CHAPTER 8: Memory is a Collage.

My eyes probe the classroom like roach antennae. My legs quiver like an unsupported creeper in a storm. It is our first day in school after the summer break.

Children- wearing starched uniforms, sparkling white socks and carrying unopened textbooks- storm into the school gates. Following orders from the principal, everyone has been scattered across the three divisions.

While the benches have become taller, the students occupying them in my new classroom look less familiar. In fact, everyone looks identical in this anonymous crowd. The classroom is a graveyard of my happiness, I whine.

I dislike everyone and everything around. Suddenly, the class bullies and the Late Kates from Class 2 look a little more pleasing.

The teacher’s face resembles that of a demon, for having held me captive in a deserted island- away from my friends. Friends, who must be having a gleeful time together without me in the other classroom, I dread. A little more exaggerated in my imagination, of course.

The customary attendance rolls are read out. My ears start ringing in anticipation of a known name that I might have accidentally missed noticing. Alas, my eyes hadn’t misread.

What follows the attendance roll remains only in the fringes of my consciousness. I am busy making mental notes about how I had been thrown into a hellhole of strangers and strange looking classmates. The minute the lunch bell rings, I gallop to the corridors to meet my old friends, hoping that they missed me as much as I did. 

Amidst the sights and sounds of crisp uniforms and animated conversations, I identify three familiar faces. I realise that nothing had changed.

The walls of the classrooms were temporary and couldn’t come in the way of the very many shared experiences that we had had in the previous year. After exchanging notes about our new teachers and bench partners, we walk back to our classrooms.

At that moment as I walk towards my bench, I exchange smiles with my new bench partner. I seek refuge in her bewildered smile.

CHAPTER 7: Have the cake, and eat it too.

As Naaz Miss asks us to make V-shaped crows, soaring the light blue sky- centimetres above the triangular mountains in our drawing books- automated growls are audible from my intestines in the pursuit of Palak Paneer, Hakka noodles and residue of birthday cake.

None belonging to my tiffin box.

One doesn’t need pav bhaji masala advertisements on television to prove that tiffin boxes maketh a friend.

With barely a few minutes to go for the lunch break- the first ten minutes of which are spent in mindless banter in the queue outside the toilet- concentration levels dip while hunger pangs continue to trip.

Triiiiiiiii-iiiiiiiiiiiiii-iiiiiiiiing!!

Aaha! After forcefully channelling my inner Picasso in the art period, it is finally time to turn into the dabba-stealing glutton. I rejoice, and hypothetically rub my palms together in anticipation.

The stained napkin spread underneath the tiffin box replaces the drawing book, a spoon and fork emerge in place of the blunt pencil and the black crayon, and boredom-induced puffy eyes make way for exaggerated potions of twinkle and glitter.  

In no time, the girl-with-a-yummy-lunch box, who offers you morsels with hesitation soon turns into a friend, who accepts your brazenness and adapts to your gastronomic demands.

“My mum has packed two additional chappatis for you.” A statement that promises more than just a delicious meal from the humble tiffin box. 

CHAPTER 6: When Mum's Stare is Law.

Dilated pupils mean different things to different people.

Shock and boredom to some, wonder and excitement to others, and in extreme cases, it could just be a genetic defect.

However, when the pupils in question belong to your Mum’s eyes, it could only mean one thing:

“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!”

In a room filled with NRI relatives- my respect for who depends on the size of the bag and brands of imported chocolates and multi-coloured wafer biscuits in it- gravity as a force is challenged by the magnetic power of eye contact.

The moment your fingers attempt to unwrap the packet of biscuits in full public view in response to your salivating mouth, a telepathic signal is sent to the brain.

And your washed up eyes meet Mum’s amplified pupils.

“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!”

Packet down. Chin down. Tears roll down.

Eavesdropping is a stepping stone to maternal policing. 

Boxed thoughts, grounded feet and a zipped mouth are the only ways to tackle these dire stare threats in populous situations.

