Tag: Growing up

Of Races, Fights, and Cheekbones Exposed

I start pedaling so rapidly that my feet are a blur, and the wind is hitting my face hard enough to force tears out of the corners of my eyes. But this still isn’t fast enough. I lean forward, lower, closer to the handlebar with laser-sharp focus. The road is clear and open in front of me, the scooter’s roar is still somewhere behind me. My breath is escaping in short gasps and pants, and I am now just two streets away from winning. I can almost taste the victory! But suddenly, the roar of the scooter sounds much louder, and I quickly glance over my shoulder to check how close it is. Big mistake.

I’ve always been a very careful person. I’m over-cautious and self-preserving, and this has been evident since I was a child. I never had to get stitches, barely ever got hurt, avoided confrontation of all kinds, and never got into fights. While I did play on the streets every evening, and cycle around the colony to get everywhere, I was always careful, non-aggressive and very peaceful.

However, this photo tells a different tale:

karate kid

 

That’s me, barely 7 years old. Notice the karate uniform. The medal around my neck. And the gaping wound on my right cheek.

Did I get into a fight? Yes, I did. Did I win a medal? Yes, I did. Did I sustain a wound during this fight? Nope, that was a much too respectable way to sustain an injury.

Every time I look at this photo, the memory of how I ended up in such a state is so vivid that it’s like flipping over a Time-Turner. If I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I can almost feel myself whooshing back in time, and as the clock hands race backwards and the calendar pages flip back page over page: we travel back to a time almost exactly 21 years ago, and to a place halfway across the world back in India …

… And BAM. I am 7 years old. I am in the second grade, and loving it. I ride my bicycle to school every day. One fine afternoon I am invited over to my mom’s friend’s place for lunch. I love this woman to no end – she is my version of a fairy godmother. This fateful afternoon, she has invited us over for lunch. My mom is going to bring my baby brother (then just over a year old) to her place, and I am told to come to her house straight from school, instead of going home.

We have a lovely lunch, and at the end of it, mom and I head out to go home. Normally she takes both me and Kiddo on her scooter, but in this case, while she has her scooter, I still have to ride my bicycle home. It isn’t very far – all I have to do is ride straight down the main road (which has a bit of a slope I enjoy freewheeling down) and take a left at my row of houses. Mom says I should head out while she is saying her goodbyes, and this makes sense to me because her scooter is so fast that she will overtake me and my bike in no time.

And so I wave, settle down on my bike, and set off. I reach the main road pretty quickly, and happily start wheeling down the slope. The road is wide open, and completely empty – it is my road. The wind is whistling in my ears, my hair is flying like some sort of birds’ nest on top of my head, and my heart is pounding away in my chest with the sheer exhilaration of going downhill.

In the middle of this, I suddenly hear the distant but distinctive roar of my mom’s scooter starting up. She and Kiddo are on their way! They are still far behind, but will catch up in no time. It is a pity that scooters can go so much faster than bicycles. Or… wait! What if I pedal really, really hard? I already have a head start! Maybe if I go very very fast, I will reach home first and win! Alright then, the race is ON!

So I speed up even more. With sharp bursts of adrenaline pumping through my system, I start pedaling so rapidly that my feet are a blur, and the wind is hitting my face hard enough to force tears out of the corners of my eyes. But this still isn’t fast enough. I lean forward, lower, closer to the handlebar with laser-sharp focus. The road is clear and open in front of me, the scooter’s roar is still somewhere behind me. My breath is escaping in short gasps and pants, and I am now just two streets away from winning. I can almost taste the victory! But suddenly, the roar of the scooter sounds much louder, and I quickly glance over my shoulder to check how close it is. Big mistake. That split-second loss in concentration is enough for my bike to start wobbling. I am going fast, really really fast, and now the handlebar is suddenly vibrating. I squeeze the bars even tighter, trying to wrestle back control from the bike, but it is a losing battle, and a nanosecond before I crash, there is a moment where I register the tiny bits of gravel spilled over on that patch of road, the alarming weaving of my handlebar, and the wind, which is now whistling in my ear, ‘too fast, too fast’… and with a final shudder, the front wheel of my cycle draws a mighty arc, and the bike and I crash onto the gravel-encrusted road.

