes I wear outside home aren't that bad either. But there was a time when I was young, when I wasn't the slightest bothered as to what I was wearing or how my hair clumped over my head. In fact, I was anti-fashion. (Ofcourse, my hair has almost always been in a frowzled state, and though now I care how it looks like, it still is.)

I was spending my summer vacations with my grandparents, and had just arrived there the previous day. They live in a building that has three lifts - the centre one is for residents and their guests, and the two lifts on either side of this lift are for the working class people. I don't quite care for this differentiation, and back then, certainly didn't. My grandmother sent me to buy some grocery items. I checked which lift was closest to my floor, and since the third one (the working class one) was the nearest, I pressed the button for that lift. When I came back from the shopping, I saw that that all the lifts were on the ground floor. So I naturally started walking towards the centre lift.

This was me. A cheap polythene bag in my hand, containing an assortment of vegetables - dhaniya, tamaatar, onion and the like. Rubber slippers on my foot. A very shabby and old pair of shorts, and an equally shabby, and moreover stained T-shirt. There were a few holes in it too - it was one of my old favourites and its material had become soft over the years. Hence, inspite of the holes, I used to wear it, especially on hot, humid afternoons such as those of Bombay in May. And the hair. Oh, that wild sweaty dishevelled shock of hair, that has scared off so many potential caresses from loving aunts, soiled many pillow-cases and made barbers wonder whether they should borrow those grass-cutters from the nearby gardener.

Well, I was told to take the other lift. "Main yahaan rehta hoon.", said I, and walked into the centre lift, wondering whether the liftman had gone nuts. The liftman had no option but to operate the lift. He did give me some peculiar stares though.

And that was that.