Saturday evening, sitting back in comfort at the Club, waiting for my drink. It arrived in an unexpectedly tall glass, and with a pink straw of the bellows kind, poised over crimson tomato juice. Rosy pink and crimson, artistic if you had time to think about it. I, on the other hand, was alarmed. Firstly it wasn’t a tall glass kind of drink and, secondly, the straw was a new addition. “Straw kyon ?” I asked the bearer, who bowed over his cummerbund and explained that straws were traditionally served with tall glasses. I hastily thanked him and he moved to the next table. But I kept staring at the straw after he left. It was already immersed in tomato juice and, if I had asked for it to be removed, I told myself, it would just have gone into the trash bin.
It wasn’t that I went around staring at plastic straws, but this time issues of plastic had been circling various cocktail conversations as a kind of Earth Day hangover. Those cocktails were well-supplied with plastic stirrers and straws but everyone was discussing how one should do one’s bit, blissfully ignoring what was between their fingers. Starbucks in Mumbai usually asks if you want a straw before inflicting one on you. Club-bearers, however, were trained to do their duty. A missing stirrer — or in this case, straw — might be put down as dereliction of duty.
There was much excitement over the fact that the Queen had banned plastic in the UK after viewing David Attenborough’s documentary. And in March, the Church of England had suggested that people give up something plastic for Lent. That sounded a little far-fetched to me — most people I knew in Kolkata were giving up chocolate or something similar on an everyday basis for the benefit of their waistline. I had even suggested it to Priscilla, the office receptionist, who raised her plucked eyebrow and asked me in tones of extreme hauteur what I suggest she should give up. Considering she was planning a summer wardrobe well-accessorised with plastic earrings and decorative buttons at that moment — with the lady who tailored her clothes in consultation — I realised that I had chosen the wrong time.
I could have said clothes — eco-warriors recommended hanging on to old clothes for as long as possible. New clothes, especially those with synthetic fibres, are a nail in our plastic coffin. A vibrant georgette pallu wafted past my nose as I was deep in contemplation of the subject. Priscilla would not have welcomed curtailing her summer wardrobe for two years and I was certain that most women would not entertain the thought either.
I searched for a less-provocative item to contribute to the conversation and mini-shampoos at hotels came to mind, but the moment I brought that up, there was instant indignation. “Give up those lovely body wash and carry our own bottle on trips? Rubbish! Those things are part of the experience.” Shunning the contents of mini-bars also came up. That was rather practical, I thought; those small plastic bottles were expensive anyway. The cocktail stirrers twiddled madly and coral lips pursed around plastic straws. Just when I was about to distract them with the stirrers I was firmly told that my duty was to sort out the household trash into three types of garbage and that was it.
I had actually asked the household help if the kabariwala — whom I had never seen — would be interested in buying old shampoo bottles but was firmly told that he would not. The only thing I eventually managed to do was put a stop to bringing mishti doi set in plastic tubs into the house — after a long wrangle until the Jeeves had realised that it wasn’t a question of the miserly lady of the house complaining but the fact that a leaning tower of tubs was not going to be useful.
The party talk drifted to someone who had just had a baby. Disposable diapers were so useful, they cooed. I muttered that they had to be given up too because they were plastic-lined. That seemed to be the last straw; who had ever heard of such an absurd idea? Cloth diapers and leaky babies were so Jurassic! Then the lips returned to the business of sipping drinks, looking disdainfully around while I thought I had better finish my drink and slip into the shadows.
Perhaps, I thought gloomily, it was a better idea to give up cocktail parties until I sorted out my issues with plastic — that might be an easier thing to do.
Anjana Basu is a Kolkata-based writer