Being the quintessential good girl
Priyamedha Sengupta
It was her 18th birthday… entering adulthood!
Certainly it was a moment to rejoice. You get to vote, can finally get to have
your driving license (of course you sneakily stole your dad’s car keys and
drove about the streets when your parents were snoring aloud), a taste of
liquor perhaps (just a taste, no getting sloshed) and of course get married.
No, she wasn’t being married off at 18 only, but the grooming thing had already
started. From her very childhood she had led a much disciplined life. Going to
bed at 10, waking up at 6, meticulously brushing her teeth twice a day with
Pepsodent (how her father freaked out when they had to settle for Colgate, as
Pepsodent had run out of stock), a cup of bournvita, two slices of bread,
cheese omlette, and an apple for breakfast (expect Sundays when daddy used to
be at home and it was mummy’s duty to dish out some delicacies for him after a
week’s hard work), the same chicken sandwiches accompanied her to school. She went
for those so called “drawing classes” after school, where the teacher dozed off
after a while, leaving imagination to guide them in their artistic attempt. No
she couldn’t gorge on some roadside delicacies post school, for she was
terrified of bacterial poisoning! She
was told scary stories by her parents how the tamarind water would contain
little tamarind and more of E. coli. Of course she did get to watch television
for an hour after she completed her algebra homework, but had to hand over the
remote to daddy at 9 without any arguments as Arnab Goswami will be playing the
devil’s advocate to a local MP accused of money laundering. Soon the clock
would strike 10 and she would have to creep into her cozy bed after finishing
her usual dinner of rotis and mixed vegetables (High fiber meal!). As she grew
up, she had to introduce certain additional activities to her routine like
washing her own stuff, learning how to make the perfect rotis and shorshe
ilish, greeting the guests with a perfect namaste. No matter how badly her
heart wanted to add a burgundy hue to her hair, she had to apply the locally
produced Mehendi paste. No backless, no strapless, no stilettos! She once
happened to like a guy in her locality …and it seemed that the feeling was
mutual. How they would steal glances at each other, be it the bijoya sammilani,
post saraswati puja cultural program or just returning from tuition classes.
One day the guy mustered enough courage and approached her with a bunch of
daisies and a fruit and nut chocolate bar. The girl was ecstatic, not because
the guy brought daisies instead of the “oh-so typical roses”, it was happening
for the first time. It was all rainbows and unicorns for her until her mother
found out about the entire thing! Mother had received a cultural shock, as to
how her very obedient daughter indulged in such a thing, which she considered
nothing short of a blasphemy. The girl had no choice but to give up to her
mother’s tears and stopped meeting the guy, averted her eyes whenever they met on
the streets. The guy though initially heart broken, was soon seen to romp about
with another Sheila, the only difference was he gave her orchids and ferrero
rocher! The girl got too engrossed in her own life. She was a good student, had
become a great cook, a maestro at knitting, sewing and threading and most
importantly had reached her marital age (if you consider 25 to be one) .
Anxious parents started their search for a suitable boy. After almost 6 months
of going through people’s profiles at Shaadi.com, they had found an ideal match
for their daughter. He was a computer engineer working at an MNC in Silicon Valley (oh how they would boast about it to
their relatives).
Her family started the wedding preparations after the boy’s
family approved of the alliance. Well of course the girl had been asked if she
was happy with how everything has turned out, and she docilely nodded a YES.
Because, she was the quintessential good girl…
No, this wasn’t an
autobiographical account. I don’t drink bournvita everyday, I don’t know how to
roll out perfect rotis , I argue with my dad over the TV remote , I go to sleep
late, wake up late . Love my chaotic study table, love my jumbled up clothes in
the cupboard. Love that my mom thinks there is a life beyond marrying a corporate
honcho and having nagging kids, that there is a YOU. There is no 18 no 25. Each
day you are reborn. Do be the quintessential good girl if you want, but do keep
rediscovering the inner you.
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