IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 67- OUTFIT TRAUMA Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

 

गिर गई, गिर गई! Ah, the melodramatic alarm bells of my life. I tend to get over worried about things which can go wrong. Besides being a painful husband and father, my propensity to worry about things is spoiling my health and peace of mind. My overthinking brain is always on high alert, scanning the horizon for zippers, buttons, and precariously tied dhotis that are seconds away from catastrophe.

Take, for example, I am seeing a teenager walking by, with his trousers precariously perched on his hips. There I am, laser-focused, mentally calculating the trajectory of those pants if gravity decides to do its thing. My inner voice yells, "गिर गई, गिर गई!" The kid, blissfully unaware, is busy jamming to music. I can’t focus on anything else. Should I alert him? Maybe a polite, “Beta, thoda oopar kheench lo!” But alas, social decorum holds me back. Instead, I spend ten full minutes watching this human cliffhanger until, he disappeared. I heaved a sigh of relief as if I’d personally averted a major crisis.

Other day I got worried when the wind started blowing and a Malayali friend refused to unfold his lungi.  He stood there like a statue, his lungi flapping dangerously, as if daring the wind to do its worst. Meanwhile, I was sweating bullets. I spent the next fifteen minutes mentally imagining that  the lungi may blow up like an inverted parachute.

My troubles don’t end there. I’ve noticed that certain sartorial choices trigger my anxiety even more. Girls in short skirts, for instance. They walk by, oblivious to the silent prayers I’m offering for their safety. One gust of wind, and my overactive imagination runs wild. It’s not judgmental—it’s just that my brain likes to play dress rehearsals for disaster.

And don’t get me started on deep-cut blouses or low saris worn too adventurously. My mind immediately starts yelling, “Structural integrity compromised!” It’s like watching a game of Jenga, except the stakes are far more, um, visible.

As a soldier I used to double stitch my clothes _kyonki ladai mein phatni nahin chahiye_

While most of the people love to go to the beach to see bikini clad (I wonder if it is an appropriate word) females. I avoid beaches like the plague because the thought of bikini-clad women triggers my peculiar fear of stray waves and ill-timed elastic snaps. Someone once said, "Life’s a beach," but for me, beaches are a landmine of potential embarrassment waiting to happen.

The worst, though, is at weddings. Picture this: a radiant bride in an elaborate lehenga(made fluffy by layers of stiff cloth inside), walking gracefully around the holy book. Everyone else is teary-eyed, praying for eternal love and togetherness. Me? I’m fervently praying she doesn’t trip on that lehenga or tumble down while bowing down and go viral on social media. Because in my world, nothing screams disaster louder than a clumsy bride on YouTube with a million views.

You must be familiar with the nightmare of not knowing a single answer in an exam but my nightmare is peculiar. My recurring nightmare is, me in a hospital, draped in an undersized hospital gown. You know, the ones that cover everything except what they’re actually supposed to cover. There I am, an oversized man wrapped in a fabric conspiracy, dodging nurses and hoping no one sees me.

During years of active service, I have seen losses of lives due to petty negligence. Over ensuring safety has become a second nature.  Its extension into my retirement, I wonder if it is PTSD.

 

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