YES SIR, YES SIR, THREE BAGS FULL

I'd always been a curly-haired kid, but as I grew older, my head began looking more and more like a beehive. It was called a brush, a mop, and a bird's nest, and was used as a pencil holder by the girls who sat behind me in school. Cut as short as possible, it would grow to two storeys high within a fortnight. It would never just sit on my head. I would manage to stuff a hairband somewhere in there for school discipline's sake, but it could never manage to go round the mop to reach my ears.

As years have passed and I've decided to try a long-haired look, it still remains unruly. I decided that all shampoos and conditioners were absolutely useless, and that I would have to do something drastic. I was, as informed by a friend, a "Hair Virgin". A weirdly funny term, this apparently means somebody who has not straightened, curled, streaked, coloured, or experimented in any other way. Mighty miffed at being categorized, I decided it was time.

Striding purposefully into the parlour, I asked for my hair to be straightened, and the lady stated her price. As I sat down on the seat and she got a got a good look at what she was in for, the mirror reflected her horror-struck face and eyes that bulged out of their sockets. She immediately upped and almost doubled her price.

I demanded to be told the reason, silently daring her to call my head the broom that it was. She muttered, "Kitna baal hai!!!" and rushed out to confer with the boss lady. I could hear her trying to pass the buck, and the boss came in trying to explain that it would take more than an hour and usage of lots of "electrick-city" to get the job done.

Amidst round-eyed stares and young beauticians sniggering in the background, the straightening was done in two hours flat. Each hair on my head had been examined. My scalp was checked to see how many strands came out of each pore. It was wondered whether they had ever seen hair this curly. It was then disdainfully stated that it had a rebellious mind of its own, where one side would spring back to its twisted self as soon as attention was paid to another.

I came away feeling like I'd been poked and prodded at under a microscope, but as I sashayed in front of the mirror I realised that I now had hair that would fall back down if lifted on my head, and not remain perpendicular to the ground.

I was a poodle no more. It was time for the silky-headed spaniel that knew how to Sit.

:)

THE WOOLY-WOOLY FEELING

I have always felt decidely pleased with the excellent nature of my constitution, one that lets me tuck wholeheartedly into anything vegetarian, without taking a turn for the worse. It has been game for all kinds of food, and has even helped out-eat a few condescending boys, who, misled by the frail-looking outline, thought it wasn't even a challenge :)

But today, to my despair, it decided to act up. Out on a shopping spree, in the cool comfort of a luxurious car, it felt like something was jumping about inside. "Urgh", I said to myself, "I should have eaten something before I left." It had happened a couple of times before, but I tried to squish the idea. Half the health problems in the world are psychological, I thought.

It jumped again. Higher this time. There appeared to be a tiny, hyperactive creature inside, using my stomach like a trampoline. The feeling kept coming higher and higher up, till I wondered if I wanted to burp. Well, I couldn't. I was on my best behaviour in good company. Maybe if I tried to smother the sound..

Didn't help. We got to our destination, and finished shopping to go on to lunch. Miraculously, the feeling was gone. I smiled at my tummy as one would to a good, well-mannered child. Back to the car we went, but I wasn't worried.

About ten kilometres down the highway, I felt, what can only be described as a 'wooly' feeling. Nothing jumped this time, but it felt as if my food pipe had been stuffed with rolls of cotton wool. Polite conversation gave way to silence, as I tried to squish the need to belch. It appeared, horror of horrors, that The Stomach disliked good cars!!!!!!!

After many minutes of speculation, I resigned to the fact my tummy had an aversion to Quality. It broke my heart. My dreams of a Jaguar someday seemed to crash, and I could see myself travelling only in tumbledown buses and bumpy cars, with only The Stomach for company.

Two hours of sighing and feeling extremely sorry at the desertion of my pride and joy, I now have a vision of myself, wrapped from head to toe, in an ST bus, looking resignedly at the boy in the next seat who throws up outside the window. My middle, meanwhile, purrs happily at having got its way.

LETTING GO..

It has been a week of farewells, of not wanting to say so, but knowing I have to. Every action reminds me that this is possibly the last time. I once decided never to let my blog get even a wee bit personal, that it would always be about fun and frolic.. this is, in a way, a fond and slightly misty farewell to many..

Two years ago, I entered a place which I felt took me away from home. I sulked, I cried, and I accused it of taking Bombay away from me. I withdrew into my shell, till most people thought little of me or thought very little. And then I ran into those who made the succeeding two years some of the most precious amongst many...

I've often wondered over the past two weeks why I wasn't getting sentimental. Even when I looked at a time counter that said Zero Hour, I didn't feel any different. I knew I loved this place- the people, the times, every inch of the campus. I've had my favourite spots- the fun ones, the sentimental ones and those for introspection. I knew exactly what I'd miss about this place when I was done here, yet it didn't seem as if I'd never come back this time I left.

I didn't realise how I went from absolute good humour to feeling a stab in less than a minute. As I took out my camera to make sure I could remember each spot in my room, I realised how one brown carton made the entire scene look different. I kept snapping pictures till I even had one of the position in which I've kept my slippers on my mat for the past year. As I thought of pulling off my post-its, I knew that even if I kept them forever, they would never look right unless on that cupboard.

I wandered out to the familiar sight of the tree in the dim courtyard, and walked over crunchy grass to the subtle light of our favourite lamp post area. Looking over the mess lawns and back at all the memories, I knew I'd miss even the lone pigeon which sat on a bathroom window each night. As mosquitoes bit my foot, I felt I ought to move away, but I couldn't drag my eyes away from the vision that was such a regular sight. Even, if ever, with all the characters, the act wouldn't seem the same without the setting and the scene..

I've tried to commit each detail to memory, but I know images will blur as time goes by. There are those who I'll always keep in touch with, but there are those I shared a fleeting friendship with-- those that I may never even share stupid jokes with again, and I know I'll miss like crazy. I can't express myself in flowery language, I haven't managed it even in the Yearbook- and I've realised that two years' worth of memories are impossible to pen.

As I write this, it gets more difficult by the minute. I've never been great with goodbyes, I wish I didn't have to leave. What began as a fond farewell, shows me that I now grieve.

To those who I'll really miss- you know who you are.