There are ways and ways and ways you look at yourself. The mirror of course doesn’t lie. It throws back at you what you actually are. The Salt-n-Pepper, more salt than pepper. The hint of the pregnant tummy despite your attempts at camouflaging the same with shirts made in airy-fairy fit. The noticeable hunch which straightens up only when someone aims the camera at you. You get the drift I am sure!
The mirror of course is a liar. That’s because it doesn't know how to look at you the way you are. Your mental image of you is often if not mostly at war with the physical one. The salt-n-Pepper is fashionable these days. I am told kids nowadays spend a fortune to get the Ajith Kumar Salt-n-Pepper. (A few years ago it was the Amitabh Bachchan Salt-n-Pepper but we will keep the Ancients out of this story! Welcome!) That your trousers/jeans don’t stay put at their designated location, an inch below the navel, is not because of the nice slope that your tummy is that helps it slide but because Low Waist is trending.That you prefer lower berth is not coz the joints creak but as a consumer you need to make your choices clear. That the IRCTC website refuses to believe that your wish is their command is disappointing to say the least.
The entire reason for building up the above on low simmer is to gradually increase the temperature to boiling point, gradually push the scales to tipping point, gradually whip up the sound to a crescendo.
It all started a few years ago wherein Yours Truly was generally and universally addressed by his first name/nickname. (OK!OK! Stop those sly glances! More than just a few years!) As the hands on the clock moved around a few times, ok more than a few times, I was promoted to “Anna” level. For those who are not initiated in Tamizh can kindly replace Anna with Bhaiyya/Bhai/Dada/Bhau/Chetta etc., etc. (For those uninitiated in any of the above may satisfy thyself with a bland ‘Brother’! Welcome!) Things moved rather slowly from here onwards and I continued to be in the same class for a few long years. Graduation, Post graduation, Job, marriage and fatherhood didn’t make much of a difference to me or my ‘levels’. A few more rounds of exercise by the hands of the C later, I suddenly found myself kicked upstairs to ‘Mama’ level. (Uncle you dummkoff!)
To say that this whole Uncle level seemed pretty funny to me would be an understatement.. Me? Uncle? No way! I am sure the people around me were basically fooling around with me! I know, I know! My Son’s friends will of course call me Uncle. Happens with everybody. It was all fine till then. But when even the friends of my College going daughter found an Uncle in me, it dawned on me that the entire world needed to get their eye sight checked or their Grey cells counted. Uncle? Me? NO WAY!
All this was fairly tolerable, a mere irritant I should say till disaster struck sometime later! The bomb came in the shape of an ‘aunty’ who while boarding the train told her brat to “Make way! Let Thatha pass”! Sacrilege! Blasphemy! Me? Thatha? No way! Uncle maybe, but Thatha? NEVER! NEVER EVER EVER EVER!
Thatha for you unschooled is Thatthaiyya/Ajja/Dadu/