“Babu’s daughter-in-law is a very modern girl. She has convinced Govind to move out of the house to live separately,” Pushpa aunty updates the ladies at the kitty party, while we children tuck in a few vegetable spring rolls and hara bhara kebabs along with tidbits from the Babu household.

Ideally, by virtue of being a juvenile plus-one at a ladies’ kitty party, one is expected to behave oneself and occasionally smile when he/she is reassured of his/ her cuteness by dolled up aunties. 

Alas, eavesdropping is an evil dragon.

“Aunty, but Govind is having a love affair with his office secretary..,” I proclaim, repeating Usha aunty’s conversation with Mum at the grocery shop last week.  

Taking my cue from nature's magnetism, I look at Mum before I utter another word.  

“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!”

CHAPTER 5: Dreadlocks and The Tear Bears.

"Chubby cheeks, Dimpled chin. Rosy lips, Teeth within. Curly hair, very fair."

Every time these lines move beyond my nursery rhyme book to describe Shahrukh Khan's face, I know there is only one place I had to be in:

'PRATAP HAIR SALON: For Mens only.’

The board outside this dingy salon has hand-painted portraits of SRK and Salman flaunting their over-polished pearlies and spiked hairstyles. Perhaps, to promise a 'glamorous' makeover for the Class 7 boys with dry facial hair spells, and neighbourhood uncles with a stormy hair deluge.

But for a seven-year-old like me, this salon has nothing more to offer than a stairway to doom. Classmates made fun of my new 'Baba cut' the following day in school. Every six months.

My visit to 'Pratap Hair Salon' was ushered in by an hour of tears and pleas that finally ended with Mummy threatening to write a remark in the school calendar.

What followed had always been beyond the control of my tears and I.

Without uttering a word, I stepped out of the door, fearing the known.

As we enter the salon, rows of uncles with frothy cheeks and jaws, watch Ajay Jadeja hit a six from a TV set lodged metres above ground. Their heads move in the direction of the cricket ball- from Jadeja’s bat to someone’s lap in the stands.

I am the only girl in the room. Not that people even care to notice my ribbons and plaits.

"Baby ko Baba cut," ascertains Daddy. Pratap Uncle neither raises his eyebrow nor fakes his sympathies.

I sit there patiently, hoping that the scissors would cease to cut, the earth would start to shake and Jadeja would get stumped the very next minute.

However, it takes just one chop to realise that my wishes didn’t even qualify to be ponies. Forget horses.

Within minutes, my head turns into a paddy field with fresh harvests. My eyes are swollen and my face has a larger diameter.

SRK didn't act only in movies, I murmur.

"Chunky cheeks, bloated chin. Parched lips, teeth within. Chopped hair, very unfair."

CHAPTER 4: Splash, Swish, Swoosh!

It is that time of the year when sporting multi-coloured nail paint on your finger and toe nails was not a doorway to the principal’s cabin.
Even showing off a pink facepack could not single you out from the assembly line.

My hair smells of slimy egg yolk, the ends of my teeth have stains of red gulal, and my head is still tizzy after downing tumblers of what I assumed to be ‘flavored milk’.

Two hours of ‘splash, swish and swoosh’ could turn a sparkling clean yellow petticoat into a potential rag to swab the floor.

Uncles, who usually wore a frown above their buttoned up shirts, needed no music to sway their coloured bodies after gulping down some adult pani puris.

Aunties, who generally discussed their house maids and mothers-in-law, continued to do so.

Colony boys marched into the warfront armed with dangerous weapons: eggs, bottles of urine, gutter water-filled balloons and evil grins.

It was during such moments, belonging to the ‘Kachcha Limbu’ gang, meant that you had to be prepared to be sidelined.

The big boys showed off their boyhood by putting their dangerous arms to use, which I heard Ruchi murmur to her friend “was meant to ‘patao’ us tuition girls.”

“Patao?” I wondered.

