Pieces of the Puzzle

As a teenager, I used to dread New Years Eve. Not because it was the beginning of a new uncertain year that would bring false hopes and shattered dreams. No, I wasn’t that deep. It was time for my dad’s office party! After a lot of whining and protesting, me and my brother would be whisked away to the get-together. On the way even our driver could note the aura in the car, ‘Saab will always make sure the rest of the world thinks this is a close knit family’.

At the party, fat uncles and even fatter aunties would accost us with the same observation every year, ‘Look how tall they have grown!’ Using hand gestures to indicate our growth graph. Like we were some Ashoka trees they planted in their garden. My mom would beam proudly. Year after year she had the same dialogue. ‘I feel like a valley standing between these kids. Nobody refers to them as tall, they think I am short. hehe!’

Obviously there was no one of my age group. Their fathers had been kind enough to let them spend New years eve with their friends. So I had to suffice staring at the food or bitching about the whole deal to my brother. Till they start with the games, then I positively feel like choking on some of the decoration. The organizers (a bunch of bored people) would debate on which category to place me in spite of my objections to even participate. Kids or Ladies? I guess the kids were too tiny. So there, I was running with the women-folk clenching a spoon between my teeth with a lemon on it. I won! That was exhilaratingly awkward.

‘Passing the Parcel’ took the cake. Thanks to my dad's desire to hog the limelight, we were spared. He would hold on to the parcel long enough till the music stopped. He'd have bribed the organizer before hand. So whichever folded piece of paper he picked up, he ended up having to do a Bhrathanatyam dance. The history behind this is, my dad loved the audience reaction to his enthusiastic performance which had been practiced to perfection at home. More than that, he loved embarrassing us. I must admit, his dance steps and the serious expressions on his countenance sure made everyone laugh. Year after year, from the time I can remember. Luckily we moved cities often and hence rest of the folks didn’t have to watch this rendition again.

When things were just reaching the brim, when I could take it no more, my eyes roved and lingered on this handsome creature. Oh well, I guess this night might not be that boring after all. I make my way and strike a conversation with Abhijit. A management trainee from BITS, Pilani. Lot of laughing and blushing followed. I was enjoying this party.

3…2…1…..YAY!!!!!!!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Next year around, I was more than willing to join my dad and mom for New years eve. Got dressed up without a fuss. Extra make-up. Yelled at my brother for taking so much time. This time I will have to remember to get hold of Abi’s phone number.

Fat men and fatter women accost us. "Oooohh, How tall…." My eyes wander off. Searching high and low. No trace. I can almost feel the other young men trying to avoid me like plague. Confused, I finally make small-talk with a bakra. Ask him if he knew Abhijit and why he wasn’t around. He looks distraught.

‘Poor Abhijit, your father transferred him off to Assam. Er.. If you don’t mind, I need to excuse myself.’

The same international school. Second grade. A week before Valentine’s Day, we were instructed to make cardboard mail boxes and leave it in the back of the classroom. During the week, everyone prepared Valentine cards and posted them to people we loved in our class. We were to open the boxes only on Feb 14th.

I drew four little hearts on the corners and one big heart on the center. Then I wrote a little poem inside.

There is no age-limit for Poetic license. I wrote the very same poetry in every card altering the location and color of the hearts. Then I posted them in a few girl’s mail boxes. I was still shy about the boys. I hadn’t thought about marrying anyone yet. Somehow Valentine’s day and the word ‘love’ seemed to have more significance in my mind than it actually was.

I was paying attention to my box, as to who lingers around…just like I do to my comment boxes. I noticed Peter pushing a card into the slot of a box named ‘Alpha’s Mail’. I was quite flustered. He loves me! What do I do?

I thought about the consequences and made up my mind. I made a card for him. This was more special. It had better looking hearts, around twenty, colored to perfection and the poem was copied from a book my dad owned. It didn’t mater if I had no clue what those words meant. I had to make my impression.

Valentines day. We opened our cards. My heart did a somersault when I read Peter’s. I am withholding the content due to privacy concerns. Truth being told, its been a while and I forgot what was in it. But I do remember feeling all mushy.

When we were allowed to take all the cards home, I wasn’t sure how my parents would react to Peter being their son-in-law. Maybe I was sure how they'd react. I held Peter’s card in my hand, looking at it longingly till I reached home. I opened and closed it a million times till I had memorized every little crayon stroke. Just before I rang the door bell, I trashed it in a dust-bin outside my house along with my heart.

I don’t know if Peter had a crush on me or if he intended to marry me. I didn’t hang around to find out. I had to change schools soon. But going by the class photo, he sure was one hottie.

