Come together!

When I first heard that Beatles classic, I was not aware that it had ramifications that were not as straightforward as I could make myself believe. Not then. Now I know, having had it pointed out to me by various people that life is not as clear and clean as I thought it was, that smut and innuendo is just part of the everyday game. Any which way, I choose to ignore almost all the seaminess and focus on what I want to see, rather than what there is to see. And at some stage, whenever, however soon or late in the game, it all comes together in one coherent image, making a statement of fact rather than imagination.

I was thinking these rather philosophical thoughts in the kitchen this morning, as I washed up the mugs used for morning coffee – or green tea, in my case. Call it kitchen philosophy or idle musing, I was getting deeper into the morass of my own creation when suddenly there was this enormous BURP from the pan of milk I had on the stove to boil. Startled out of my reverie, I looked stovewards and found to my horror that the milk, instead of being at a peaceful simmer, was seething, roiling, bursting into violent upheavals of white froth and iridescent bubbles, splashing over on to the counter and across it to the edge of my outstretched palm. Why I reached towards it I do not know, since I could hardly have imagined myself to be a modern-day feminine version of Canute trying to stop the tide…in vain, of course. But it was perhaps the first time ever that I had watched the process of milk curdling as it boiled, the solids causing the noise and fury of the whole event. Turned off, the pan and its contents were silent, peaceful, nothing to show that there was a Loch Ness-ian monster unleashed by science in my small kitchen.

In the way that the milk solids came together to form cottage cheese in its most basic form, life tends to go through violent upheavals and boils to finally settle into a semblance of delicious serenity. It is, for that moment, a feeling of completion that floods the being, as if the insomniac’s system had been invaded by chemicals that, finally, produced a gentle, undisturbed and restful sleep. My life has certainly been that way at regular intervals. From the most recent disturbance of being diagnosed with certain health problems to these being carefully treated to produce a new balance, from the violent upset of emotions and sensibilities brought up by death to the peace that follows its acceptance, from feeling bereft and alone to re-finding people you believed were important and necessary in your life even if they did not want to be part of it. It all is a process of churning, recreating, almost distilling, that leaves behind only what you want and need, not all the detritus that human relationships tends to throw up over time.

Kitchen philosophy, indeed!

Class act

Earlier this week I went to guest-teach a class in a journalism course. I had done it before, many years ago, and have done my share of teaching everything from dance to English to how to deal with recalcitrant veggies in an Indian curry (that was pure fantasy, believe me!) over the years and enjoyed it all thoroughly. So much so that when people told me that I should consider teaching as a side-line to journalism, I did spend a little while thinking about it…and then decided I liked wandering in to classes, spending time with students and then wandering out again, unfettered by the arduous responsibilities of setting exams, correcting papers, formulating assignments and – perhaps worst of all – maintaining a modicum of discipline in young people that I always hated to have imposed on me. In other words, eating my cake and having it too, playing and not putting my toys away, having fun without the fuss of being grown up about it.

So when my friend asked me whether I would be guest lecturer for her class, I agreed. This, in spite of the fact that I was not first choice for it, something that would normally have ticked me off enough to growl peevedly at both friend and idea when we met again…if ever, considering my usual mood about not being asked before anyone else. But this was a close enough friend, this was a fun enough request, and this was indeed something I could enjoy doing with a clear conscience and lots of potential for laughter. So after checking on the dress code – colleges in this city are getting strangely tough on what is considered ‘decent’ clothing – and making sure I was on the same track as my friend and her class, I was up and out bright and early Tuesday morning, with due apologies to my trainer for missing my gym regimen that day and the day before for different reasons. The ride was oddly easy; not much traffic to get my frazzle level up and not too hot to make stepping out of the air-conditioning of the car an unpleasantly sticky chore. We got there in time, cool, calm, collected and casually anticipatory.

Trotting breathlessly up three flights of stairs – blame it on a raging bronchial infection, not my lax gym routine of the week – behind my friend, we came across various young people, most of whom greeted my friend formally but with wide smiles. And as we walked into the large room that served as a classroom, there were more smiles, some with an added helping of curiosity directed at me, obviously a stranger to the place and rather incongruous in that setting, but seemingly part of the décor, for the day at least. I sat quietly as my friend went through her routine of checking attendance for the session, making her comments on those who were not present and putting in a little more warmth for a few that she seemed to have a soft spot for. And then she introduced me…very briefly, as I had asked for.

