The Saga of the Selfie

(Image credits : Google and other amazing people. Plz dnt sue me.)

I'm an old, old person. Being born in the 1990's is positively ancient now, and I've substantial evidence to prove this fact. Why, it seemed like it was just yesterday that we were clicking pictures the wrong way around! How silly! Of trees, birds, people, animals - and the sky - the list is endless. It's amusing to remember how primitive we used to be - kind of like discovering how to start fires all over again.

The saga of the selfie began way back in 2009, when people discovered that the I Phone camera had a front-facing lens. It was treated like a Van Gogh painting - rejected, and harshly, by the users themselves, for their galleries were filled with enlarged zits, crater-sized eyes, and a view of their nostrils that was enough to make a Sunny Leone movie look like an episode of Dora the Explorer. Selfies at the time were restricted to swivelling the phone around and smiling at the tiny lens, although the user had four tries before they got it right - the first three were engaging snaps of everything but themselves (N.B - these prehistoric samples are now used as internet memes).

 Things progressed quickly, though. The revolution began with the duck-face, easier to determine the size and angle of the pout thereof - which, if conducted the other way around, merely made the user look like they were madly in love with their phones (which they probably were). The duck-face was followed by the sparrow-face (eyes lowered, mouth barely opened - like a supermodel in a Mango ad. Or what your face looks like when you finally reach the toilet after too much pizza). Downward angles and Dutch-tilts highlighted the most interesting bits of their subjects, and suddenly, testosterone took a break from playing Assassin's Creed, and developed Snapchat.

The rest is history. The internet is awash with derp faces, elongated arms, and meme upon meme of increasing ridiculousness. Come 2014, and we look back at the selfie, which is now touted as the most used means of communication. Barack Obama joined in the trend, as did several celebrities such as Angelina Jolie, Gwyneth Paltrow, checkered lips, several misplaced tattoos and a very famous tongue (read: Kim, Jussy and a giant foam finger that used to be Hannah Montana). Ellen DeGeneres took it to an awesome level, when she posed with Liza Minnelli, and later, with several actors including Bradley Cooper, J-Law, Channing Tatum, Brangelina, a very swag Kevin Spacey and Jared Leto's eye (they pushed Homer Simpson out of the way, who later  posted on Snapchat with a 'D'oh!')

That being said, it's a fun trend to join - making it easier and faster to click pictures. Here's to another year of  *poses with pout and victory hand sign* Happy Selfieing, everyone!

Inertia

The sun bore down with all its might, burning the nape of his neck. It was sticky with sweat - too bad, he thought, ruefully. He had scrubbed it clean in the wee hours of the morning, and now, the collar of his shirt was plastered against it. The rest of his body was doing the same, the object clinging to its covering rather than the other way around.

The sheep scrambled placidly behind him, following the crook of his staff willingly enough, but with a certain amount of excited recklessness. He gazed at them fondly, bumping them along their path. Sometimes, they were rewarded with a pat on the head, or a kind word. He loved them all so much; they were silly creatures indeed, but they were innocent, and open to learning, and he adored them for that. Blessed, impressionable creatures! He could never surrender them to the butcher's knife!

For he now knew what that was like. The butcher's knife hung above his head, quivering in mid-air, with the menacing ability to guillotine him whenever he least expected. He imagined himself crying out, giving a final, weak bleat of fright, before the sharp silver sliced through his neck, and it was all over. But that was the worst part : imagining, never knowing.

'Take a step at a time. You've been very, very brave.' The words floated in red capital letters in his head, and he wanted to savagely rip them off. Goddamnit, was there no end to this pretentiousness, this farce? He knew the truth - it would eat him out from the inside. Like mould inside a warm loaf of bread. Rotting, disintegrating, clawing its way out...

The thought made him suddenly, absurdly hungry. He stopped, and opened his lunch satchel. As there was no greenery around, he broke his cheese sandwiches into bits, passing them around his flock. They stood around, munching peacefully, occasionally turning large, dewy eyes up to plead for another bite. He relented, of course, he could never find it in his hear to refuse them. They belong with me, he thought desperately, watching as a large ram frolicked behind a coy ewe, bounding eagerly after her. They are mine, and I am theirs, and they cannot leave me. They must learn, partake in my freedom!

