Childhood Memories

I had always believed that there was something wrong with me.

Flashback 1: My dad recently crossed his 60^th 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!

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