Had she possessed the classic, imposing appearance of an actual dictionary dowager, she would have enjoyed overseeing events: issuing orders, being commanding, maybe even intimidating. Alas, to her eternal regret, she is stocky, plump, with a dowager’s hump and other bumps in places she can no longer twist around to see!
As for being able to order people around, she never had a knack for it, but she compensated by possessing enthusiasm and get-up-and-go — even when the rest of the party had got up and gone!
Then came the biggest party of all, the most arduous test in this phase of her life — her son’s wedding! As she was dealing with the enormity of the new role, out of the blue, someone wondered aloud about her wardrobe for the occasion — and everyone’s antennas went up.
Known to be disinterested in couture, she had been kept at arm’s length at trousseau time during all other family weddings. But this time, she needed to be a role model — or so thought sisters, sisters-in-law, cousins, nieces.
All of them looked forward to such occasions to indulge themselves and dress like it was their day and had long derided her lack of interest in attempting to present a picture perfect exterior!
Now, somehow, she had to be transformed from the dowdy to the majestic. She had to cut a fine figure in all the photographs that would record that day for years to come. How was that to happen?
It soon became a pet project with everyone on both sides of the family and everyone in between. The discussion moved outside the family and friends and acquaintances were roped in. There was no disagreement in that large and ever-expanding circle. She needed a new look!
Makeover
And Operation New Clothes was launched.
Instructions flowed in from all directions. Some rooted for a sari; others were willing to consider a shalwar khameez provided it had sufficient glitter and was in a certain price range. Conversations revolved around when she was going to choose her outfit, what colour it would be, what texture, what shape.
Everything in her existing wardrobe was ignored. No one was interested in what already hung in her cupboard. They had seen all those outfits often enough and had not been impressed. This time she was going to look different. She was going to play her part. Be striking. Be on show.
Her protests fell on deaf ears. It is the bride’s day, she said. Okay, she amended, it is the couple’s day. No matter how much you stretch it to include the rest of the family and guests, she added, everyone else is largely invisible!
But no one was listening. Plans were made, dates and timings of shopping sprees were fixed over her head (which wasn’t very difficult seeing that she wasn’t very high). She began to lose sleep over the impending makeover. Would her husband know who he was standing beside? Would her son recognise her in her finery and know where to seek blessing on that most important day of his life?
In desperation, pushed as she was into a corner and unable to retreat any further, she took a stand. Pulling herself up to her full height, taking a deep breath and not letting it go until she had finished, she launched into a tirade of mammoth proportions: salvos of words flew here and there; she heeded no arguments; she squashed all attempts to bulldoze her into a set of new clothes.
When the barrage of machinegun sentences stopped at last, the silence was profound. She was actually standing tall. Looking imposing. In her own way, impressive.
Maybe the dowager didn’t need new clothes, after all.
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.
