Smiling at Strangers

The other day, D and I went to buy pots from the pot lady near our house. She gave us a discount because she knows my mother well. After we walked away, D remarked, “See, Amma… this is why you need to smile and talk to people like Ammama does. You don’t smile at anyone, and you don’t make any friends in our building either.”

It’s not like I don’t smile at people. I do. I just… have a system. My 3-second rule. When you see someone approaching, pretend you don’t see them and avoid eye contact until you’re about 3-4 feet away. Then meet their eye, hold it, smile for exactly three seconds… and then look away, at the floor, a tree, anything. Done. If D is with me, I’ll say something random to her so it looks like we were in the middle of a conversation and I just paused to acknowledge for those three seconds.

It’s always worked for me. Sure, it’s never gotten me any discounts, but it feels like a safe middle ground...friendly but not enough for them to want to linger. 

I see people who stop and talk to everyone they meet. Not just quick pleasantries, but full-on conversations... asking about life, family, everything. More than once, I’ve avoided taking the lift just to escape those few seconds of forced interaction. Sometimes I even catch myself holding my breath until the other person gets off.

I used to be that smiley kid. The one who smiled for no reason, who used smiles as answers when she didn’t know what to say. I smiled at everyone. Easily. Without thinking.

Until this one day...I think I was in 7th or 8th grade. My sister and I would come back home in the afternoon on the school bus. The bus stop was a short walk away from our apartment building.  My sister always walked slower, talking and laughing with her friends. Loner me would make a beeline home, just waiting to tear off my uniform and feel the sweet relief of the AC.

One day, as usual, I got into the lift alone to go up to our apartment on the 7th floor. Just as the doors were about to close, a man stuck his hand in and stepped inside.

He smiled at me. I smiled back.

He looked like a maintenance worker... a middle-aged man, short, dark, wearing an old, faded shirt. The sleeves were unfolded, cuffs unbuttoned and it felt too long for his arms. He had thick, fat fingers. I don’t remember his face clearly now. He started making conversation. He spoke in broken English. Asked me what school I went to, which grade. Made a joke. Laughed to himself. I giggled politely.

Then he moved closer.

He took my hand. I thought he was shaking my hand… but then he began pulling me closer. One of his arms snaked around me, while the other inched lower down my body. 

My eyes shot open and I kept opening and closing my mouth, but no sound would come out.

His hand pressed against me, over my clothes, where it shouldn’t have been. It was sudden, rough, and it hurt. I yelped in pain. I tried to push his hand away, meekly crying, “No, no, please no, don’t.” 

But he kept smiling, making that soft, coaxing sound, like an adult trying to get a child to eat. “It’s okay, shh, it’s okay,” he said, his fingers burrowing into my flesh like he was trying to tear it away.

I kept crying, still unable to scream or shout, just quietly pleading with him to stop.

The lift came to a stop. He pulled away and stood at the doorway, arms on either side, peering outside. He looked left, then right. Seeing him do that, I panicked. I was sure he was checking if the coast was clear so he could drag me out of the lift and…

But instead, he slipped out and disappeared.

Yet, I wasn't able to let myself believe that it was over. I hit the close button again and again, like my life depended on it. The doors finally shut and the lift started moving. When it reached my floor, my body still carrying the aftermath. With unsteady legs, I wobbling my way to the apartment, opened the front door and cried hysterically.

I don’t remember who found me first.. my father or my mother. Between sobs, I began telling them what had occurred. And I'm not sure why, when it came to telling them what exactly he did to me, where he touched me...I couldn't tell them. 

He touched me, I said. Where, they asked.. On my shoulder and arms, I lied. I couldn't bring myself to tell the truth. I felt... ashamed. Like, somehow it was my fault. Like they would blame me for not being able to stop him, for not screaming, for not fighting. Like they would be as disgusted with me as I felt about myself.

My dad was silent throughout. I couldn't look at his face. He suddenly asked me which floor the man got off on and then immediately went out looking for him. He never found him. I think my mother cried. I don't know. I don't remember how my sister reacted. I don't know if I've blocked out those memories or if nothing registered at that moment. 

