0
Childhood Memories
Posted by Frozy
on
Saturday, September 28, 2013
I had always believed that there was something wrong
with me.
Flashback 1: My dad recently
crossed his 60th birthday. Instead of celebrating like all oldies,
he decided to keep it under wraps. My mom says he doesn’t want to disclose his
age. But when did being 60 ever stop my dad?
It was some time ago that I got a call from my mom
saying dad is in hospital. I freaked out and was shouting at the top of my
creaking voice. My mom coolly answered “perappurathu ninnum thaazhe veenu”
(chat se neeche gir gaya!)
I had to take two deep breaths to processes what I
heard. My mom is not the joking type. Actually she is allergic to jokes and
humor. No wonder she was a school teacher. But luckily for all, nothing had
happened to him other than a minor hairline fracture on his knee. But that took
me along the path of Sherlock Holmes wondering how this could have happened.
After investigating for almost a day, I explained this to the Watson in myself.
My dad apparently went up the roof to clean the water
tank it seems. What’s there to clean that much in a tank, you might ask. But if
you allow yourself to listen to my dad’s description of the water tank, you
would come to think that its some sort of nuclear waste disposal facility
guarded by armed terrorists from Guantanamo Bay. Only the brave can rescue the
damsel in distress (read: my mom). The poor lady believed it and gave him the
thumps up to go up on the roof. At the age of sixty! Internal sources say that
he was up on the roof in less than 34 seconds, hopping and jumping and at
times, almost flying. Closer to the world record that any Indian has ever
reached.
But when did the nuclear waste disposal ever really
bothered the communist in my dad? (Yeah, he is a pukka one. All gung ho for
china Russia and Cuba.) The real reason that I strongly believe is (though he
just laughs it off) something different. There is a ladies’ college near my
house. That he was up on the roof at the precisely exact time the college girls
were passing my house is no mere coincidence. Don’t be so shocked. It can be
true. After all he is MY dad. And while busy “cleaning the tank” for a second
he must have forgot that he is perched precariously on top of second floor on
the house… and rest is left to historians and orthopedic surgeons.
Flashback 2: I am a chic-ronmentalist.
Meaning, I pretend to take care of environment when cute chics are around. But
I hate this Save Tree campaign. Whenever someone comes up with a badge saying
“Save Tree” I get cuties all over my body. Reason? There is no other person who
has been punished so much by trees. Living and dead, both alike.
Let’s say, I was not exactly the role model kid when I
was young. Well, I had some tricks up my sleeves but hey, who didn’t? But they
came at a very high cost. Namely, my skin. It was almost nonexistent by the
time I was 10. The reason is only one and one thing. Not my dad. The thorny
tree at the corner of my compound. Each time I do some mischief it will lower
its branches so low.. that even if my dad had decided not to beat me up, he
will do it just for the heck of it. Anyway, the-stick-is-at-hands-reach-so-why-not
types. That tree died slowly donating all its branches to the noble cause of
beating the pulp out of me. And my dad, for some reason I still don’t
understand, never planted a new one. May be he had some soft corner for that
tree. He will always love that tree more than me I guess. Damn you green headed
monsters.
Flashback 3: I had always
thought that I am some kind of mistake in my parent’s family planning. Something
like an “unplanned outcome”. Either that or I am adopted. I am not saying it
from whatever you read above. What if I say my childhood toys were a broken
iron box and a pressure cooker lid? Now you see where I am coming from? Sigh.
And you talk about under privileged children in Somalia! My foot I say.
To add to these, you must also have read about how
they are planning to go about my marriage plans. It’s just plain horrifying
experience. I am yet to come to a conclusion which is bad. Whether it’s the prospect of marriage itself
or the prospect of letting them choose a bride and THEN marry her. God save me.
This should be an item in the next “Rippley’s believe it or not”
I am more of an experimental guinea pig for them. The
latest experiment is called “Bechna hain, Frozy ka… Maan Samman aur Abhiman”
Last week my dad called me saying he needs Rs.500. I
was wondering why on earth he needs this paltry sum. After putting huge
pressure and empty threats, he told me that it is for some colony activity. Suspiciously
I agreed. By the way, my house is in a colony in Kerala. I am not sure if the
house landed inside a colony or the colony grew around it. It is half occupied
by MOGEMBO (Members Of Gelf
Emigrated Mallu Babus Organization) and other half by medical
representatives. (My dad is a fence sitter). We have this colony day every year
which is the most ridiculous nonsensical humbug one can ever witness. We use
that day to boast around and wash dirty linen in public. This is apparently
what happened that day:
The anchor is all ready to give away the award as if
its some Oscar.
Stage Anchor (in a horrible Mal accented English or
English accented Mal – which is which is debatable but nevertheless indistinguishable):
“Now we come to the most awaited award of the night. This award as you know is given
to the person with most WARTs. And this years NAVEEN for most WART goes to
Thilothama PP.”
One girl comes up the stage looking aghast and ready
to cry. She silently receives an odd looking thing from the chief guest who is
equally disgruntled at having to give away an award for WART. From certain
angles I thought the award itself was looking like a big oily wart.
No one knew WART stood for Weekly Average Rating in
Tests. Except of course my dad, who set it all up.
The Present:
I KNEW
there is something wrong with me!