My friend wrote a blog after reading Nisha Susan's article about the really horrible stereotypical Indian man. Scary as it may seem, I actually know a lot of those men who expect their moms to buy their underwear. *Shudder* My own ex-husband was one of them. His mom monitored everything from his socks to his underwear. She stocked them in excess every time Primark held a discount sale. Of course, I was expected to take over that role, but the story of the over-possessive mother-in-law is another story for another day. Not that I ever fancied keeping anyone's personal wardrobe. Though I might reconsider if it perhaps involved the likes of JLo. Wow! how cool it'd be to shop for JLo's underwear. Hmm... now I am thinking :P Back in college, there was a certain phase when the first thing we ever discussed when we got to class at 8 in the morning was the colour of our bras. This perfectly coincided with the roll call every morning.

I discovered the joys of lingerie shopping in college. I still like colours in my lingerie drawer. I totally believe in the lame belief that your bra colour can shape your mood. I really liked the purple lace one my friend had back in college. I should get a purple one of these days. I got purple stone-studded bra straps for Happy New Year. It needs a purple bra to complement it. Hmm... As far as bras are concerned, this year is pretty dull. I have no earning to splurge on these little luxuries. There was one purple satin bra that I really really wanted to buy before coming here. Actually, long before I even decided I was going to come here. But it cost 800 bucks. I told myself that I didn't need to spend an extra £10 on a single piece of undergarment even before coming to this country. My mom persuaded me to spend the same amount on half a dozen basic black cotton bras instead. I did. And I am thankful to her for that suggestion. I now do my laundry only once in 2 weeks. When I run out of my underwear :P It really is bliss. Yes, I am materialistic. I want to own all the nice bras in the world like every other girl.

But coming back to the men, it really is weird that some Indian men think that it is acceptable to allow their mothers or wives do underwear management for them.

But that said, the liberated Indian woman is just another mirage like the liberated Indian man. If the liberated Indian man drinks at posh pubs and slaps his spaghetti strap tee clad wife, like Nisha Susan suggests, it also means that this Mandira Bedi woman thinks it is perfectly acceptable to have her husband slap her. I mean, we might be modern, work in call centres and speak with fake American accents, but hey, we need to 'preserve' our tradition and of course, ever woman worth her salt wants to be the modern satya savitri. I, of course, am not worth any salt or even pepper for that matter. They want to be a fine balance of the east and west. Just like the Chicken Tikka pizza that Pizza Hut serves these days.

As tempted as I am to bring in concepts of Identity and Globalization here, I am not going to. Ulrich Beck, Roger Silverstone, John Tomlison, Arjun Appadurai and so many others have tried to theorize this very phenomenon in their illustrious works. I am no one, of course.

This post is not to rant about how horrible it is that most Indian men think they are this god-person's gift to mankind. This is about how many urban Indian women are caught in this conflict of identities. They can't decide whether they want to be, quite literally, loose or tight. Technically, you are supposed to be tight but with just the right amount of loose. This 'right' amount is a lethal concoction. You could easily become a promiscuous bitch if you don't get the brew right. Either that, or you get branded by the cooler guys as a 'homely behenji'. But, in popular opinion, it is better to be 'behenji' than the 'bitch'. I am definitely not the 'behenji', even though I got called that a few times for wearing salwar-kameez to my 'coolest company to work for in India' office. Yes those mad mud-bloods were what made that place 'cool' in the first place.

Not being a 'behenji' myself, It is a little difficult for me to describe what these emotional clumsy Indian women are like. In other news, I think salwar kameez is awesome and I told the mud-bloods to go die. They didn't listen to me. They are all still alive and kicking. Some of them are now married to other salwar kameez clad women: some quite cool and the others not quite so.

I've been trying to for sometime now to describe the emotionally clumsy Indian woman. Instead, I've been talking about my wardrobe. But it isn't all that bad. I still haven't put down here my insatiable obsession for shoes. But one day I will own my own a pair of Manolo Blahniks and no it isn't a crime against humanity at all. They are all going to die anyway.

The ECIW (Emotionally clumsy Indian woman) however thinks that it is sacrilege to own a pair of Manolo Blahniks. But of course, only if she has to buy it from her own salary. She expects her poor unsuspecting husband (I am not using the word 'partner' here like I usually do. I'll say why a little later) to buy it for her, of course. It doesn't matter how much money she is making. She is after all a woman. She will never offer to pay the bills after a meal. She will never hold the door for her man. She will even walk one step behind to make sure that the door is opened and chair pulled out for her. And in the event that this doesn't happen, she is going to throw a fit and it will be a horrible one. It will be about how she is 'not cared for', not 'loved' or I don't know what nonsense.

Since I can't capture ECIW phenomena convincingly, I am going to instead describe women I know who are ECIWs themselves. But I am too bored to continue writing right now. And hence. Maybe I'll write it some other time.