After that, things were a little different.

I stopped rushing ahead and started walking home with my sister, eyes trained to the ground. On the days that I was alone, I took the stairs... seven flights of them. I'd reach home panting. Advice came from everywhere. Few close relatives.. everyone telling me what I should have done. How I should deal with it if it happens again. I listened to everything wordlessly. 

I stopped going out to play with the other kids in the building.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped smiling at people. Stopped meeting their eyes. Stopped trusting so easily.

When I finally worked up the courage to use the lift again after a while, I wouldn’t look at anyone. I constantly looked angry or sullen. If anyone asked me something, I'd tense up immediately and pretend I didn't hear. I felt like I was holding my breath every time anyone else entered the lift, while clutching my bag pressed tightly in front of me like an armour.

I’ve never told D this story. I’ve told her so many things about my childhood, but not this. I don’t want to yet. I don’t want her to lose that easy trust in the world before she has to. I worry for her instead.

When we’re in the lift and someone else walks in, I instinctively move her slightly behind me. I keep my eyes on her. 

People at work ask me why I have to clock out every day for 15 minutes to go and pick her up from the bus stop when she’s almost 12. I ask myself the same thing. And some days feel like I should just let her walk home by herself. But I just… can’t. Not yet.

Sometimes she insists on taking the lift alone, to go downstairs to pick up a parcel or something. I refused at first but now I let her. But I stand there outside the lift, watching the numbers, my eyes fixed on the panel, as if that can somehow protect her. If it stops on any floor for even a second too long, I feel my chest tighten.

I know she’s smarter than I was. More cautious. We’ve talked about what to do in situations like this. Many times. I know she knows. But I also know no matter how prepared you are, fear can freeze you.

Sometimes I think about what I would do, how I would react if she came home crying like I did that day. How will I stay standing and give her the support she needs? How will I forgive myself for not protecting her? How will I make things okay again? I know it's dumb, it's one of the things I do. Imagine the worst-case scenarios and get all worked up and anxious about it. 

I never meant for this to become this kind of post. I started out wanting to write something funny about how awkward I am around people in my building. But somehow, it led me back here.

And I guess that’s the thing. I guess these moments don’t really leave you. They just settle into some corner of who you become. The way you move through the world, the things you avoid, the instincts you don’t question, the eyes you don't meet. 

I think of that man sometimes. Whether he remembers it, or if he's done it so many times that this was just another Tuesday to him. Would it have weighed on his conscience at any point in his life? Maybe when he had a child? A granddaughter? Would it have changed anything about his life, his world? 

And I do wonder, sometimes, if I would have been a little different today if that day had gone differently. If I had waited for my sister. If I hadn’t taken that lift. Would I have been more trusting of people? Would I have been a different kind of mother?

But then again, that was not a singular incident. It repeated, of course, in different ways during different phases of life. Life has a way of slowly chipping away at innocence anyway.

The other day, I noticed that D doesn’t smile at strangers either. When someone asks her something, she replies unsmilingly, eager to end the conversation. I know people judge her, think of her as unfriendly or jaada. Once, I almost asked her, "Why can't you just smile when people ask you something? It's the least you can do", but then stopped myself. 

Maybe it’s okay. Maybe not everyone deserves her smile. 

Hitting that Dreaded Milestone

I was going through some of my old blog posts the other day. Came across one where I was fretting over becoming old... at twenty-four. Ugh. Twenty-four?? I thought 24 was old? Wtf was wrong with me? 

I didn't do a big post when I turned 30, as I was busy pushing a human out of my body and then letting it rule over my life. I did, however, watch 13 Going on 30 and put up a pic of Joey going "Why, God, why?" on his 30th birthday, to commemorate the occasion. 

So when I hit the next big milestone, a few months ago, I figured I should write something about it. I started to write but then hesitated. My age.. that's something I guarded with my life. My real age is something only my tier 1 friends are privy to. Tier 2 friends get to know my fake age. The rest of them can just keep guessing. 

