A picture is worth a thousand words that I could do without!

For the last several weeks, my weekend trips to my aunt's house have included one important function- taking pictures. By that I don't mean the making memories kind, or landscape or portrait photography, amateur or professional. This is a category all of its own- its Marriage Market photography. It started with a Maami who was dismayed by the meagre number of pictures my Mom offered her of me. "Other girls send portfolios" , she protested. "Other girls must be models, not geeky software engineers", I snorted. I was overruled by my alarmed mother though, and so every weekend I come bearing a couple of my Salwar Kameezes and pose around the solarium, while my aunt directs me and takes the snaps, and my cousin critiques. Sometimes, if its not enough, I try out their dresses and do my hair several different ways: pull it back, leave it loose, a little in front. And once its all done I send them on their way to my Mom in India.

She promptly and diligently goes through them and comes back with several more suggestions for the next week. "Try a different duppatta... comb your hair after every shot, don't leave it loose... don't tie it too tight.... wear heel... don't wear heels...no shoes...no bare feet, wear sandals with open toes... not that dress, its too tight... not that one either, its too floppy.... stand up straight... don't stand too straight, be natural... sit... no sitting shots... wear powder... no make up... jewellery... close ups of you face, full length shots...

Ok... who cares precisely to look at so many pictures?!! Unfortunately, alas, there are enough people who do. And even worse(for me) there are girls who happily (it seems- my smiles are simply fake, and not all the cajoling in the world can help with that) sit through an entire photoshoot, for all the world like they were at America's Top Model or something. Today it is to be garden shots(never mind that it s perfectly dreary winter's day), in carefully arranged 'natural' poses.

So if you ever come across pictures of me with a forced smile, strangely stiff, and teetering on high heels, smelling the non-existent roses, all in different clothes, for all the world like a heroine from a Tamil movie, changing costumes through a song sequence, you know that story behind it.