Tuesday, April 24, 2007

FORGIVE AND FORGET

I am not cribbing or trying to prove that I am the Queen of Sheba, but I was called aunty!!!
Twice.
This Killers syndrome is getting to me. First a tiny little dumb-head kid starts making cute faces at me, to which his dad turns around and looks at me, only to say...

"Say hello to aunty."
Ya right, look to the right, the wifey is the aunty not me.

And then, I screeched my car to a halt and did not run-over two school going jocks (read idiots) crossing the road with their eyes shut, only to hear them politely say,
"Sorry aunty."
Should have just run them over. What breed of aunties wear skinny jeans... not to mention I was dating your kind a year ago.

I simply refuse to grow up. Come what may, no one can make me a year older or younger anymore. I know it’s my disoriented karma teaching me a lesson. Eversince I have accepted that my karmic wheel is spinning towards evil town, I have been on a cleansing trip. As part of renunciation and revival plan, I shall publicly accept my past sins and face the music hoping all along it’s not Buddha Lounge.

I am not a particularly bad person. It’s not like I have killed someone except maybe that one dead dog I ran over, but it was dead and I was drunk which left neither of us with any means of escaping. Ok, I have committed more than my fair share of lustful sins given there is no love, only lust baby! but atleast gluttony can be safely restricted to demanding extra nuts and chocolate sauce for my hot chocolate fudge. Fine I am greedy, but only when I had to share Maggi noodles with my brother, which forced me to spit in my larger portion thus preventing any forms of rebellion or protests in the name of equality, liberty and fraternity. Pride is no sin and should be bought to the notice of the Vatican since they take pride in their catholic notions as well, and I don’t know the rest of the deadly sins, so you will all agree that I am a good person with an acceptable number of chinks in the armour.

But yes, I have committed some grave acts of treachery, burglary and well that’s it.

I still carry around a pint of guilt since the day I pretended to not be home, while my Mathematics tutor stood outside in the scathing sun. I figured that since mother dearest is not there, I can shamelessly ignore the door bell for 5 minutes and he will leave. But, just my luck, this man represented the epitome of patience and was determined to introduce me to imaginary numbers that hot April afternoon. So he relentlessly kept ringing the doorbell for 40 minutes. There was noway I could continue sleeping which was the sole reason behind ignoring the doorbell and the prospect of mother returning and exposing my hoax made it worse and so I decided that if caught I can always pretend to have accidentally consumed a bottle of vinegar and passed out. Finally, the tutor, who had travelled far and wide in the unforgiving Delhi summer sun, left, only to return the next day for another torturous class extended to a 2-hour long irrational number's marathon. Might I add that these hours of mis-education were interspersed with me having to watch my tutor dig his ears and roll the semi-solid green sebaceous lubricant he managed to extract into tiny balls or chapattis and swallow it.

I feel guiltier for cheating an innocent hard-working ice cream man, nine years ago, when I knowingly ran up a credit of 32 rupees. He blindly trusted regular customers like me and never saw those 32 rupees as my family shifted out the next day to a new locality. I hope he forgave the orange-candy addict which might help me balance my bad karma.

And finally, the crime of the 90s decade – I never returned several books (ok...Archie comics) belonging to the neighbourhood library. When the librarian, the friendly Mr. Lepcha with a very misplaced sense of authority decided to harass me by demanding the 170 rupees fine and the lost books, I was left with no choice but to plan a shameful yet crafty act of vandalism. So while Lepcha was busy flushing out miscreants pretending to play hide-n-seek in the library, I stole the library register and tore out the page assigned to the Sharma family. But Lepcha was not as dense as I assumed him to be, and as he chased me through badminton courts, the auditorium, a park, breaking through gossipy aunty club, the evidence was chewed and digested and Lepcha's dignity forced him to forget the incident.

Do come back for the next instalment -- crimes of passion.