Meal finished, he led the way, for there were but a few miles remaining of their journey. He let himself be preoccupied with his flock - giggling, playing absurd games with them, and singing to them when they were fatigued. His voice rose, a sweet, clear echo amidst the hills. They curled up against him when he did this, butting his side gently, loving him unconditionally, like children will love their parents.

He was chatting mindlessly to them, when his head rose, and he suddenly realized that they'd arrived. Finally. His tongue slipped out of his mouth, and he licked his cracked lips relentlessly, pondering over his decision. Should he? Should he not? It was, after all, something to be considered over and over and over...A movement caught his eye, and he turned to see a rather disgruntled old man, growling. 'Move on, will ya?!'

He beamed. His decision was made. 'Yes, sir, I most definitely will!' With that, he jumped into the pit, calling out to his flock. They followed him readily, and he flung his arms around them, never letting go when they began struggling, when the old man's roars echoed in his ears, not even as he felt the ground tremble beneath him.

A rush of wind, sonic screams, a brief moment of searing pain, and then he was laughing, he was gone, gone, gone...

*

The train screeched, and shuddered to a halt. The man opposite the woman barely noticed, concentrating on making sure that his runny sunny-side up breakfast did not run off his plate. His effort, however, was for naught, as the woman put her newspaper copy down with a sigh huge enough to startle him. The plate dropped to the ground.

'Oh, sorry,' she said distractedly. The man glared at her and bent to clear the mess. She sighed again. 'Did you hear about the accident?' The man glanced at the paper, and nodded. 'Yeah, I read about that. They say that he was diagnosed with leukaemia - it was the triggering factor.' 'Horrible,' the woman whispered, shivering delicately.

The train began to sway slowly again. On the floor, a page turned. The headline read bold, loud and true. ''MENTAL MENTOR: TEACHER KILLS CHILDREN AND HIMSELF, JUMPS IN FRONT OF ONCOMING TRAIN.''

Grasshopper Philosophy without the Karate Krap (sorry, Mr Miyagi)

I do not think

That you know what I am speaking of (Do you?)

You shy away, claiming an overdose

Of flowers and caramel, mush and sentimental goo.

Wait, do not go.

Let me explain myself (Understand, please)

Sit down. Relax (A drink? Or two?)

Give some time.  Offer me a lease.

It began as early as time itself

Older than hatred, younger than survival

It's had its ups and downs

Denials, departures and revivals.

You wish for examples?

Why should I give them?

Take out your preschool drawings

Trace your finger over the letters 'F' and 'M'.

You have stopped scoffing, I see (Good)

Are you realizing, remembering now?

The first time that infantile hand grabbed your finger

And you immediately strengthened that protection vow?

You require elaboration

Think of it this way

It is like water, wonderful water

Cold, clear, beautiful on a hot day.

In the searing desert heat,

It is ambrosia

In the high mountains,

You are glad for its warmth, and know no fear.

When you drink from it

It fills your being with life itself

You may not miss it when it is present

But in its absence, you gasp for relief.

I digress. (Wait, you are saying something)

Yes, it includes THAT  as well

THAT,  to which Laila and Majnoon fell prey

And Jodie and Elton came out of their shell.

I will come to the point (I am tired)

You ask again, of what is it that I speak about

Why, have you not understood at all? (Waste of my breath!)

It's LOVE, you silly, stupid lout!

See

It's easy to pick out a beautiful girl - it depends upon your preference. There are the tall ones who give the best hugs when you're a head shorter than them. They look amazing in gowns but are quick to deny that, and are adorable especially when they're just a little uncomfortable about their height. Then there are those with the outlook of biker chicks, and the souls of poets. Fierce about their personal space, they have sex appeal that pulls you in like a moth to a flame - a tough, take-me-as-I-am kind that instantly puts you in mind of slinky dresses, combat boots and brazen, tousled hair. But gain their trust - and you're getting to know a side of them that is sensitive to anything that is sweetly exquisite in this life. It's an emotional roller coaster that you'll realize you love.