For a minute, everything goes silent. I lay there, stunned and stung. I have lost. Lost control of the bike, lost the race. My hands are still clutching the handlebar of my now horizontal cycle. I seem to be scratched in more places than I can mentally inventory. And then… the welcome roar of my mom’s scooter fills me with relief. Mommy is here! I am going to be just fine.

I am rushed to the dispensary, my cuts and scrapes are cleaned. Most of them are superficial, except for a giant gash on my cheek. It appears as if all the flesh has been scraped off my right cheek, and the nurses are alarmed to see white bone through all the bleeding. Yes, my cheekbone is now visible and exposed to the world. I am given a quick tetanus shot, and am rushed to the ambulance to be taken to the nearby hospital because this is serious, and I require an X-ray. A momentous event indeed – almost all regular ailments are handled at the dispensary, but if they are taking out the ambulance for me, my injuries must be quite significant indeed. I am bemused, yes, but also feeling a sense of importance because they let me ride the ambulance up front. My poor mother has to deal with this whole situation on her own, as this happens to be the very weekend my dad is out of town for work.

A few hours later, I have been diagnosed with no broken bones. I only have a surface injury on my cheek, and I am lucky my eyes weren’t hurt. A family friend picks us up from the hospital and takes us home – where I am generally made a fuss of. I am quite fascinated and take to eyeing my (still barely visible) cheekbone every time I pass a shiny surface. My recovery is fast, and my face is healing nicely.

Three days later, my karate instructor drops by to inform us of a karate competition starting just then. He wants all of his students to participate. My parents tell him that I am already injured, but he explains that it will be a very basic fight, I only have to fight another girl at my skill level, and even if I lose, I will still get a medal. Ten minutes later, I am all dressed up in my karate uniform. My instructor drives me to the competition. I fight another girl, not very well – I lose the fight, but win a silver medal.

There is an award ceremony later in the evening, and some official shakes my hand and puts a medal around my neck. I am quite proud of myself. Even if it is more of a participation award. I might have lost control of my bike. Lost the race with mom. Lost the karate fight. But I have won a medal, and today, I feel like a winner!

Of Childhood, Chicken Pox, and Camaraderie

Falling sick is the most miserable feeling ever. I recently had a nasty bout of cold, along with a sore throat and fever. It wasn’t debilitating in the least, but highly annoying and inconvenient. After spending a whole day in bed, making myself hot tea and soup, fetching medicine, and gargling with salt water (ugh!) – I was sick of being sick, and promptly resumed my daily activities, to hell with the illness.

But while I was complaining about how awful it is to feel sick, and how I’ve always hated it when my body has let me down, I realized that this wasn’t exactly true. Illness is only horrid when you’re a strong, independent woman living alone, and have nobody to fuss over you, plump your pillows, and feed you soup. Sure, I have people who’d fuss over me over text and chat, but unfortunately almost all of them are far away. The worst part of being sick isn’t the illness itself, but the fact that you’re in charge of dealing with it, treating it, and fixing it. Nobody else will set up your doctor’s appointments. Nobody else will check your temperature every few hours. Nobody will ruffle your hair and bring you hot khichadi from the kitchen, unless you specifically decide to swallow your pride and ask your friends to come over and babysit you. Being a sick adult is horrid, however – as far as I can recall, being a sick child was rather enjoyable. My memories might be tinged with nostalgia, but childhood sicknesses always seemed to involve happy events such as getting time off from school, and being taken care of by mom.