The girls giggled and screeched, while the boys attacked them without any shame.
They seemed to have a lot of fun, teasing each other and splashing balloons on one another.

Anu and I watched, wondering why we weren’t ‘pataod’.
Why were we left with pichkaris and water balloons all to ourselves?
What was it about the dangerous big boys that made all the Didis giggle from ear to ear?

“Would it also happen if I got rid of my yellow petticoat?” I thought.

CHAPTER 3: "Smile, Please!"

There is a genetic misconception amongst most mothers:
Our urinary bladders like the Television set can be remote controlled by them.

“Use the bathroom right now. You will not be able to go later on,” commands Mummy, almost shoving me into the commode.

The situation gets more intense minutes before leaving for school every day.
“Go, go.”
Gone.

Today is a special day in school. No, it is not a public holiday.
Yesterday, Naaz Miss had informed us to come neatly dressed for the ‘class photograph’. “Wear regular uniform with black shoes,” she made us note down in our calendars.

Since applying makeup was a punishment-inducing act according to Rule No 6 mentioned in the school calendar, I could only rely on my ironed uniform and woven hair plaits to look "neatly dressed".

After spending the first three periods mastering rhyming words, basic addition and planets in the solar system, the school peon stepped into the classroom.
“Children, form a height-wise line. Fingers on your lips,” Naaz Miss announces.

One of the biggest advantages of being neither too tall nor too short was the opportunity to sit right next to Naaz Miss in the class photo.

The taller students of the class were made to stand on benches that we otherwise used to place our lunch dabbas on. The shorter ones had to kneel down on the ground that had dog poop and dust left behind from our shoe soles.

After giggling and blushing for ten seconds straight, Reema and I, who sat on either side of Naaz Miss, manually ironed the creases on our uniform skirts.
It was our mini- Miss India moment.

“Back row students, stand in attention. Students in the front, hands on your thighs,” announces Mr Photographer, in a well-rehearsed almost bored tone.

Striking poses as identical as our uniforms, I wondered whether sporting a smile would even make a difference.

From a distance, we resembled a cluster of mass produced ceramic show pieces.
Faceless, and almost impossible to tell apart.

“Open your eyes…Smile, please.”

I flaunt my front teeth. Just like every one else from class.

CHAPTER 2: Happy Burpday!

Stumbling upon a south Indian at a children’s birthday party is half as daunting as spotting a black sheep in a herd.

The string of mogras pinned to the hair, the red bindi glued to the forehead and the layers of make-up painted on the face are evidence enough to be convicted by the fashion police.
All put together with a pair of trousers and T-shirt, of course.

The occasion: Anu's seventh birthday.
The gift: An envelope containing Rs 51.

Drowning under the weight of lipstick and foundation, I head to Anu's house.
While the invite mentions that the party will begin at 6pm, I reach 10 minutes in advance only to be welcomed by empty chairs and balloons.
Punctuality is an heirloom presented to us by our Tamil-speaking forefathers.

Slowly and unsteadily, familiar faces fill the vacuum in the room, accompanied by their pesky mothers and annoying little siblings.

Eclipsed by awkward stares and prolonged silences for the first half hour, I decide to show off my dancing abilities to the gallery.

“I’m a Barbie girrll in my Barbie woo-oorld,” I lip sync, as Anu’s father balances his DJ act with ease.
The best part about dancing in a crowd is the high degree of self-confidence you develop.
You might resemble a Made In China doll, but tend to feel like Aqua’s Barbie Girl.

After attracting ‘ooohs’ and ‘sho shweets’ from my target audience, I move to the food corner.
The dining table at a birthday party is the hallmark of democracy: A paper plate, one samosa, oily potato wafers, a piece of cake (and a second piece only if you’re lucky).

While we are busy dissecting the life of Popeye, our sailor man, our mothers discuss more weighty issues such as our school bags and our class teacher’s personal life.

Having been a regular on the birthday party circuit, I decide to leave only after collecting the coveted return gift.


A pencil box and two sharpened pencils it is.