| The other day, when my daughter dressed up to go to a friend's party, I was intrigued to note two straps that ran up her back and were knotted behind the neck. "Is that a swimsuit you're wearing under your tee?" I asked her. "It's an inner," she scowled back at me. "An inner," I was intrigued, "is that like...?" "Yes, yes," she said, clearly embarrassed by my interest in her lingerie. "But why is it knotted up behind?" I continued to probe further. "Because it's a halter, get it?" she retorted, before stalking out of the room. |
| Women's "inners" are usually a source of great mystery to us men, not that I hadn't had some experience in the matter. I remember being arm-twisted by a friend to buy her some intimate wear when I went on my first ever trip overseas to attend a conference in Bangkok. But saying yes is one thing, actually getting down to buying it quite another, as I discovered to my discomfort in the women's retail end at a downtown mall. |
| For starters, how do you explain to a female attendant who speaks limited English just what it is you are looking for. So, after I'd said "Er..." a couple of times, she pointed me understandingly to a large basket that seemed to be full of lacy confections. All I had to do was select what I wanted and have it packed and billed. Still, it was distinctly unpleasant pulling out itsy-bitsy pieces of nylon and holding them up to check for size, and to look for matching counterparts. Even that I might have got through if I hadn't looked up just then to see my editor watching me with an amused expression from across the hall... |
| A couple of years later, I was attempting to smuggle in another cache of female apparel for a colleague "" this was in the pre-liberalisation days when Marks & Spencer was an Indian's version of consumer heaven "" only to have the large lady at the customs counter raise her eyebrows at the volume of very personal wear occupying half the suitcase. "Wife?" she queried. "No, no," I quaked, "I'm a bachelor." "Girlfriend?" she asked. "No," I nodded again. "Pervert!" she posted her verdict, purloining a few pieces that I could have told her wouldn't fit, before I was allowed to pass. |
| Since then, my brush with women's lingerie has been considerably curtailed, though there were the mandatory gifts from friends or family coming in from abroad that invariably included wispy, lacy nighties that I knew for certain nobody's wives, at least, would wear. Invariably, they'd be consigned to lie at the back of the wardrobe so the children couldn't lay their hands on them. "Why don't you just give them away," I asked my wife once, "I'm sure the part-time maid would love to have them!" "And have her gossip about the kind of clothes she'll think I wear when I'm alone at home," my wife retorted. |
| But now, wanting to be a progressive parent, I followed my daughter into her room to tell her I might be able to buy her her inners whenever I travelled, if only she could let me see what they looked like. "You're a pervert," shouted my daughter, "you want to look at a bra, go and look at your wife's!" |
| I knew I'd got off to a bad start, and hoping to make amends with a parcel of intimate wear bought from a Khan Market store, I decided to check out what she might like "" which is how my wife discovered me, sifting through the drawers where my daughter kept her inners. "Ohmygod!" she gasped, "Are you some kind of pervert?" |
| Clearly, my lingerie buying days are well behind me. |
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