One of my fondest memories of being sick is from the summer of 2002. I’d just finished class 6, and was all set to enjoy my two-month-long summer vacation. Two whole months of lazy afternoons in front of the water cooler, eating juicy mangoes, reading a ton of books, and playing Boggle with my friends. This particular summer was made even more thrilling by the fact that two of my favorite cousins were coming over to stay. My kid brother and I were wildly excited. When our visitors finally arrived, we made a happy foursome – Kiddo and I, and both cousins. One of the cousins was a total bookworm, and she and I engaged in friendly competition to read the maximum number of books per day. We drove my parents nuts by talking about Harry Potter day in and day out – after a point we were banned from talking any more about it. Our creative workaround was coming up with a whole lexicon of code words for every single character, location and event at Hogwarts (yes, my Pottermania started quite early). The other, more gregarious cousin, got along fantastically well with Kiddo, who was just 6 years old at that point. Together, we all laughed and teased, took turns at playing non-stop RoadRash on the computer, went to parks, and even had a midnight feast in the middle of the night, Enid Blyton-style, which was super fun to do in secret, but in retrospect I’m fairly sure my parents were aware of all the whispered giggles and clanging of steel utensils in the night!

This idyllic nature of our summer was sorely tested by a sudden and unexpected rash of chicken pox. One of the cousins developed it, presumably after having being exposed to the virus on her train journey, and exactly two weeks after that, my brother and I fell prey to it. The other cousin had enviable immunity, having already had it as a baby. While chicken pox certainly threw a wrench in the proceedings, that summer still went on to be one of the most memorable vacations I have ever had. Yes, the rashes were gross and painful, and quickly transitioned to itchy. Yes, we had to drink a horrible concoction of some herbal remedy, which was supposed to help generate more poxes, and develop lifetime immunity. Yes, we were all quarantined and restricted to the house, and couldn’t see any of our friends. And yes, my poor mother had to take care of sick kid after sick kid all summer. But honestly? For us kids, we had all the companionship we needed, and after the initial fever and shock wore off, we would try to out-compete each other – with who had the weirdest-shaped rashes, and what was the most effective way to lessen the gag reflex after a dose of foul-tasting medicine (crunching a giant spoonful of sugar right after gulping down the medicine seemed to work best).

Eventually my cousin stopped being contagious, and they both left – leaving Kiddo and I alone and still quarantined. Now of course until this point the two of us had gotten along well – we had our occasional brother-sister spats, but were quite fond of each other. However, that month, that summer – was when we transitioned from mere siblings to good friends. Chicken pox left us solely in each other’s company – we couldn’t see any of our friends who were steadily returning from their own vacations at grandparents’ and other assorted relatives’ homes. School wasn’t in session yet, and even if it had, we’d probably have to stay home to prevent infecting our classmates anyway. So it ended up being just Kiddo and I, all day, every day – and it was all kinds of fun. I read out books to him (not surprisingly, a lot of Harry Potter), we played all kinds of games together, and we ended up becoming really close companions. Not to say that we weren’t absolutely thrilled to finally be declared non-contagious, and to get out to see other people – but that was the transition point in our relationship.

Today I consider my brother to be one of my closest friends. He’s an incredibly funny and sarcastic narrator, and our stockpile of inside jokes grows by the day. But aside from all the hilarity, I am routinely surprised at how thoughtful he can be, and at the impassioned discussions we end up having. His perspective and his thoughts are well-articulated, and I sometimes have to do a double-take because all my interactions with him are also superimposed by memories of him as a naughty 3-year old child hiding all my school supplies when I was running late. Kiddo as a child was great, but Kiddo as an adult is pretty awesome as well. This is the one person I have known since the day he was born, and I know that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, he’s got my back – and I’ve got his. Here’s to you, Kiddo – my brother, my confidant, my friend. I’m so proud of you!

Reason #713 why I love New York: The Strand

I want books piled on my coffee tables, I want window sills stacked high with stray books. Books lining my staircases, books forgotten behind cushions and fleece throws in cozy armchairs. Books snoozing under my pillow, tottering on nightstands,  balancing on the edge of the tub. I want to live in my own little oasis of books, a little world in which my kids can grow up surrounded by witches and wizards, dragons and Shardbearers, boarding schools and midnight feasts, one-legged pirates and snarky Greek demigods. It’s a vividly colorful world, this second world I inhabit, and is a world I will welcome all my descendants into. 

All bookstores are magical treasure troves, but the Strand is pretty much my version of Aladdin’s Cave of Wonders.

strand
Behold, tons of stories just waiting to be read!