If anyone comes across a white hunk named Peter, please do ask him if he still has my red Valentine card.

Patrix has done such a good job of describing our meet in Chicago, that I have very little to add. Saying thus, I shall go on for two pages.

The minute Yogi set his foot in my house, he attacked the existence of the poor unsuspecting ‘throw’ on my couch. All I can say is- Guys have no class whatsoever. Pi joined hands and they bitched about the concept of a ‘throw’ after which the ‘throw’ and Yogu became inseparable. If everything in the house needs to have a purpose, somehow you guys are not helping your case.

There was tight security and terror alert all over the country. Filler man knows (oh well, that’s a different story all together). Yogu and me hoped we wouldn’t get arrested in the airport carrying a banner that said "TINDA FROM BHATINDA" complete with little green tindas painted on the border. We picked up our Chhota P(atrix) and went straight to the Indian part of Chicago for lunch. It was a sign from above, a calling from below- in the lunch buffet, there was tinda sabzi! Frankly, I have never seen tinda in any lunch buffet in my life. Next we saw a heap of tindas in a grocery store. It was almost like we we were hallucinating. Yogu felt like buying some as a souvenir.

 Tinda                        Throw

Yogz started digging for praises immediately, ‘Patrixu, what do you think of me re? Do I fit your expectations? Am I sexy enough for you? What do you think of my opinion of the ‘throw’?’

Let me add here that Yogu was not born gay nor did he ever intend to. He always thought Starfest would rock his boat. He got converted after setting his eyes on Patrix. Yogu was taken by Pat’s dressing sense, his talent of touching his nose with his lower lip and his PJs (pajama with holes). Might as well admit, so was I Patrix.

Time to pick up Star. Each of us had practiced a routine that would be performed to perfection. As we greet Star, Pi would dig his nose. I would keep winking, Patrix would fall on Star every time and Yogu would be himself. This, we thought would really scare her out of her wits. By the time we got the placard (which is censored) out of the trunk, Star came beaming and bouncing towards us that threw us all off guard.

She had come prepared to seduce. Her sweater was shedding in clumps. There was black wool everywhere she went. In Yogu’s car, my house, on a random guy’s back. We were all reeling in anticipation for the whole sweater to finally come down to threads. Every night, she wrote something secretive in a diary which she kept hidden under my couch. You will always be a blonde, Star! *evil laff* On a side note, Canadians look down upon not only Americans but also Desis. We need to stop Hindi movie supply to these damn Canadians.

Just in case anyone was missing Lord of the Rings, Yogu and Pi made sure to keep us in the loop with their enacting various characters. Yogi was Gollum every single time with ‘his precious’ being Pi’s hair.

Patrix amazed everyone with his dire need to crack poor jokes (PJ) and stretching those jokes beyond repair. He said he was just getting started when we dropped him off at the airport. We were relieved or what!

Star on the other hand was very quite. If she said anything it was to show us how Americans flaunt their flags everywhere. Er Star, is there anything we should do about it? Well she also mentioned (while batting eyelashes) that she had a crush on Patrix, Yogu and Pi and didn’t know where to go from there. What about me, Star?

Yogu tried to win over Star and Patrix at the same time. He even brought coconut oil for lubrication. After pouring over the Kamasutra that was lying in my house (I have no clue how it got here), he wished he had elephant’s sweat instead.

Things I am thankful about. None of you turned out to be a serial killer. Yogi didn’t steal my ‘throw’. With your limited guessing skills, I am glad at least you all thought I was a spider when I was enacting a lizard.

Will have to meet you all again. Bachke jaoge kahan?

The initial years of my growing up were spent in a school outside India that introduced me to Christmas, Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day and Valentines Day. These holidays were much more fun than a bunch of Indians congregating for Diwali, singing songs. The lack of fireworks made Diwali boring as a kid. Christmas was something I looked forward to.

‘Amma, can we have a Christmas tree at least this year? Please please. Kim told me that’s why I don’t get gifts from Santa (almost in tears)’

In the most practical tone, my mom states certain facts that made a huge impact on my little mind,’ Alpha, Christmas is for people who eat meat. So if we keep a tree, will you eat Krishna’s cow? And Santa doesn’t exist. He is your classmate Jack’s dad who dresses up like that and fools all the other kids. Why do you need gifts from Santa when you get what you want all the time?’

Oh well, she did make a point. Was I the only kid who wasn’t getting fooled by Jack’s dad? I surely didn’t want to eat a cow but I still didn’t see why I couldn’t sulk. So I sulked.

