34 C

Yes you heard me right. 34 C. That’s what I semi-whispered to the only woman in the lingerie shop amid a bunch of men whose ages ranged from 14 to 54. I was not really on a bra-hunting spree, I’d much rather go to a shopping mall and help myself without the world knowing of what I needed. I’m not really in the age range where I turn tomato-red when sanitary napkin ads come during commercial breaks or I flip channels to hear the mellifluous voice of a bunch of village chicks singing naughtily “Bol sakhi bolt era raaz kya hai” [What is thy secret, o sister?]. However I didn’t see any need to get hold of a microphone and declare to the world what I was looking for. But when a friend from the US asked me to get her a few of those 34Cs from Kolkata, I had to oblige.

I wasn’t really happy seeing so many men ready to serve you in a lingerie shop. Where were the women? I hushed my needs to the only woman I could spot in the store. First, she must have been hard of hearing, for she looked at me and urged me to voice myself louder. I was half-tempted to indicate the bus route 34C telling her, “Remember the bus route that goes from Esplanade to Baranagar? I want that bus number”. I realized how funny I would sound without making myself understood, first, because the odds were high that she would get more confused, and second, because who knows if the buses 84, 109, and 203 also went between the same places. So I braced myself and muttered only a few decibels louder- 34C.

“Color?”

“Uh …. White, black, pink, whatever”

“Design? Lace? What type?”

Uhh… I was shifting uncomfortably, wishing I’d be anywhere but here. “Anything will do. Laces?”

And just when I thought my plight was over, I found something akin to a nightmare coming true. For she turned to the boy, barely 20, and repeated, “34C. Show white, black, pink. With laces. Show it to her”, she pointed at me.

I was tempted to protest, “Not me, my friend”, but shut up as it sounded so lame.

The boy rummaged through the hinterlands of the shop with neatly stacked boxes with pictures of voluptuous women showing half covered assets and looking at various angles away from the camera. Unable to find what I was looking for, he further turned to the man in his 50s and repeated the instructions given to him verbatim.

How I wished I had turned to powder and vanished.

So after what seemed like a lifetime of searching, rummaging, and asking questions about suitable alternatives, the old man came up with a few boxes of what I needed, handed it over to the young man, who in turn handed it to the lady who dutifully bared the contents of the box in front of everyone. I was thinking of ways to conceal my embarrassment when I heard a thick, authoritarian voice from behind me, “42 C dikhaiyega” [Show me 42C]. Where were these liberated women when I was looking for them? The woman attendant quickly went to interact with the 42C woman, and I was left at the mercy of two men who insisted the product I was seeing was world class.

“Take this, it’s export quality, very comfortable, very stylish”. To emphasize his point, he held the piece of cloth in between his hands like he would hold an elastic band, and stretched it a couple of times. “Ekdum stretchable kapda hai. Export quality”.

Suddenly I knew what I had to do. No longer able to witness a person from the opposite gender stretching a piece of cloth of supreme privacy to me, coaxing me to buy it just because he could stretch it anyway he wanted to, emphasizing the ultimate comforting experience I will be embarking on if I wore it, I left the boxes at the counter, muttered something incoherent, and started towards the exit. To which the man looked confused, wondering if he had got me the wrong stuff by mistake. He shouted, “34C nahi chalega kya?” [Won’t 34C do?]

Whatever hope of privacy I had left like the smoke out of the chimney. The whole world now knew what size I was looking for. It was barely any consolation that I was not looking something for myself. I finally paused and looked one last time at the man, “It’s for a friend. I will ask and come back”, and sped out of the door.

I felt so stupid, trying to convince the world that it wasn’t something for me but for a friend. As if they cared. I know I am going back to nowhere except the shopping mall in Seattle where I can settle things within the four walls of the fitting room without the world knowing about what exactly I wanted to buy. As far as my friend goes, I’d recommend her she do the same.

sunshine