Of girl things...

I am not a lady. As in, I do not indulge in those ladylike things. Bangles, bracelets, chains, make-up, ear rings, nose rings, anklets....But I have a wonderful curiosity about these things and love to see women accessoried properly and looking really good, like you so often find on the streets of Bangalore.

I'd compare myself to them and end up feeling a frump. Which was ok when I was married, sans kid. Because my husband fell in love with me when I weighed 10 kilos more than I do now, and looked well, younger, but the same, more or less. So I had no fears that he'd wander.

But I wanted Sonny boy to be able to compare his Amma without finding things wanting... So I took up some old habits which I'd left off. I started painting my nails again. (Of course, I had quite a selection of colours thanks to my hoarding tendencies.) And when I paint it on, Sonny boy almost touches his nose to my nail. He's that entranced to see the brush glide smoothly on..

He loves to see me apply lipstick. And as I have explained to him that all these are girl things, he earnestly queries,
"That is girl, Amma?"
"Yes, Sonny boy, this is a girl thing. Not for little boys."

He looks on while I apply a tiny bindi.
"This also girl, Amma?"
"This also girl , Sonny boy."

He is not allowed anywhere near my contacts, tho' he would love to poke his inquisitive fingers in.

Little Peeping Tom refuses to go out of the room sometimes while I change, and stands there unblinking. I wonder what goes on in his little mind then. But Amma has lived in hostels and is a pastmistress at the art of changing dresses with zilch free show. So I indulge him some days, while some days he is pushed unceremoniously, protestingly, out.

After I'm dressed, I bustle around finishing last minute tasks. And then, I'm all ready to go. But not quite.
"Amma!" very authoritatively. I turn enquiringly.
"Your dupatti! You put your dupatti, Amma." Comes trailing my dupatta behind him.

I make a face at my husband. Certainly my son is his father's son. The only difference being that Sonny boy dares where Accha feared to tread.

"Thank you, Sonny boy." And I drape the duppatta around my neck casually.
"Not like that, Amma. Like this..." And he proceeds to demonstrate.

Finally I am ready. One edge of the material decorously covering one breast and the other covering the other breast. What the...!!!

On second thoughts, he isn't just his Accha's son.
He is his Ammamma's grandson to the core. Bah!