Top tales

I went top-shopping today. Before the more imaginative among you start snickering, I went to buy a top for a girl. A mighty enough task as you can see. What compounded the fact was that I was doing it in USA, the land of high fashion. What made it maddening was the presence of the female species of a homo sapiens sapiens with me. Every top I picked was yeach, blyeach or bwack. Fair enough. The ones I liked were too slutty, too revealing or too flimsy (fair enough no?). The colours I chose would never ‘go’ with any pant. One could not wear a skirt with that kind of top. Another one would expose the belly in a most unflattering manner. The ones she liked..well I’d have to sell a kidney and my iPod to buy them. Finally after hours (I felt like yeach, blyeach and bwack myself by then) we managed to settle on a single piece of clothing.

Now the real ordeal began. My friend began to describe a skirt she possessed, the likes of which I had never seen before (we know each other’s wardrobes backwards) (only goes to show that one can never know all the clothes a maiden might possess). It was a faint grey. Not dark grey, not ivory grey. There was a black border, not jet black, neither carbon black. I was commanded to strict attention and was described a most peculiar pattern, supposedly the shape of an orchid that would grace her right thigh if she wore it, in a colour I had never heard of or imagined before. The task was simple. We had to find her a matching top for that skirt. Browns, greens and blues were out. Pinks and purples might be considered. Any red top was to be immediately grabbed by me and to be held on to till her heavenly sanction. Off I was sent, with a time limit. And I obediently went. You don’t argue with your guardian angel, food provider, date finder, and fun friend...ever…trust me. So I looked ,at first I looked at all the hot girls shopping, then I yawned, and followed a couple of bimbos around, listening to their latest sexual exploits. And then I spotted it. The red top. Perfect, with a non jet, non carbon but definitely black border. I lunged, tripped and fell. Not the one to dwell on my failures, I picked myself up and ran (you can already see it can’t you? There was just one of those blasted red tops…if there wasn’t I wouldn’t be writing so much would i?). Anyways, I was about to grab it when another pretty lass began cooing over the top. On one hand my gentlemanly instincts and chivalry rose like a gallant knight, let her have the top my mind said. Another thought saw my friends anger, and badly cooked food. I thought of telling the American lass about my terminally ill fictitious sister, or my unhinged girlfriend (a role my friend would have played then with utmost conviction). Instead I did the unthinkable; I grabbed the thing and ran. Communicating to my bewildered friend in a stream of most unchaste Marathi, I huffed, puffed and shouted ‘credit’ to the store clerk. That was the end of the ‘top affair’.

~Epilogue~

My friend likes the top. It ‘goes’ with the skirt, and treated me to a chocolate banana. She even admitted that im improving, and at this rate I could pataofy a girl on my own!

The American lass gave gaalis to my entire clan and my country, but what the hell, we got the top.

All’s well that ends well.