My brown polka dotted peep-toe wedge heels are here, so *clink* cheers to me, and here's to having something to be e and girly about for sometime, where e = excited.
I'm wearing heels, peep toes right now, and general elevators increasingly as a habit. I don't tap around corridors, I'm not like that, and they're not noisy heels, but this sudden development -- buying/wearing heels -- where I earlier thought being tall and eucalyptus meant punjabi jutti damnation or unsaid restrictions to flat wear: Birkenstock's and ballerinas, kohlapuris and flip flops.
Hair all over the place, I walk into a gully with lots of shopping bags, exhausted, starving, but revelling in my fresh bargains. My two friends are waiting where I told them to wait. They've spotted me from a few yards still too far. They're following my footstep-progress, and smirking, I can see they are. I'm doddering towards them (in my peep-toe wedges, remember?) curious why they're so amused. "What what what", I say when I reach. ( 'Hi' is so passe:) "Nothing you fool." We go to dinner, in our very adult sand box world.
I'm sitting in a car, seat belted, with a woman I somewhat look up to, reading out headline of a magazine article. Something about dreaded thirties: Are you having a thrisis, I ask/ read out loud. She rubbishes it: It's all in the mind. I don't feel any different from what I did when I was 16. Mm hm. I'm thinking, how, where and whether I have changed. I come up with thoughts like I still can't stand raw beetroot. But in juice its ok..I've made concessions for marmalade. I now quite like it with peanut butter and thick non commercial bread... mm hmm.. Caramel custard is still as ghastly as when I was sixteen: sweetened egg that rises, and makes me gag...Ughh hmm. Ok, taste buds may have evolved, slightly. At four months short of 24, I've had crab. I wouldn't have thunk.
But I get carried away with food thoughts, and associate ingredients with more durable memories. What I have always loved, I still do. Why doesn't that change,and not just with food? I now need heavy doses of pepper and mustard in almost everything not cooked with turmeric. Pickle, I generally second-help myself to, while vadas I can neither stand, nor emphasise enough. This stems from my memory of a seven-year-old me having puked after eating one. May well have been my first one. It's a distinct memory, deep fried batter with rye interruptions. Blasphemy.
Later on, in the eighth standard, I showed my Hindi teacher snaps of my 13th birthday party -- which now seems like a queer thing to do when I didn't even like her. But so this woman, fraud teacher -- Saira, her name -- asked me if the dough nuts were vadas.
It's not to do with this, for come to think of, vadas and dough nuts, yes ok, maybe, but she was a terrible teacher. And here's my durable memory:
Long red nails, and missing ethics, the petty nose-digger once tore the last ten pages of my Hindi note book because I wasn't paying attention in class. I had scribbled, in ENGLISH -- which is what put her off -- with colorful ball point pens. I had quotes jotted, goofy conversation threads with Dvita (my evil witty near-twin in class), and other sundry..I don't know, knots and crosses? Inked records of games played, Name Place Animal Thing, that sort of crap.
Deliberate and one by one, she ripped my poor lined pages with her tart, shining talons, in front of an audience of stunned 14 year olds. Why couldn't you pull the stack out together, sadist bitch?? But nooo, dramatic and slow is how it went, with Saira miming the destruction of priceless documents, like they were counterfeit paternity papers or something.
For the whack jobs who educated me, I've obviously risen above it with relative ease. But I feel as indignant at 23 as I did ten years ago about this stupid ripping incident in a class room painted brown of a school on a hilltop. It's my bloody note book, I'll scribble whatever the hell I want on the last ten pages, and get worked up about it a disconnected decade later!
And I don't remember the last time I had a bloody dough nut. That it's evil, filled with trans fat and is thigh-and-Levis-unfriendly, helps me stay away from it. Besides, muffin calories are easier to forgive. But bad Hindi teachers, under my dictatorship, will roast on a slow fire like the boars feasted on in last panels of all last Asterisk comics.
I'm wearing heels, peep toes right now, and general elevators increasingly as a habit. I don't tap around corridors, I'm not like that, and they're not noisy heels, but this sudden development -- buying/wearing heels -- where I earlier thought being tall and eucalyptus meant punjabi jutti damnation or unsaid restrictions to flat wear: Birkenstock's and ballerinas, kohlapuris and flip flops.
Hair all over the place, I walk into a gully with lots of shopping bags, exhausted, starving, but revelling in my fresh bargains. My two friends are waiting where I told them to wait. They've spotted me from a few yards still too far. They're following my footstep-progress, and smirking, I can see they are. I'm doddering towards them (in my peep-toe wedges, remember?) curious why they're so amused. "What what what", I say when I reach. ( 'Hi' is so passe:) "Nothing you fool." We go to dinner, in our very adult sand box world.
