All TV channels yesterday, including a channel called ‘Lok Sabha’ ( which, on a regular basis, only telecasts programs related to failed crops and cleaning rural toilets), were telecasting just one program: Obama’s inauguration.
There was a lot of speculation: What will Obama speak about: will it be about the economy, need for regulation, the American values, terrorism, healthcare, global warming and so on.
There was much more speculation about Michelle Obama: What will she wear?
It was an ugly patch on the entire movement on the emancipation of women, an aspersion on the independent identity of women and an insult to the strength and capability womanhood has.
I would, have under ordinary circumstances, been truly agitated and protested against it, but c’mon, give me a break – we are talking about a designer inauguration dress here about 10 ballroom gowns?! I am only human…
I imagined myself standing beside Alok in a glittering swearing-in ceremony, trying to look all indulgently and adoringly at his face, as the gorgeous ruffles of my designer gown flutter in the wind. Not to mention the shimmering stole running through my bejeweled fingers….
But, on a more practical note: who will swear-in Alok and for what? I can possibly explore associations like the ‘Sarjapur Disgruntled Residents Association’ or the ‘UP Immigrants of South Bangalore’ and work on that. It will be difficult to get him to agree, but if I tell him that if he gets this post, he gets 1 year time off from my ‘weekend checklists’, he might fall for it.
Then there is the other problem: who will design my clothes? As I was driving down 100 Feet Road, Indiranagar, I saw a fancy designer label called Satya Paul. The stuff looked good, but the price tags did not.
So, it will have to be a tossup between Satya Kumar and Sudha Paul: both friends of mine whose designing expertise is limited to dressing their kids (who are too young to protest). The only reason they qualify for this honorable post is their name is closest to the original.
Finally, I get to dress up the kids as well. I can imagine Nikki in a pretty, flouncy dress. The only nightmare is her hair: she has a thick crop of hair that refuses to be tamed: I have used all kinds of oils, hair bands, prayers and charms, but the hair continues to mock at all my efforts.
Prithvi, on the other hand, has a smart, tame crop of hair, on which my driver, Arun, who is also Prithvi’s self-appointed hair-stylist constantly tries new kinds of spikes and twists.
Ok, I must end now. I am writing this in the car: the ‘future president’ is struggling to find a parking spot on Commercial Street, and is being ‘sweared-at’ by other drivers, as I day-dream about his swearing-in….
Will get back to some real writing soon….:-)