Knees:

Almost on autopilot, Durga deftly chops the huge pile of bhindi in front of her. Flicking the green tops and slicing through their slimy innards, her gaze floats through the sunny courtyard and settles on her knee.

The same knee that had been carefully swept away for sixty-three years under yards of cheap synthetic saris, their colours slowly becoming demurer as the years passed. She pauses her mechanical chopping, drops the steel knife and lets her right-hand stray softly across her right knee, chucking to herself softly.

On a whim, she makes up her mind. Abandoning her chore, she pushes the thaali of bhindi away and gets up with a groan, holding on to the same arthritic knee for support. She tip-toes her way to the damp bathroom, she shares with eleven of her family members and locks the door behind her. Smoothening her sari down, she stares at herself in the mirror.

Red to the roots of her now grey hair, she clutches her sari and slowly pulls it up, till the hem grazes her knees. She smiles fondly at her knees and thinks about yesterday.

As the winter sun floats across the same courtyard, she is sitting on a charpai, as old as the walls behind her, applying a pungent smelling ayurvedic oil on her legs. The men are out, and the women are milling around, for once taking care of themselves. Oiling, braiding, plucking, all the usual feminine rituals are being carried out when Durga’s 17-year-old granddaughter walks in, blue hair cropped around her face,

‘’Daadi….! I’ve never seen your legs before! So fair and smooth and hairless. I’m so jealous.’’

Durga smiles at her granddaughter ever so graciously and continues massaging her calves with renewed vigour.

As her grand daughter walks out of the gate, she mentions in passing.

‘’But I’m serious. You have Marilyn Monroe knees.’’

Durga back in her bathroom, looks down at her knees and smiles. She thinks of herself, 17, young bride, new at this very house, trying to win the affections of her rather stern, 15 years older husband.

One day, as she was making some space for her saris in her husband’s wardrobe, some pictures stumble out from the back. As she looks through the pictures, rather alarmed at her own bravado, she gasps. Coiled golden hair, shapely in the right places, Durga blushes looking at the ravishing pictures of this white woman, especially of one, where the wind is taking liberties with her long white dress, showing her beautiful legs, in all her glory. Durga haltingly reads the name on the corner of the poster. Ma-ri-lyn Mon-roe.

Now back in the present, Durga pulls her sari further up, throws her head back in boisterous laughter and strikes the same pose as her knees finally enjoy their newfound attention.