Naaz, she called her.
Supreme Pride.
A child born to a blind mother after much adversity.
She is Allah’s blessing, her aunts would say, one so fair and comely.
And Naazo’s mother glowed in gratitude, and went peacefully to her grave, without an inkling that the light of her life had a deep cleft lip.
OJ to her girlfriends (proudly): Ahem! Notice my new glasses?
Girlfriend 1 (blankly): New glasses? They look the same.
OJ (huffily): These are Tommy Hilfiger tortoiseshells. The old ones were black.
Girlfriend 2 (absently): I never noticed your old ones either.
OJ (glaringly): The problem with you guys is that you love me for the person I am!
He squarely blamed the heat for his inertia.
Summer wasn’t a time to work.
He’d doze under the tree, occasionally letting slip a little snore, while the sun raged down on a scurrying world.
You couldn’t really blame the neighbors, therefore, when they noticed his stiff body only three days later, the snores silenced forever.
She looked at him with ill-concealed desire.
Taut and young, he was the color of raw ebony, waiting longingly to be caressed by her expert hands.
In a quick stride, she was by him, touching, teasing, living out her unfulfilled fantasies.
Finally, after all those years of denial, Saira had her very own grand piano.
Little Boy T was a teacher like no other. His first words to me, as I grasped his wrist, were “Fuck you!” Being two decades older than him was cancelled out by the fact that I was brought up in a home where ‘stupid’ is a cuss word. And from that moment on, I learned a few good things:
Happy Teacher’s Day, T.
Miss OJ can’t get your crinkled eyes out of her head.
He sidled toward her when no one was looking. Back turned to him, she was unwrapping the bright orange sweet received for knowing her numbers. A quick glance later, his teeth sank into his chubby arm and the ensuing howl ensured she was carried away, the sweet lying unopened and brightly orange on the floor.
“Did she hurt you?” Mohan’s mother asked, her worried eyes scanning her son’s face.
He thought back to the early days of his marriage, when his wife’s wild rages had her smashing crockery, ripping the sheets, sending watches, forks and vases his way.
“No, Mother,” he staidly replied, nodding at the memory. “She always missed.”
Mahrukh’s mother laid out the girls’ pyjamas.
“Lend the new set to your friend,” she said, fingering the frayed edges of her daughter’s lilac pair.
She walked in the next morning to find two soundly sleeping girls, one in shredded nightclothes and the other clutching a pair of scissors, smiling sweetly in her dreams.
[This one was scribbled for a four-year-old audience. The language has been modified for adult reading. Feedback welcome. And any mommies/daddies reading this, feel free to narrate it to your babies. 🙂 ]
Sascha’s bathroom, like the rest of her home, was spotlessly clean. Her Mommy made sure that it was cleaned every day and always smelled fragrant. You could call it a bit cluttered, I suppose, for Sascha loved her cosmetics just as much as the next tween. And the window ledge was more than a little packed with bottles, tubes and jars of varying dimensions, jostling for a foothold.
They were quite a sorority, those bottles. Every night, after all was calm, they’d huddle together and crib about Hair Oil who lived among them.
“She’s so drippy and icky and green!” gurgled Shampoo in disdain.
“Not to mention smelly,” sniffed Bath Salts.
“She really shouldn’t be here amongst us,” cried Baby Powder, who was particularly vain about her appearance and partial to taking a peek into the mirror every chance she got.
And so they whined and carped and grumbled about their unsavory company, until one day, fed up of their complaining, Soap suggested a plan.
“We’ll wait for Friday night,” he whispered, knowing that was the time Sascha’s hair was oiled. “And, since she’ll be the last one back on the ledge, one of us can nudge her over, and splash, she’ll be in the pot below!” Much excitement and cheering later, it was decided that Condi (short for Conditioner) be the one to Do the Deed. Being the tallest of the lot, he had more leverage, and could move swiftly and effectively to get the job done. Hands shaken and backs slapped, they settled down to await the end of the week.
On Friday night, Nanny grabbed Hair Oil as usual and took her off to the kitchen to be warmed. 20 tense minutes later, she was back, whistling tunelessly at being the flavor of the night and having gladdened the rather traditional Nanny’s old heart. At precisely ten past midnight, at the pre-determined signal, Condi swung into action. A quick bump of his plastic bum later, Hair Oil was floating dismally in the (thankfully) clean water of the dazzling white pot, gazing up ruefully at the sniggers above her. Shutting her eyes, she prayed fervently that no drowsy family member would use the toilet at night. That, in her book, would be the ultimate ignominy.
The night passed peacefully. Or as peaceful as it can possibly be with a dark drain mere millimeters away. With the morning sun came Bai, Harpic in one hand and brush in another, ready to do battle with germs, stains and sundry offenders. Hair Oil cringed, waiting to be doused in blue soapy liquid, but none descended. Instead, after what appeared to be the longest time, she heard a cluck of annoyance and felt a calloused hand gingerly lift her from the cap. The bottles were all agog, hanging about innocently with their eyes peeled to the unfolding scene. And this is what they saw:
Hair Oil was given a thorough rinse in lavender soap by a brisk, mildly annoyed Bai before being swabbed with Dettol and patted dry. Other than a wrinkly wrapper, she looked none the worse for wear and the smirk she wore on her face infuriated them. The last straw was seeing her being whisked off to the bedroom and given pride of place on Sascha’s dressing table, in full view of the exciting programs on television. Only the bottles knew that the slightly puffed look that Hair Oil wore for the rest of the week was not a result of that dunking in the water.
Your Virgo-ness wounds me!
~ OJ to her BFF, defending accusations of being a drama queen.
Ultra Violet
Vox populi