Last night Scarlett Johanssen appeared all of a sudden in my dreams. I’m not going ta lie to you. She wasn’t in a bikini or anything. I have very age-appropriate dreams these days.
There was a kind of haze all around, kooasha like, where she was standing. Not that ‘woh kaun thi’ kind of spooky mist though. She was demure, in a lal-paar sada saree, a white Bengali sari with red borders, traditional Bengali dress for married women.
Or was it a benaroshi? Your Scarlett bowdi certainly can afford a benaroshi. Dhonekhali maybe? Now I have no idea what a dhonekhali looks like, so it probably wasn’t. Who gives a s–t what a dhonekhali looks like anyway?
She had a crimson bindi on her forehead and the same vermillion was sprinkled lightly over her hair, which is not parted down the middle like most Bengali women or else she’d have touched the vermillion over the parting surely. Other than that, your Scarlett bowdi had no make-up on. Scarlett Johanssen and make-up? Hyak. Does one carry coals to Newcastle?
The oppressive October heat showed on her radiant, flushed face, sparkling with little beads of sweat. I had vetoed the nose ring and so she didn’t have one on. Your Scarlett bowdi listens to me. And ear rings? Why? Surely, you don’t want a coal glut at Newcastle, do you? When you have ear lobes like she does, piercing them would be a barbaric act of senseless mutilayshun.
She had a blouse on. Not one of those cleavage revealing kinds of blouses. There’s no need for crass exhibitionism, when it comes to your Scarlett bowdi. Her bossom is ample, the Lord having brought Michaelangelo out of his cherub chasing retirement to endow it like only He can.
Your Scarlett bowdi’s blouse was crimson red, with gold zaree borders on her short sleeves. Red and gold vying for attention with the cream of her upper arms. Her hands were folded in a hindu ‘namaste’ and I noticed her wrists. They had a solid 24kt gold bala each and a shankha churi on her right wrist.
An ornate bunch of heavy golden Godrej Almirah keys hung from her tangk. The tangk is a Bengali-specific feature. It’s the location on a Bengali woman’s waist where her sari meets her tummy, normally to one side, where you’ll find one end of the sari peeping out, to which the key bunch is tied in a knot. Your Scarlett bowdi obviously has many almirahs in the house. As she advanced toward me, her undulation produced a chchum..chchum..chchum refrain from her key ring.
My gaze fell on her feet. Pearly pink toes, evenly shaped, the nails painted crimson red, none so long as to seem gauche. And all around, her feet were encased in a crimson band of alta. Her ankles were typical female Caucasian ankles, thick and shapely, each girdled by a beaten silver ghungroo.
The chchum..chchum of her keys on her tangk which followed the undulation of her hips, was in lock step with jhum..jhum of her ghungroos which owed their allegiance to her ankles. What can I tell you? Your Scarlett bowdi’s key ring was the Parsifal to her ghungroos’ Gotterdamerung.
Suddenly..picheek..picheek, Scarlett bowdi’s lips twisted and a stream of paan peek squirted out and fell on the bedroom wall and it was only then that I noticed her holding a paan ka dibba bursting with zarda paans. Yuck!
I woke up screaming, “I want a divorce! Book me a ticket to Reno!”
“Shore, first thing in the mawnin’, one way,” came the irritated whisper from a nearby pillow,” now, do you mind? Its late”.
I turned on my side to locate the source of that comment. It was the Persian woman who lives in my house. My screaming had woken her up.
Hope she din mean that. Y’know, about the one-way ticket to Reno?