My school decided to organize a party with Christmas carols, food, candy and of course Santa Claus. And Santa was to give every kid a gift! I was so happy!

What I didn’t know was the school was sneaky enough to send a letter to every parent to have them send a gift to the school. This would be presented to their kids by Santa himself.

Instead of taking the pains to do this discretely, my mom sent the gift through me to give it to my teacher. It was a silly pencil box which she bought when I was there in the shop. She even let me in this Santa deal at school. What?! I felt quite cheated. This whole Christmas thing was such a scam! Thank god for my mom, or I would have felt like a moron in the end and Santa would have had his last laugh.

The D-day arrived. The Big bearded red guy made a dramatic entrance to the background of Jingle Bells. Kids were apprehensive and excited about getting great gifts from their hero. I was bored and peeved about receiving a pencil-box from Jack’s dad.

"Next is Alpha!"

I walked up the stage and stopped near Santa.

"Ok sweety", said Santa’s elf, "Kiss Santa to get your gift."

"Yuck. Can I just take that pencil-box and go?"

Santa was quite flustered, "Ho Ho Ho! Been a bad kid, haven’t you?"

"So has Jack!" I snatched the wrapped gift and came running back to my shocked embarrassed parents. Every other person out there tried to get a nice look at our family. Their humiliation didn’t end there.

After the whole gift ceremony was over, Santa had extra presents for kids whose parents had forgotten to send any. He being the cool guy, asked those deprived loser kids to come one by one. I almost wished I was one of them. I thought about this for a second. Then I ran to the stage much to my parents chagrin and Santa’s amusement.

It was well worth it. This time I got a cool Lego set, much better than the pencil-box.

Merry Christmas you all! Oye Santa, I believe in you now. Just hurry down the chimney tonight!

I play with Pi’s hair and ask him nicely, "So Sweety, tell me 20 things you like about me".

Pi is like any other guy. He hates being trapped like this and tries to wriggle out in the most ungainly way, "First you tell me what you like about me".

I am like any other girl. I hate finding things not going my way with an unnecessary shift in limelight. But I still would like to hear those 20 things about me. So I play along, "20 things about you uh? Ok fine. You are sincere, intelligent- kinda, patient- sometimes, hmm… maybe caring, (think for a while) that’s it! Err…I cant get any more. Now your turn."

Pi smirks, "Let me make it easier for you. Gimme 20 things you don’t like about me".

Piece of cake! I rattle out 20 effortlessly. I had material for 20 more, if warranted. But then, I get the message and walk away grumpily. Next time I'll ask for 5.

I am not a classical singer. Heck, I am not good at singing anything at all. Carnatic music scares me the most.. what with all the raagas, thaalas and pallavis. I was subjected to much of that during my sojourn in Chennai. To an extent that I had to sit squirming through many recitals where everybody seemed to know which finger to bend and how to slap their thigh in unison. When someone sitting next to me asked ,’Kalyani?’ referring to the raaga being sung, I pointed out helpfully, ‘No, Alpha’.

Somehow, some of the songs penetrated into my music-less brain. I have no clue about the intricacies of the structure of any song. Octave in music are as alien as Octane in Chemistry. But I love singing nevertheless. As loud as my lungs will allow. Some of the songs are so melodious that its almost criminal to let those CDs come into my hands. This Telugu song from an old movie is one my favorite. I have mastered the lyrics (only lyrics mind you). Every time I sing along, I have visions of singing in front of an audience. I use hand gestures and show the pathos and depth of my devotion to the Lord with my eyes as my mouth sings His praise. I am blissfully unaware of the magic I have created in front of me. My fans have managed to transcend into a different world by slowly lifting off of their chairs.

A furious shake with a tortured expression from my hubby dumps me back to reality. He wants to hear the CD properly. Oh well, next birth maybe!

Last night, I was driving home with this song playing in the background. I got totally excited. I quickly cleared my throat and began to off-tunely drone, "brOchevArevarurA ninu vina raghuvara nanu brOchevArevarurA AaaaAAaaaaa…." Now I was in a trance. I got so carried away that I closed my eyes while moving on to the next para, shaking my head sideways, "nI charaNaa… DADHAMMM!!!

I came crashing out of my spell. Whoops! I was bumper-to-bumper with another car! The owner of a brand new Chrysler jumped out of his car in a frenzy to check the rear of his car.

Lord Vasudeva was with me. No damage done. Maybe I should close my ears instead of my eyes next time. I apologized and got on with my life, "vAsudEvuDavu nIvu kadA…….."

THE END! Thats it folks...I know its kinda sad .. But when did you start expecting too much from Hindi movies?!