Thoroughly Spoilt

So we have entered into the realms of Thoroughly Spoiled Indians with the recent acquisition of a full time maid living in our house .. primarily to take care of Bailey, the 4 month old Labrador puppy. This probably seems like a travesty and the height of indulgence to any westerner used to picking up after themselves and scrubbing the bathtub/dishes/floor on a daily basis, but believe me, in a country where maids, nannies, drivers, coffee boys and peons are not only a luxury but a necessity to support hundreds of thousands of poor families, its thoroughly acceptable. Once I had got over my typical western reaction to having a maid (slave labour/can't bear to watch someone cleaning up after me/its an invasion/archaic) and got into the indian groove of understanding that providing a good salary, a roof over head, and an opportunity for a woman (in the case of a maid) to earn something for herself which can often be vital in a typically patriarchical society, then I started to relax and enjoy the experience.

We started off a year back with Tara, lovely Tara, mother of 3 grown up boys who want to take care of her but she is just too independent, who arrives in the late morning and cleans the entire house in a whirlwind of efficient energy, cooking up a maharastrian feast at the same time and managing to convince herself that I really do understand her incessant hindi chatter (I get about one word in four). She started off on a relatively modest salary and we insisted on increasing it, much to her delight of course. A year later and we had fallen for the chocolate box melty eyes of the puppy and realised that leaving her alone for more than a couple of hours at a time was simply not an option.... and so Akala the sweet girl from Nagaland arrived to live in the house. Akala is 18 going on 12, with a sweet giggle and an inability to raise her voice above a whisper. She loves the dog and the cat, and has quickly developed a fascination with Saas-Bahu tv (crappy homegrown dramas always featuring an evil mother in law, smouldering but forbidden hunk, and shy innocent girlie) and is also infatuated with the mobile phone we gave her. She walks the dog twice a day, feeds her 4 times a day, the very self sufficient cat twice a day, makes us coffee every morning at 8, tea when we walk in the door, and keeps the house clean as a new pin. Its a luxury and a half and she seems to be gaining in confidence by the day, and of course earning some decent money to send back to the folks in Nagaland. And Tara is still with us, we can't bear to let go of her awesome prawn curry, kheema, biryani, etc etc etc ... (did I mention needing a flat stomach in the previous post??!).

Bridal Shopping

So the time is racing past … and the wedding which for so long has seemed like a distant dream is now right around the corner .. though I can’t work out what happened to the weeks in between. I am veering between a mild panic, not at the thought of the commitment (which I can hardly wait for) but rather a nagging feeling that something somehow will be forgotten (my current fixation is that we’ll forget the legal stuff, get to the altar and go “whoops”) and the high of the wedding shopping.

Shopping for a wedding in India is something else, seriously. We landed at Amarsons, me, hubby to be and two of his sisters, and sat languidly drinking chai whilst dozens of shimmering lehengas were laid reverently before us. The lehenga is a particularly Indian garment, worn by the bride at the wedding reception, the stuff of bollywood heroines and item girls, the blingier the better, cropped tight across the rib cage and sitting low on the hips to reveal a swathe of belly - see pic above. My bare stomach isn’t too bad, could do with a bit of tightening but happily the lehenga was designed for the curves of the Indian woman, and it nicely flatters my british pear shape. I tried on the first lehenga rather gingerly, wondering if I’d topple under the sheer weight of the heavily bejeweled and very full skirt, but once on, the thing seemed light and airy and swished around my legs in a very pleasing manner. The second, third and fourth I tried felt even better and soon I felt like an old hand at the lehenga, strutting from the changing room each time with a roll of the hips and a glint in my eye. I kept liking each one more and more and thoroughly confused myself and everyone else with my inability to decide on The One. I loved the bling (silver and white) but hated the insipid turquoise of one particular number, and was busy lamenting my woes until the charming salesman told me that it could be made in any colour I wanted, hand tailored according to my requirements, and with the extra bling I wanted on the dupatta (the scarf bit which drapes tantalizingly across the body revealing hints of the belly). Hoorah thank goodness for India and its ability to solve any problem.

Later that day, and somewhat paradoxically, I went for the first fitting of my wedding gown – a traditional (non meringuey) ivory number. My head still reeling with rainbow iridescent silks and satins, I stood in front of the full length mirror and gasped at the simplicity of a beautifully hand cut gown, stunning in its minimalism and thoroughly elegant. India is all about contrasts and this was one of those moments when you realize that you really can have it all. In the space of a single day, I’ll be a traditional bride in white and a vision of Indian elegance (I hope) … though I don’t suppose that too many brides are wearing mehendi (henna designs) at the altar.