A
Thing Of Beauty...
Joy For Every One?
Richa
Jha
The flavour of the season, undoubtedly, has to be the several Miss
XYZ Contests. You lift any daily, and you'll see the 'crowned' dazzling
beauties beaming back from the leaves of the broad sheet. Not many
of you may know this though, that The Hubby was recently asked to
be one of the judges at one such contest.
But
I said no. I did not wish to see him there. “I will not let you
be there, judging these girls on parameters you are not even aware
of. What, for instance, is a Perfect 10? Come on, tell me, aren't
you supposed to know what it means?”, I wanted to show him how ill
equipped he was to handle this.
“Wifey,
I have seen more Olympics highlights on TV than you have. And I
have seen the Russian gymnasts. I know what a perfect 10 is.”
“Wrong.
And furthermore, what would you know of poise or grace?”
“Oh,
that's simple. If the contestants on stage behave unlike you, I'll
know they are acting feminine. Grace and poise will flow naturally
then.”
“You
think you are being smart? Okay, now tell me, how will you figure
what's the correct reply to those loaded questions on love, charity,
kindness, global peace, Mother Teresa, etc.? How will you ask the
right questions. You'll make a fool of yourself the moment you open
your mouth. What do you know about womanhood and super-womanhood?”
“Ha
Ha! That's simple again, dear. I have it all worked out. You see
this guidebook here? The cover reads '1001 Difficult Questions For
That One Answer'. While the contestants rehearse their Big answer,
I flip through this book for the most appropriate question. I bet
the other judges have not come across this book yet. Now do you
see how I am all set to steal the show?”
“But
I'd still much rather have you home, and watch it on TV later,”
I pouted.
“Now
cheer up. What's the matter with you? Why are you dissuading me
thus? Oh! I see it now. Do you also want to be one of the judges?
Ishh, you should have said so. It's still not late. Let me speak
with the organisers. I'm sure they could squeeze you in.”
“No,
no, you don't understand. How do I put it? I am not too comfortable
having you there, you know, looking at the girls. You know what
I mean…?”
“Girls,
who said we'll be looking at them as girls? My dear, rest assured,
to the eyes of a judge, they are all talented individuals. Each
contestant is a person, PERSON.”
“But
still. They'll all be so gorgeous, and witty with their replies.
They are so gifted, which is why they are there, right? And you,
before so many of them, asking them questions, marking them on their
gait, their poise, their…? I shudder to think beyond. What will
the bhabis here say? What will they think of me? Of you? These questions
are badgering me. How will I face them with their stealing winks
after the show?
“You
fret over such silly things, really. They'll not say anything. Rather,
they'll feel envious of you, because your husband, not theirs, is
going to be up there. What an honour it is for me!”
As
you can see, I tried my best. As the event neared, we could scarcely
sleep at night. The Hubby, out of sheer excitement, and I, well,
due to the catwalk nightmares I would get even while praying. A
novice as he was at this exercise, these were busy days for The
Hubby. In between running down to the tailors for that faultless
stitch on his jacket, and standing in front of the mirror rehearsing
his question, to co-ordinating his ensemble to the last details
pens, belt buckle, et al, he also managed to squeeze in time to
practise the perfect hand-shake with the participants (mercifully,
the rehearsals happened on his boxing gloves) and that flitting
applause with the finesse of a danseur.
Against
this backdrop, you can imagine how shocked (but actually, gloating
on the inside) I was when The Hubby showed me the letter he had
drafted this morning.
“This
is for the organisers”, he said. He hadn't looked this miserable
in years. “My apologies to them. That I shall not be able to make
it to the show”.
“Hey,
whatever happened?”
“Widespread
demonstrations across the country by young men in the name of men's
lib and all that, questioning the basis of having these contests
only for the Misses. So the organisers buckled under this pressure,
and have changed the contest to an all-male show. 'Mr XYZ' it is
going to be called now.”
“Great!
I'll be so much more at peace. But why this letter then?”
“I'm
not going now. Who wants to sit there looking at these blo…”, he
nearly said it, but refrained.
“But
didn't you say earlier that you'd be judging a Person on stage,
not a Miss? Then how do things change at all?”
“But
the contest has so much more meaning when the person happens to
be a Miss. I'm off it. Let them find some willing replacement.”
“I!”,
I jumped with delight, “I wouldn't mind being in there now! Perhaps
you could suggest my name to the organisers”, I said eagerly.
The
Hubby said no. And pleaded, “I will not feel comfortable while you
are there looking at all the boys…”!