So I'm still kinda panicking at the thought of putting it out there.. for the whole world to see (or for the 30-odd folks who read my blog to see). I can't quite make myself say it out loud to other people. I do say it to myself a lot. And to Google. When I Google the 6000 new symptoms I seem to have developed all of a sudden.

"Do you feel different?" A tier-1 friend asked me. Of course I do. It isn't like when you turn 30 and all the feels that you feel is pretty much an existential crisis or just your mind playing tricks on you. This time, it was not at all subtle. I swear, I woke up on my birthday morning feeling like someone put all of my bones through an idiyappam-making machine while I was asleep. 

And the very same month, all of a sudden, I realized I've started to lose my vision too. I've been short-sighted for a really long time now, and all of a sudden, my eyes decided to mess with my long-sightedness as well. I now have to take off my glasses to read stuff, just like both my sisters. And every time I put my glasses back on, I involuntarily make that old lady face. You know the one - mouth open, eyes squinty. I know I'm doing it, and I know how I look doing it. But I can't help it!

After years of stuffing my face with cream biscuits and greasy fries, I'm suddenly worrying about my BP and cholesterol and sugar.. ok maybe I’m overdoing it. Maybe after years of fighting my age, trying to look and act younger, this is me just slamming the accelerator and going all in and embracing old age. 

I did have a mini mid-life crisis, though and went and coloured my hair brown and cut bangs for my birthday, something I’d been wanting to do since forever. I imagined myself with bangs and coloured hair at 50 and figured might as well do it now. I also jumped on the bed, I rode a cycle, splashed around a pool, danced wildly all night (or for as long as I could stay up) and ate an unholy amount of cake and ice cream.. Okay, that might explain the pulpified bones feeling that I woke up with. 

A month later, I kneeled to take a photo of D and realized I couldn’t seem to get up because I now have old-lady knees! The kind that makes sounds! How… how does your body just know that your happy birthday is over? It’s like it had all these tiny men with hammers and drills just standing around, waiting for the clock to strike 12. And the second it does, they’re like, “Alright boys, let’s get to work,” and start smashing up some bone, removing a few screws, loosening the clips holding everything together…

I dunno, maybe it’s in my head. I saw this one reel the other day where a guy gets to meet his child self, and he’s worried the child self won’t like his current self. But then the child self asks him lots of questions like — do you drive, do you have a job, do you live in your own house, do you own a TV — and the adult answers "yes" to everything, he ends up feeling better knowing he’s made his child self proud with all his achievements. 

I imagined my child self asking me all those same questions. And my answer to atleast 4 out of 5 questions was "No" and I ended up making myself feel even worse. My child self might be a little bit sympathetic, but my teenage self will be disgusted. I’m hoping she’ll at least like my coloured hair.

I tried to make a list of stuff I did accomplish in all these years to sort of validate myself. I don’t wanna put that here — that is for me. And yes, that did make me feel better.. and yes, there are sooo many more things left to add on to that list.. but hey, I cut bangs as a middle-aged woman.. so there is hope.

But one day, my perspective on this whole thing changed suddenly. I was looking through old photo albums and came across pictures of my parents when they were around my age.. and the only thing I could think was "Holy shit, they look so young!" So healthy. So less.. tired. Thinking back, they were pretty much in the prime of their lives back then.  They used to do everything so...fast. My mom used to run and play with us sometimes; she even broke her leg jumping rope. My dad used to walk to his clinic every day. He broke his arm ice-skating! They were both breaking stuff, doing mad young-people stuff. And all of their hair was all black.. they looked amazing and were so full of life. 

And that just sort of flips your perspective. Yes, it makes you worry about how much your parents have aged now. But it also makes you realize that this… where I am right now… was literally just the beginning for them. I was three years old when my dad was my current age. My dad, with his thick black hair, wayyy before the pot belly appeared, who could lift me way over his head, who was full of that roaring energy, that larger-than-life personality.

When D looks back and thinks of me at this age, I hope she remembers how young and fast and healthy I was too… this is the version of me she’s probably going to imprint on her brain... of her mom during her growing years. And I can’t let that memory be countless clips of me complaining about my back or gasping for breath after one dance.

