I cannot share my jim jam biscuits. So I hoard them secretly
and eat them when I am alone. "Selfish child", says my inner voice to
me.
Red for me and blue for my sister. For years, I have been
buying her the same clothes as mine, just a smaller size and a different
colour. There are plenty other designs, styles and fits to choose from, but I
always buy her one identical to mine. I refuse to erase those childhood
pictures of us wearing identical clothes from my memory.
Don't do that, I tell myself, as I noisily suck the last
drops of Pepsi through the straw in the bottle. But I can't stop. I blow out of
the straw, into it, making empty noises, and forming bubbles that float around,
amusing no one but myself.
Dad still reprimands me when I lie upside down on my bed and
read a book in bad lighting. As a child he would tell me, "You will get
glasses if you continue doing this." Now he tells me "I told you
so."
I hate spoilers of any kind. And yet, every time I pick up a
mystery novel, I flip over its pages to sneakily read the ending to see if I
can fathom who the murderer is. It's a childhood reading habit that won't go
away.
In the midst of a fancy buffet dinner, I develop an
irresistible craving for hot rice, a dollop of ghee and some nice tomato rasam.
I cannot attribute this to anything else but a deep rooted childhood fixation
that soothes my soul. Especially if it's a dinner filled with strangers with
whom I am making random conversation. I instantly look for the comfort of a
familiar childhood food.
Childhood habits that won't go away. That bring a touch of
rawness and vulnerability to an otherwise emotionally airtight adult life. This
Children's Day count the number of habits that have not outgrown you. If you
can't remember, start by bursting the bubbles of a bubble wrapped gift. Or by
blowing your bubble gum into a big circle. Your memory will not fail you.
No comments:
Post a Comment