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.

CHAPTER 1: It happened to me.

As giant-size bugs and wasps peer into one window, colourful tiny butterflies flutter their wings on the other.

It is 6 pm on my Barbie watch, and homework ceases to make sense anymore.
"Let's play Colour-Colour or Crocodile-Crocodile," suggests Anu, with whom I have spent my summers and winters alike- making geometrically proportionate mountains and houses on Microsoft paint.

The year, 1997. Age, 7 years.

Simple pleasures and hopes are the locomotives of my being. Exaggeration, the lubricant.
"I can't come today. My head feels like a boiled potato and my feet, uncooked Utthapas," I say. Laziness generates a volcano of excuses.

I slam the room door, which has Barbie and Shahrukh share poster space.
While I impatiently pull out a few post cards from the drawer, I am extra careful with the recently opened pack of 48 oil pastels. There is a 'FRAGILE' sticker on it. Imaginary, of course.
I begin writing about how I saved the planet by planting three saplings in my garden last week. Turn my words into an illustration on the side, and carefully use my green crayon, ensuring there are no dents on its edge.
After writing and rewriting my story, and wasting several postcards, I fill in the address on the last one.

To,
Uncle Pai,
Tinkle,
Andheri Post Box No 356
Mumbai

And also make a mention of how Tinkle is the bestest magazine.

The next three days are spent in anticipation.
To see my name appear in the 'It Happened to Me' section of the coveted magazine.
Even appearing in 'Rolling Stone' wouldn't have helped me gather any moss.

However, Uncle Pai chose 'Anshul Dutta, Delhi' and 'Manju Krishnan, Chennai', over my story.
I fake a smile, and run to the bathroom to shed some tears while looking at my reflection in the mirror.
Soon, I flush my discontent with my stools.

Next week, there's a new postcard, and a new story.
"IT HAPPENED TO ME.
Reetika Subramanian, Mumbai"

My happiness brought down even Uncle Raichura's house from upstairs.