I'm sitting in a car, seat belted, with a woman I somewhat look up to, reading out headline of a magazine article. Something about dreaded thirties: Are you having a thrisis, I ask/ read out loud. She rubbishes it: It's all in the mind. I don't feel any different from what I did when I was 16. Mm hm. I'm thinking, how, where and whether I have changed. I come up with thoughts like I still can't stand raw beetroot. But in juice its ok..I've made concessions for marmalade. I now quite like it with peanut butter and thick non commercial bread... mm hmm.. Caramel custard is still as ghastly as when I was sixteen: sweetened egg that rises, and makes me gag...Ughh hmm. Ok, taste buds may have evolved, slightly. At four months short of 24, I've had crab. I wouldn't have thunk.
But I get carried away with food thoughts, and associate ingredients with more durable memories. What I have always loved, I still do. Why doesn't that change,and not just with food? I now need heavy doses of pepper and mustard in almost everything not cooked with turmeric. Pickle, I generally second-help myself to, while vadas I can neither stand, nor emphasise enough. This stems from my memory of a seven-year-old me having puked after eating one. May well have been my first one. It's a distinct memory, deep fried batter with rye interruptions. Blasphemy.
Later on, in the eighth standard, I showed my Hindi teacher snaps of my 13th birthday party -- which now seems like a queer thing to do when I didn't even like her. But so this woman, fraud teacher -- Saira, her name -- asked me if the dough nuts were vadas.
It's not to do with this, for come to think of, vadas and dough nuts, yes ok, maybe, but she was a terrible teacher. And here's my durable memory:
Long red nails, and missing ethics, the petty nose-digger once tore the last ten pages of my Hindi note book because I wasn't paying attention in class. I had scribbled, in ENGLISH -- which is what put her off -- with colorful ball point pens. I had quotes jotted, goofy conversation threads with Dvita (my evil witty near-twin in class), and other sundry..I don't know, knots and crosses? Inked records of games played, Name Place Animal Thing, that sort of crap.
Deliberate and one by one, she ripped my poor lined pages with her tart, shining talons, in front of an audience of stunned 14 year olds. Why couldn't you pull the stack out together, sadist bitch?? But nooo, dramatic and slow is how it went, with Saira miming the destruction of priceless documents, like they were counterfeit paternity papers or something.
For the whack jobs who educated me, I've obviously risen above it with relative ease. But I feel as indignant at 23 as I did ten years ago about this stupid ripping incident in a class room painted brown of a school on a hilltop. It's my bloody note book, I'll scribble whatever the hell I want on the last ten pages, and get worked up about it a disconnected decade later!
And I don't remember the last time I had a bloody dough nut. That it's evil, filled with trans fat and is thigh-and-Levis-unfriendly, helps me stay away from it. Besides, muffin calories are easier to forgive. But bad Hindi teachers, under my dictatorship, will roast on a slow fire like the boars feasted on in last panels of all last Asterisk comics.
8 comments:
Must you mention noughts and crosses?
Also, flashbacks to The Wall...
"Poems, everyone! Our laddie fancies himself a poet! new car, caviar, four star, daydream...think I'll buy me a football team"
Are you familiar with that Wall reference?
You mean Asterix comics.
"It's my bloody Label, I'll call it whatever the hell I want! How about Past Tense P.?" :)
I had no idea Saira was like that! Not that I liked her any more than you did. But page-ripping interventionism is a bit much.
noughts, really? ok, noughts.
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Yes dear, I mean asterix.
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Saira was worse. She once pleaded with one of us to help her be underhanded and get her old job back, at HIHS. THAT low.
ah, nice yummy post to devour (both literally and otherwise)
tart, shiny talons?! hilarious, think we've all had books ripped or passing notes read out to the whole class by monstrous overdressed teachers who really couldn't be bothered to sit at home and do nothing so sit in the staffroom and do nothing and get evil pleasure in meddling with our lives, o yes.
haha ... yeah i rem that picture in the end of Asterix comics :) a perfect idea of voilent and charged up feast i must say :)
But this teacher of urs seems to be real psycho ... wat exactly is the point of tearing pages of a notebook in front of 14 yr old kids ... i mean is that a way to prove her superiority and power over them? wtf ... hate such asses who are infecting our education system and making kids hate studies even more :)
i see my two favourite women one as beautiful as the other
we love the header darling :)
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