So ya, I’ve been trying.. to turn healthier. Sometimes I feel like how much can you mould clay that has been left out for so long. But then I figured I haven’t completely dried out in the sun.. I think I still have some give.. so let’s see.

On another note, I read that this is the age that women suddenly just let go of things and stop caring about what people think.. and hoo boy, that is something I’m sooo waiting for. 

I don’t think that has fully kicked in yet, though. On some days, I do feel like I’ve started to let go of things I had been stubbornly holding close for so damn long. Some days I do let go, stop caring, only to freak out hours later wondering "why did I say that or do that." Maybe I'm in the transitioning stage. Maybe by the end of the year I’ll be fully and completely carefree... ha, and I thought I didn’t have anything more to look forward to.

Also just realized that this year, my blog turned 20.. damn. That’s a fully grown adult blog. People who read this might not even have been born on that fateful day in 2006 when I sat down at my big chunky computer during my semester hols to write that first completely nonsensical blog post. Side note: the other day I went back to some of my old posts and increased the font size cos I swear I can’t see shit anymore!

I don’t expect anyone to have followed my writing for 20 years or anything, but to anyone who’s stuck around for as long as you have — thank you. I’m writing more for myself than for anyone else these days, but it’s still nice to know y’all are around. All 30 of you. Bots and everything. 

I'll see you at the next milestone in another 10 years. 

Kiwi

So the other day I was cleaning my cupboard and came across this lil’ fella. Meet Kiwi. Yes, I’m aware he’s a parrot and not a kiwi, but I dunno why... the minute I saw him, the first word that popped into my head was Kiwi. So Kiwi it was.

I remember the exact day and date I got him. April 16th, 1993. The day we landed in Sharjah for the first time ever. My dad had come to pick us up at the airport in his new car, a shiny, golden-ish Ford Tempo. In the midst of wrapping my head around the fact that I was with my dad again in this strange new country, and witnessing a car with not just air-conditioning but windows that went up and down at the click of a button, I spotted this fluffy, bright red object on the dashboard.

On closer inspection, it was a small stuffed toy. My eyes lit up. My dad had got me a toy. My heart rang with joy. Aw, my dad is the best. Still, I hesitated.

“Idh enik aano?” I asked shyly, pointing at the coveted toy that was getting progressively hotter under the harsh Middle Eastern sun.

My dad, caught up in conversation and the excitement of finally having his entire big family with him in this lonely country, barely heard me at first. When he did, he sounded surprised like he’d forgotten the thing even existed. Truth was, he hadn’t actually bought it for me. It was a freebie he’d received from Kodak or Konica while getting some photos developed, he explained.

I barely registered any of that. Is it mine or not? That’s all I wanted to know, worried my sisters might claim it.

“Edutho, edutho,” he said, laughing.

I don’t know if it was the newness of everything, or all the fancy unfamiliar things around me, or the country itself, but I suddenly felt the need to be extra careful. Extra clean. I remember pulling out a tissue from the tissue box in the car (another marvel) and carefully wrapping Kiwi in it. 

I sat back into the back seat, solemnly buckling my seatbelt again (yet another contraption that blew my mind) and examined him quietly while everyone else’s chatter filled the car. It was such a happy, important day for us... the day we became a family again, the day our new life began... and yet, as a child, this was the memory that stayed etched most vividly in my mind.

Having left all my toys behind in India, Kiwi became my sole companion for a while. I know my dad wanted to buy me more toys, but looking back now, he went from living alone to suddenly supporting a family of five, paying off a new car, affording a 2BHK apartment, and school fees for three kids.. it must have been a lot! I have no idea how he managed it.

So I made do with Kiwi. My constant companion. I took him everywhere. He was small enough to fit neatly into my pocket. On that first day, I have a faint memory of taking him around the apartment, showing him every room, because well, it was his first time there too.

Over the years, my toy collection grew slowly, but Kiwi remained special. I remember deciding to celebrate his birthday one year. I gathered all my toys under a blanket fort I’d built, made a cake out of bun drizzled with condensed milk. I'd even invited my parents. I don’t remember if they came... parents in the ’90s weren’t as indulgent as parents today and probably had a shit lot of better things to do than attend a birthday party for a stuffed toy.

