I always believed that waxing was the worst thing that could happen to a woman. Girl, if you start early (sucks to hormones!). It's messy, HOT (ooh, so hot, in the most unpleasant way imaginable) and painful. I'm never in the best of moods, or the most amicable disposition in such situations. Mostly... I curse my womanhood and wonder why in goddamn hell, did the Soviet spies not torture Bond like this in one of the movies.
My beautician is a 55 year old Maharashtrian lady. Let's call her Chanda. She's a rather chatty species of womankind, always sharing intimate details of her life, it's complexities (mostly tragic) and her daily plans. I suppose it is rude, but I can't contribute much to the conversation beyond an odd monosyllable (if that). Not when my hair follicles are being ripped out of their sockets.
But that in no way inhibited her from making any kind of conversation with a red-faced teeny-dult (teenager and adult, keep up!), who's too busy praying to the heavens for deliverance. When I'm not writhing with agony over my waxed-out, sizzled skin, I am actually listening to her. The little I do get to hear, since our interactions are restricted to her monthly visits.
Chanda is must be one of the most unfortunate women I know. Not exactly an epitome of beauty and good health (her massive dark, stooping frame reminding me of an over-sized bull), she was hurriedly married off to the first man who came her way. He was a philanderer and made her life miserable. And one fine day, died of AIDS ("Because he was shagging a bar girl," she once nonchalantly told mom).
Her greedy sisters descended upon what was left of her ancestral property. There was no retirement written in her destiny. No easy day. She's been working as a door-to-door beautician for more than 30 years now. But life's pressures remain largely unrelenting. She still lives a life of near-penury. Her young son (5th grader at the time of writing this blog post) doesn't study. There is no family, no support system around to call her own. It must be a very lonely existence.
I feel sorry for her. I really do, when I'm not cursing under my breath after my skin reddens. I don't think she feels any kind of self-pity, though. Perhaps she doesn't have the time. She is as generous as she is poor (gullible too, despite the austere, daunting front and appearance). And that is exactly why people take advantage of her.
That is the story of Chanda's life. And how she loses it, piece by piece. Every damn day. She grows sicker, a diabetic with a bad back. Her son lives each day, fearful of the moment when he will lose her forever. And it makes me sad.
People... are born with a destiny. We know about Shakespeare's quote (and it is quoted ever so often) about some people being born for greatness, others achieving it and so on. But what about the ones who don't achieve it? What about the ones who remain backstage? Thankless stage-hands? Whatever becomes of them?
It is very difficult to understand God's business of allocating greatness and fortune to some people. Unlike the government doling out their share of privileges, we can't question God for the same. Or file a law suit against him for giving us a raw deal (though that would be kind of interesting...).
Strange thing about life... it drags on. And it's up to you to make it better. Because God won't. Maybe there isn't one. But I know one thing for sure. That if you turn to God and you ask him, "Lord, can this get any worse?", be assured that he will turn around and say, "Yes."
It is something we can either fear or be grateful for. That it could get worse and it hasn't so far. I learnt this bit from a lady I'd met in London. Her name was Rani. She had been as unfortunate as Chanda when it came to wealth and spouses (in Rani's case, there were two). Add to the mixture domestic violence, and the traumatic loss of her older son. She lives with her younger one in a London suburb somewhere... (she's moved places and we haven't been in touch).
She was a chatterbox too. I could run out of breath in the long walk from her house to my uncle's (whom I was staying with), but she never did. No, Rani could go on and on about her daily schedule and her little observations on the most insignificant things one wouldn't really care about.
I'd met her sometime in 2008, a year after my life had come apart (details are not important) and found her to be a rather inspiring presence (once you got past all that jabbering... oh boy, could she talk!). One day, when I couldn't hold it in anymore, I asked her what kept her so optimistic all the time. 24/7. I mean, really... it seemed so perfect.
I eagerly awaited a brilliant Hollywood-ian response, some epic speech which I would write in my diary (or post on a blog some day). Instead, all I got was - "I think about all the unfortunate women in the third world countries and I realize that I am better off than them. People go through a lot worse."
It felt like such a damp squib. I really did need a pep talk, then. Something to remind me why my life didn't suck at that point in time. Quite sadly, I never got a satisfying enough one. Ever. So when I thought back to what she had said to me that day in the garden (all I remember is the green grass and her giving a generous charity donation to an African-American man in the corner), it seemed a much simpler explanation than anything one could offer.
I realized in that strange moment of epiphany that... you find your own happiness. That there'll always be someone a rung lower than you. And another, higher. Climbing up and down was up to us. It was all about perception. Your reaction to a particular situation.
It was good to have met these ladies. They were both so different in terms of background, community and appearance (Rani was a stunner in her time!). But oddly bound together by... similar circumstance? I choose not to call it misfortune.
They have a way of reminding you about gratitude. Why getting your spirit crushed isn't the end of the world. Because the bottomline is... spirits don't. Which is why they're indomitable. Which is why they heal. Slowly... somewhere under your skin. If you listen carefully... feel it. Really feel it.
As I realized some time later on, God does say "Yes" when you ask him about the 'worse' aspect of things. Maybe He enjoys it secretly.
Which is why you should ask not for a lighter cross but for a stronger back. Always. And he will say "yes" to that, too. :)