At the corner of 12th and Broadway, the Strand has a gigantic collection of rare books, classics with their quintessential leather-bound covers – so solid and indulgent, like books who mean business, alphabetized tall and narrow little stacks you can lose yourself in, all organized by genre and alphabet, an entire collection of cleverly-named candles, witty magnets, mugs, bookmarks, gorgeous journals and totes, humorous socks and other Strand paraphernalia, a banned books section, and a whole row of staff recommendations with detailed notes about how and why this book demands to be read this very minute – and while all those features make the Strand a terrific bookstore, what puts it over the top is the racks and racks of discounted second-hand books lined outside. Starting from as low as 48 cents, these books are wonderfully haphazard and disorganized – and it’s especially thrilling because you never know what you might stumble across. Old copies of Pride and Prejudice crammed against The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, mixed in with German folk tales, stodgily standing next to the rules of Hindi grammar, lined up with parenting help books, just adjacent to the single girl’s guide to NYC. I’ve found old yellowed books with notes inscribed in the margins (literary, as opposed to vandalism – there’s a fine line),  as well as books fresh and heady with that gorgeous new-book smell. The sheer variety delights my heart!

I’ve always felt more at peace with books as opposed to people. Those who saw me growing up can attest to the fact that whenever they came to visit, I’ve always had my nose buried in a book, and will only remove it with the greatest reluctance. I like to think I’ve changed a bit over time, become more of a people person, but maybe it’s just that I compartmentalize better now. Growing up, I’d collect books at stores and book fairs, I’d stack them, organize them by genre, author, frequency of re-reads, and caress them lovingly, read them over and over, trying to keep the pages un-creased and the spine intact (what kind of monster ruins book spines?! Or folds down pages?!). My books should remain as new as they were on the day I bought them.

At some point I realized that I don’t just like books, I need them. What started off as an indulgence has morphed into a necessity, and now I need extra ‘hits’ when I’ve had a bad day. While ‘going to the bookstore’ has always been the norm for when I wanted to celebrate some accomplishment (e.g. finished my annual exams and survived!) right from a young age, and getting books as gifts would make me happy in a way new clothes never did – I eventually figured out that a trip to the bookstore would also cheer me up immensely when I’ve had a hard day. Tired, stressed, lost, heartbroken – all these states of mind have been soothed over the years by a mere couple of hours in a bookstore. I feel at peace – like all the internal and external turmoil is held at bay by the hard covers (or paperbacks) of books. I’d go to a bookstore, pick up a novel, and curl up in a comfy armchair, surrounded by books and bookworms, and the quiet rustle of turning pages – it’s like a warm cocoon that wraps me up cozy and tight, a silvery force field of sorts, deflecting the world and all its troubles away from me. It’s my safe space, and nothing can hurt me while I’m there.

Books are something I take for granted, but whenever I stop and really think about it, I feel incredibly grateful to all the authors around the globe who pick up their pens and pick out the best words to share their stories, based in reality or imagination or both. I’m grateful to my parents for loving books themselves, and encouraging me to read more, explore more, as much as my heart desired. Reading is such an integral part of my identity that it’s hard to imagine a parallel universe in which I didn’t care to read. That universe seems colder, harsher, bleaker. My life is so much brighter, because I can choose to live multiple lives, think from varying perspectives, empathize better, and dream more resplendent dreams, all because of all the stories I get to read.

While e-books have revolutionized the ease of reading, I am determined to have a gigantic collection of physical books you can touch, see and smell (oh, that smell! Did you know that the Strand actually sells scented candles called Aged Page, and Cafe Au Library?). My dream house has a giant room full of books – wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, many lifetimes worth of books. But apart from my very own personal library, I’d love to have books spilling over in other areas of my life, quite literally. I want books piled on my coffee tables, I want window sills stacked high with stray books. Books lining my staircases, books forgotten behind cushions and fleece throws in cozy armchairs. Books snoozing under my pillow, tottering on nightstands,  balancing on the edge of the tub. I want to live in my own little oasis of books, a little world in which my kids can grow up surrounded by witches and wizards, dragons and Shardbearers, boarding schools and midnight feasts, one-legged pirates and snarky Greek demigods. It’s a vividly colorful world, this second world I inhabit, and is a world I will welcome all my descendants into.