I talked to him. A lot. About school. About my sisters. About things that scared me. Hugged him tight against my chest when I got shouted at or when my parents argued loudly. He had the most empathetic blue eyes.. it always looked like he was listening quietly... to my small vishamangal, my anger, my joy.

If you look closely, you’ll notice a small cut on his foot. That was the result of one of those days when I gave in to an intrusive thought. I was like what would happen if I cut off his feet. I think I felt bad halfway through the deed and decided not to go through with it. So I cut all the hair off my Cupcake doll instead.

As I grew older, I didn’t play with him as much. But during some of those confusing, awkward years, he did occasionally feature in some questionable role-play scenarios. Which included make-out sessions with my Barbies, which was tough, what with him having a beak and all. But I didn’t have any male dolls, so my Barbies had to make do with animals. Okay Ew. I hear how that sounds.

I remember this one time our neighbours came over. They had two small kids, one of whom took a particular liking to Kiwi. When they were about to leave, the kid flat-out refused to let him go.

And my parents did the most ’90s-parent thing imaginable. “Oh, it’s okay. Let him keep it. It’s just a toy.”

I remember glaring at them, raging on the inside, but unable to say a word. I watched as the kid gleefully squeezed Kiwi and ran back into his apartment. Aaarg... I hated everyone. I complained to my sister, who rolled her eyes. I just couldn’t let it go.

That same evening, I think when my parents were taking their afternoon nap, I marched up to their apartment and rang the bell. The kid's mother opened the door. I bluntly asked if I could have my toy back, the indignation in my voice barely concealed.

 As someone who has a lot of trouble speaking up and voicing my opinions, I genuinely have no idea how I managed that. I don’t think I’ve been that straightforward since.. I just said it with all the determination I could muster.. without a second thought..without rehearsing it a hundred times in my head.

The aunty smiled knowingly, retrieved Kiwi from the kid...who had clearly already lost interest, and handed him back to me. I think she even apologised. I muttered a thank you and ran away smiling. 

Later, I noticed an ink stain around the white patch near his eyes. I took him to the bathroom and scrubbed at it furiously, mentally cursing that kid.

After that, though he wasn’t a prominent part of my daily life, Kiwi was never given away.. even when most of my old toys were handed down to my cousins. I didn’t take him to college or anything, but when we packed up our life in Sharjah and moved back to India for good, he was carefully tucked into one of my suitcases of memories (or aakri as my dad called it)

He mostly stayed in suitcases until I had D. One day, I decided it was time to pass my childhood companion on to her. I handed him over solemnly. She immediately began gnawing on his head and yanking his tail so hard that I physically flinched. So, I gently pried him out of her chubby toddler hands and was like heyyy… maybe let’s just get you your own toys to chew on, okay?

D’s had her share of Kiwis. She had a purple Barney that said “I love you,” gifted to her by my dad. She'd dragged everywhere, even to the supermarket. She's over it now, so I've stashed him in her own aakri suitcase.

As for Kiwi, I forgot about him again until I found him in an old box recently. I didn’t think much of it when I placed him on my work desk, simply to add a pop of colour. But a few nights ago,  I was lonelier than ever, like my heart was splitting open again. After a round of ugly crying, I sat up on the bed and absent-mindedly picked him up off the table.  And held him close.

He felt a lot smaller in my hands now. Pressed against my chest, just like I used to. His little body fit neatly beneath my palms. His fur was rougher now, worn down by time, but for a brief moment I felt like that little girl again... clinging to this tiny inanimate thing that somehow made the world feel survivable.

The fur around his eyes has thinned, making him look like he’s aged too. But his blue button eyes still looked at me earnestly. Still listening. 

Maybe it’s stupid..a fully grown woman hanging onto a stuffed toy like an emotional anchor. Maybe it isn’t him, really. Maybe it’s the time he transports me back to... when everything felt so much less… heavier?

So for now, Kiwi sits on my desk among my knick-knacks.. Like reassurance.. like a small piece of childhood I still get to hold on to.