Sweet lies

I believe in truth and honesty, but let me confess: As a young woman, I always wanted a handsome liar in my life –yes, who like a cuckoo clock would come out with a sweet lie every hour, about me, about my beauty, about whatever I did…
I wished that he would be someone made of a finer mould than common men who don’t know that most women pine not only for powerful manly arms, but also for big fat white lies to hold on to…

My dream to have a liar in my life came true when I got married—he is a much better than the liar I had imagined—with a straight face he can lie. One day, I went  to a beauty parlour and came out, and he exclaimed with a straight face – “I don’t recognise you, you look so much younger, beautiful and trim…” though all that I had  gotten done was eye-brow trimming… but his lie left me beaming.

The other day, when I bought a gift for a friend’s birthday -- he complimented  me,
calling me a genius, saying that only I could spot such a delightful novelty— the gift I had bought on impulse was a floral designed hat—a silly, childish gift for someone who spends time more in temples and in bhajans.

 I gave away something else as a gift to my friend, but retained the hat -- a memento for my husband’s  intellect to recognise the genius in me.   

Once, while window shopping, I rushed into a saree shop drawn completely by a
designer saree on display, a shocking pink- coloured one with gold sequins all over—‘gaudy’ or more precisely 'an eye-sore' would be the word normal humans would describe it—but he, without batting an eye-lid said, ‘Oh you will carry it off very well…actually shocking bright colours are made for women like you.”

“Like me? fat and brown?” I asked. “Yes, brown and round, like a  sweet muffin” he said. This time he failed to look like a liar.

Choosing colours which suit one’s complexion is a vulnerable point for many a woman, but ego massage is also quite important for her—she doesn’t care if the end result will make her look like a walking debacle, if the joy of the compliment by her personal liar fills her with  power and esteem—and the liar looks like a hero.

 Though I didn’t buy the saree, my liar looked every inch a hero. I know that his white lies stem from his love for me -- he indulges me, proving that all is fair in love...
‘A rose-coloured fib a day keeps age away,’ goes the saying. Women love sweet liars. It is another matter that mirrors do not lie.