The class went well, or so I thought. The young people were bright, some more involved in the semester than others, almost all taking the class because it was an ‘easy’ grade perhaps, rather than out of pure interest. A few tried to hide behind their peers, one or two fading into a sort of coma that they hoped would make them invisible, all of them with ears perked as they realized that it was not that simple. After all, I had been a student too, and knew most of the tricks they were trying to use – those never change, I understand, since my parents also told me about them. They seemed to be absorbed, participating, keen to know more. But whether they enjoyed themselves as much as I did…you will have to ask them for that one!

Gimme red!

(Published yesterday...)

I got my first red lipstick when I was about 14 years old – perhaps a little too young for such a blatantly adult and seductive shade, but vital for a dance performance on stage, where red was about the only colour that looked decent in those brilliant arc lights and served well to show up every nuance of expression on the face and, more specifically, with every quiver of adolescent lips trying to speak of emotions they could not possibly have experienced at the time. The brand that I got was Lakme and the lovely true red did its trick not just for the dance, but for me. I felt grown up and strangely womanly, with a knowledge of dark secrets that every woman should have. Ever since, red has been a bon mot in my lipstick drawer.

Today, as I graze hopefully along the myriad cosmetic counters that stores all over the city have sprouted, I see brands that I once saw only on trips abroad or in fashion glossies. From Dior to Chanel, Clarins to Clinique, colour cosmetics with international labels are de rigueur in almost every make-up kit. And even as foundation and base have overtaken the lipsticks that women favour buying in a time of economic tightness, red lipstick has remained a symbol of almost-defiance, waiting in the fashion wings to re-emerge cyclically at regular intervals but never really vanishing completely. Now every cosmetic company offers up various shades of red in various forms, from liners to glosses, tints to long-stays, with names as seductive as Deborah’s Atomic Red Matte (Rs560), Lakme’s Nine to Five Red Hot (Rs375), Oriflame’s lip gloss crayon in Slightly Scarlet (Rs179) and Vision’s V Vibes Lip Gloss in Hottie (Rs129). There are the vaguely ‘toughie’ versions, most hard to find but well worth the hunt, with Dominatrix Red from Max Factor, Paloma Picasso’s true red ($35) embodied in that wonderful advertisement where she is all wicked red mouth, Rimmel London’s Lasting Finish Lipstick in Alarm, Red Reinvented from Revlon, Lady Danger from MAC, Red Lizard from Nars, Clinique’s long last soft matte Red Hot and Dior’s Red Premiere 752 (numbers always make me wonder what they stand for). All these are poised on shelves cheek by jowl with equivalents from Bourgeois (which you can find in stores here, at fairly high prices, but what lovely products!), Arcancil, Maybelline, Estee Lauder, Elizabeth Arden, Diana of London and others, including the more local Tips and Toes, the once easily available Biotique, and some that have entirely dubious origins and strange labels. There is, of course, stuff from Laura Mercier, Bobbi Brown, Rimmel, Yves St Laurent, and more names than can be articulated by my nicely reddened lips.

It is, I find, not really necessary to pay a lot of money to be beautiful. As dermatologist/cosmetologist Dr Rekha Sheth says, “There are cheaper branded products, since some brands do include less expensive product lines” in their formulation. “The active ingredient could cost less, so the price could come down.” However, she maintains that “Brands are much more reliable. Since the FDA approves the colours used – as in the primary pigment in red lipstick, for one – brands have to follow the set rules,” which does ensure a certain degree of quality control. She does warn that red, especially, can discolour the lips if used constantly. “And there are also too many cheap versions available,” some of which may not be advisable for use.

But, in addition to these cautions, like all things oddly naughty, red lipstick is not easy to wear. It needs to be meticulously applied, with neat liner limiting its outline, since the brilliance of the colour tends to bleed – which could make the user look as if she has had a vampiric feast. It cannot be married to darkly lined eyes unless the user has the chutzpah to carry it off. And it is traditionally a night-time, non-work-wear colour, though it does add a wonderful note of drama and assertiveness to any woman who struts her stuff at the office in it. Every woman should, at least once in a while. And that is not one of her secrets...