There are also those who command the social life, who gravitate towards bright lights and shiny glass like their lives depend upon it. They'll have their red velvet cupcakes, and eat it too.  A new car, well-made clothes, a fully stocked bar and a wallet fat with currency will convince them that you are definitely someone to have fun with. But like what they project, this is all superficial. A superficiality that is used to mask the pain of a horrible family life, the loneliness of hiding who they truly are, and the bitterness of having to pretend. Then again, some are so kind in spite of such an opulent lifestyle, that you can't help but feel grateful - better feather-brained and warm-hearted, than a mind full of smarts and a heart full of hatred.

But then there is that one girl you'll have to look very hard to discover. She could be hiding anywhere, everywhere. If you're a people-watcher, you may have to wait for hours before she suddenly becomes clearer. She is not beautiful, but if you observe carefully, there's something better than beauty in her face. Her eyes may be downcast, or uplifted - and it may not be because she's upset or pleading for relief.  Try to pick her soul out from them, and you'll end up waiting to decipher that remote twinkle that tells you that you can try, but you won't succeed.

She may not have a perfect body - extremes may shape her. You'll rue the day you thought of that factor, however, when you begin speaking to her. She may be tiny, but she can scare you into agreeing with all her opinions. And you'll hate yourself for that - till she smiles at you, and you suddenly forget what you were upset about in the first place. She will converse in run-on sentences, and get excited about things that will leave your eyebrows raised. She will live in a world of fandoms, OTPs and compulsively read everything from mind-blowing to ridiculous. Or not. She can even be the kind who huffs at dramatics and rolls her eyes at humour that will leave you crying with mirth.

And she will love dance. Mind you, she may or may not be good at it - her entire repertoire of the art can consist of only three  steps. But music will fill her soul and toss her up into a sandstorm of never-ending joy, and that joy is difficult to contain. She is exhilarated in fresh air and rigorous exercise, loving the intensity of running for a deliciously long time. Or not. She may lay languidly on any flat surface, and will find paradise on a comfortable bed in the warm, late-afternoon sunlight.

Seek her out. She is a hard one to find, a diamond in the rough. She will wilfully reject polishing, and in the end, you too will discover that you like some of the jagged edges. You'll grow used to squeals of excitement, and benign gazes when she daydreams. You'll grow to treasure her laugh - because she does it rarely -   and her tears, too, because she is always strong, and those sad moments are when you get a chance to protect her. She will exasperate you, kick you, and practice her punches on your stomach and jaw. She will go on tangents, make you worry and scream and laugh too. You'll hate her, but you'll kind of want to kiss her too. And no matter what, in the end, when she leaves you in every manner possible, everything will pale in comparison. You'll find that she was the reason for that ridiculously happy grin on your face.  

And whether you want to or not, you'll find that you'll have fallen in love with her.

Eighteen

Eighteen

It's when you're 'grown up'

Leaving behind sparkly dresses

And leg warmers and coloured streaks

And dark lipstick and lip gloss

For one blank faceless face.

Eighteen

It's when Pepsi stops fizzing

And solidifies into coffee

And the sweetness darkens to tart alcohol

And you drink and drink and drink

To forget what never existed.

Eighteen

It's when what you like disintegrates

To form a smokescreen

Of what you must like

Of Freudian phrases and sullen quotes

That hint at intriguing intellect.

Eighteen

It's when laughter is frowned upon

And stifled to form a dry chuckle

Dry as a throat in the morning

From an angry night of tête-à-tête, Marlboro and Gauloise.

I am not myself

Not this surly avatar with dark shades

Haunting quaint cafes with tiny books

Filled with existentialism

And thinking, thinking, thinking and thinking.

I'm eighteen

I am supposed to want to conquer

And change, with big words

Along with a spoonful of reality

To dose everyone with mouthfuls of bitter  better.

But I'd consider it my biggest achievement

If I were to die at eighteen

To convince myself, right here, right now

To believe in Disney, Blyton, Rowling and the heroes

To hold fast to friendship, wit and bravery.

For later, and forever more

I know I will look back

And sigh, and wish

That if I could go back, I'd tell my eighteen-year old self

To just be that. Eighteen. A teen.

