When do people write their autobiographies? When they think they have had enough? When they think they are wise enough? When they think they will hardly have enough time before they ‘pop it’? When they think they are a celebrity? When one becomes a celebrity? Or when they think its time they became a celebrity? How many people you have to have as fans or followers to become a celebrity? Or how many people have to read your autobiography for you to be called a celebrity (and start writing an autobiography)? Confusing. Autobiographies make celebrities or celebrities make autobiographies? Egg first or the Hen?
I have had enough. Seen enough. Been enough. And now keen enough. Enough to fill an ergonomically handleable book. Enough to write a thin enough book so that one doesn’t have to shift shoulders while reading in bed. I by no means intend to disregard the unending ability of life to show more. To spring up new people, accidents, incidents, equations, love, sorrow, hatred, births and deaths. They will come. But when you have such a bad memory, you better start writing before your father dies and you forget your grand father’s name, or the name of the provider of the first kiss.
But then you need balls to write an autobiography. I have my intact. Even one competing with the other in size. Thanks to the man who carried about six of us sitting across the bar of the cycle through a kuccha road then down to the river bed and then up again to the school. One of the reasons I hated school. Surprisingly the man in me at the age of four was man enough not to tell Mom about it. So I went through the brain-numbing-ball splitting agonizing pain day after day. Years later it was found that Mom dint know about us sitting across. No permanent damage had been done as I will find out a good twenty years later.
Talking of damage, God had a special attention to those areas of my body. Or ignorance as you may want to put it. About two years later, at the age of six, in absence of even knowledge of something called underwear, while sitting we used to dangle out. I was walked over IT. You may want to call it my first experience of a women’s attention to it. She was a Punjabi neighbor a few years older then me wearing cheap plastic slippers that had sharp edge. I bled profoundly. Holding the now more dangling part in my hands I was rushed to the hospital. Horror on my Mom’s face was confusing. Why did she look so worried? Is there more to the story? I was more worried about the stitches or injections that I may be penetrated with or IT may be penetrated with. Anyway, the doctor just put it back together, wrapped it with a bandage and it was back in its little embarrassing shape in a day. The little innocent girl became a villain for me and Mom.
Other then this, God also paid attention to my (other) head and my father to my leg. I was about to be six when my mom was pregnant with my youngest brother. That was the transition period in Indian society. Nuclear families were breaking but people hadn’t stopped lining up kids. My parents were one such example. This was their fourth. Mom, taking care of three (two of them nasty) kids, was too week for the forth one. She fell very ill soon after the youngest one arrived and wasn’t able to leave the bed for months. Somehow, the burden of household work came upon me. I used to drag the single burner kerosene stove from kitchen to next to her bed and upon her instructions, cook. I would later carry the soiled utensils out of the house and wash them. This had brought Mom and me very close and I was now considered a useful child. I did drive a sense of accomplishment and pride out of it. When mother’s ailment seemed to prolong, one of my cousins was brought to do the household. One morning as I bent down to brush my teeth and having finished doing so stood up and knocked a huge vessel full of boiling caustic soda over my head. Which incidentally was held by my cousin right behind me. I was burnt a whole lot. My skull became soft and as I remember I had a hole in my skull that I could put a finger into. My back was burnt too. I couldn’t sleep on my back for months. My cousin was sent back and my father, who almost always was on official tours, was back. It was time to bond with father. I remember he laid next to me night after night to prevent me from turning over on my back. I still sleep on my chest.
Having injured both my heads, it was turn of my leg a few years later. When I was about ten and the school was further, we were provided with bicycles. I remember it was evening when a blue ‘SpeedKing’ and a red Hero bicycle arrived. My father too scared to let us be with the new toys sat behind me and went ‘woooooooooooohhhh’ when I already was able to pull him and balance the bicycle. With the rushing blood and thus acquired speed, turning the bicycle was something I couldn’t do. After a few days my father was irritated and saying “you never learn to cycle until you injure yourself” pushed me off the bicycle. I had a deep wound in my leg and I remember being angry with my father for many days.
I have had enough. Seen enough. Been enough. And now keen enough. Enough to fill an ergonomically handleable book. Enough to write a thin enough book so that one doesn’t have to shift shoulders while reading in bed. I by no means intend to disregard the unending ability of life to show more. To spring up new people, accidents, incidents, equations, love, sorrow, hatred, births and deaths. They will come. But when you have such a bad memory, you better start writing before your father dies and you forget your grand father’s name, or the name of the provider of the first kiss.
But then you need balls to write an autobiography. I have my intact. Even one competing with the other in size. Thanks to the man who carried about six of us sitting across the bar of the cycle through a kuccha road then down to the river bed and then up again to the school. One of the reasons I hated school. Surprisingly the man in me at the age of four was man enough not to tell Mom about it. So I went through the brain-numbing-ball splitting agonizing pain day after day. Years later it was found that Mom dint know about us sitting across. No permanent damage had been done as I will find out a good twenty years later.
Talking of damage, God had a special attention to those areas of my body. Or ignorance as you may want to put it. About two years later, at the age of six, in absence of even knowledge of something called underwear, while sitting we used to dangle out. I was walked over IT. You may want to call it my first experience of a women’s attention to it. She was a Punjabi neighbor a few years older then me wearing cheap plastic slippers that had sharp edge. I bled profoundly. Holding the now more dangling part in my hands I was rushed to the hospital. Horror on my Mom’s face was confusing. Why did she look so worried? Is there more to the story? I was more worried about the stitches or injections that I may be penetrated with or IT may be penetrated with. Anyway, the doctor just put it back together, wrapped it with a bandage and it was back in its little embarrassing shape in a day. The little innocent girl became a villain for me and Mom.
Other then this, God also paid attention to my (other) head and my father to my leg. I was about to be six when my mom was pregnant with my youngest brother. That was the transition period in Indian society. Nuclear families were breaking but people hadn’t stopped lining up kids. My parents were one such example. This was their fourth. Mom, taking care of three (two of them nasty) kids, was too week for the forth one. She fell very ill soon after the youngest one arrived and wasn’t able to leave the bed for months. Somehow, the burden of household work came upon me. I used to drag the single burner kerosene stove from kitchen to next to her bed and upon her instructions, cook. I would later carry the soiled utensils out of the house and wash them. This had brought Mom and me very close and I was now considered a useful child. I did drive a sense of accomplishment and pride out of it. When mother’s ailment seemed to prolong, one of my cousins was brought to do the household. One morning as I bent down to brush my teeth and having finished doing so stood up and knocked a huge vessel full of boiling caustic soda over my head. Which incidentally was held by my cousin right behind me. I was burnt a whole lot. My skull became soft and as I remember I had a hole in my skull that I could put a finger into. My back was burnt too. I couldn’t sleep on my back for months. My cousin was sent back and my father, who almost always was on official tours, was back. It was time to bond with father. I remember he laid next to me night after night to prevent me from turning over on my back. I still sleep on my chest.
Having injured both my heads, it was turn of my leg a few years later. When I was about ten and the school was further, we were provided with bicycles. I remember it was evening when a blue ‘SpeedKing’ and a red Hero bicycle arrived. My father too scared to let us be with the new toys sat behind me and went ‘woooooooooooohhhh’ when I already was able to pull him and balance the bicycle. With the rushing blood and thus acquired speed, turning the bicycle was something I couldn’t do. After a few days my father was irritated and saying “you never learn to cycle until you injure yourself” pushed me off the bicycle. I had a deep wound in my leg and I remember being angry with my father for many days.
