Like little princesses
everywhere, I too am waiting for my Prince Charming to gallop into my world,
sweep me off my feet and steer his steed to a “happily ever after” dreamland.
Problem is, the Prince of my dreams is pursuing his MBA in some Ivy League
college and will not be available in Kolkata for the pujas. Sucks!
I need a guy to fill in the void,
to act as a replacement – as a matter of fact; I need five of them to be
flaunted as accessories to complement my dresses. And, here’s what I want:
For Sosthi, I have chosen a flowing
crepe cotton skirt that I will pair with a sleeveless halter top and Kolapuri
sandals. I will need a typical “Mama’s Boy” type of guy, simple, unpretentious,
under achieving no-brainer. An exact replica of my “minimalist” style
statement.
Shoptumi will see me in the classic
indigo GAS jeans and the body hugging T-shirt I picked up from Vardaan. I’ll
wear the sleek denim boots that are such a rage in Singapore these days and
need a guy who is uber kewl, walks the swagger and has an attitude to match his
spikes.
Day three, as we all know is the
D-day. To mark the occasion, I have the signature black, shoulder less dress
that is dangerously short. I will highlight its appeal by pairing it with the high
heel, lace up Roman sandals and get a faux tattoo (preferably of a Black Widow,
but I’m open to suggestions) on my left shoulder. I’m still in two minds about
getting a nail job done. The guy I want is one who is not only able to handle
my oozing sensuality, but also is macho enough to hold my and shield me from
the inevitable catcalls.
Navami, the day after, is
generally spent nursing the hangover. We normally crash in one of the lounges
and I will dress for the occasion. I will be in my favourite torn micro mini denim
shorts with an oversize cotton T-shirt (I’m not disclosing the message). To
make the statement louder I will ensure that there is nothing between my bare
skin and the T. I love the look on the face of habitual lechers when I dare dem
to ogle. The guy I want for the day is a bindass Devdas, a rich father’s excuse
of a son. Someone eternally condemned to coveting an IIM entry and …. Me! I’ll
spend the evening titillating him just enough to work him up to a frenzy and
make him swipe his dad charged card in the vain hope of impressing me and the other
hotties in the crowd. Aint that fun?
For Dashami I have reserved a
faded, hip hugging Calvin Klein three quarter’s that is ultra low cut to boot.
I will wear my trademark second skin white cotton shirt (haven’t decided about
the shoes yet) and a black lace, pump up wired bra. Naturally I’ll untie a few buttons
to raise the temperature when I hang my hair loose and dance to the tunes of
the Tasha and Banjo. Don’t worry, the flash glimpse of the bum cleavage and
that of the thong and the lace has been raised to the level of an art form and
innocent onlookers always go back home wondering whether it was deliberate or
just another case of wardrobe malfunction?
The guy I want for the day? A rough
and tough road side Romeo. The type that is on-your-face raw. The type that
calls you “Moina”, with a suggestive wink and a sly grin, as their eyes invade
your privacy with gay abandon and yet make you like the soft caress of their
glance. Someone all our mothers have repeatedly warned us against. I want Him.
I want the one who can out dance me. I want someone who can meet my gyrations every
obscene pelvic thrust with pelvic thrust. I want someone who can do the “dinka-chika”
to my “Munni badnaam huyi” with equal gusto and flair.
If I get that Khan of a Bong,
swear on my laces, Prince Charming can go back to wonderland. I’ll be happy
exploring all the shades of grey with him.
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