Cendrillon's End

She raced through the dirty cobbled streets, slipping in the muck and rotten fruit that lined the cracks in the stone. The marketplace was bustling with wailing children, scolding mothers whose bosoms heaved with every breath, and the occasional rag-picker who groped the aforementioned busts. They all grunted and grumbled in annoyance as she shoved them aside with her strong arms, arms that were toned from lifting heavy pails of water for scrubbing the floors.

Her breath hitched as she approached the town square, and she stopped confusedly for a moment. If one were to gaze at the square from an aerial view, they would see the very ground moving in a roiling sea of discoloured browns and blues. Wooden carts trundled past waddling women with baskets filled with vegetables, nearly killing the scampering toddlers in frocks as they played with each other in the mud. Men shouted names and curses as they heaved bags of goods back and forth, and the occasional yelp of pain was heard above the din, as an inept apprentice was promptly punished.. Comely maidens, with skin as creamy as the milk they sold, giggled shyly as young gentry ogled them eagerly, forgetting the dignity of their noble background. The chaos was punctuated with the sharp barks , clucks and quacks of sundry animals in the square and on the butcher's aisle.

No!  her mind screamed at her, as she wavered on the verge of turning back. This is your last chance; he has already left with her! You have time, do it! Her face hardened, and with her chin set in tenacious determination, she raised her elbows and propelled herself through the crowd. Gasps and groans soon echoed. In no time at all, she had defeated the thick wall of people, and raced away, as filthy insults were thrown at her retreating back.

She stopped suddenly at the edge of the woods. This is it. Lips trembling in anticipation, she now walked forward more cautiously, the glass slipper clutched tightly in her hand. It had miraculously survived the onslaught of milling human crowds. She felt its smooth, pearly surface slide against her sweaty palm, and the feeling of impeding excitement grew, fluttering wildly in her stomach like a caged bird waiting to be freed.

She had already thought of how the meeting would go. Of how he would drop the other's hand in surprise, as the beautiful stranger approached him, teal eyes glowing with her love for him. Of how he would stare at the glittering slipper and let his jaw drop. Of how tenderly her ankle would be held by him, as he gently pushed her dainty foot inside, fingers lingering over the shapely heel. The slipper would fit like a glove, as though she'd been wearing it since her birth. Her lips parted as she imagined him gathering her in his arms, kissing her deeply and then whisking her away to heaven, while the other screamed in dismay.

Something glinted in the bright sunlight filtering through the trees, and she squinted, unable to see for the moment. Then, spotting a rose-gold shell in the distance, she let out a whoop and ran towards it. Her heart beat crazily; Grandmama was right, she would win this time, she would be able to escape, the rightful owner would now be where she belonged...

She paused suddenly, and blinked in confusion. Was she in the right place? Was this a dream she was experiencing- although how can it be, I'm sweating! My feet are burning!  Her grip on the shoe grew tighter and tighter, as she watched the following scene unfold before her.

He stood before the other, holding her close by her shoulders. His dark head was bent near her ear, and the other's face blushed in shades of carmine and pink. The courtiers and ladies-in-waiting bustled about, gathering rolls of gold cloth in their arms, beckoning to servants to pick various articles from the ground. An huge bower, intertwined with bell heather and primroses, was slowly being dismantled.

The spectator quickly shook herself out of her trance, and took another step forward. That was when she saw what the other was wearing. A long, cream-coloured skirt swirled around her ankles, while her magnificent cleavage was adequately displayed with the help of a tight-fitting white bodice. The ringlets of mustard, diligently brushed by tired maids with cold fingers, flashed beneath the frothy veil that hid glittering, greedy eyes; eyes that beheld the Prince in unabashed glee. The entire picture was completed by a man in a black robe and a crucifix at his neck, closing the leather-bound book in his hand with a soft snap.

She watched with growing horror, as the Prince kissed the other's mouth and whispered, 'My lovely forest-bride,' before taking her hand and helping her into the carriage. Before the bride slipped into the waiting vehicle, her skirt was slightly lifted and her ankle displayed, and the spectator glimpsed a trickle of  red, red liquid seep into the white cloth, before it was hastily whisked out of sight. She looked up to witness gleaming spiteful eyes retreat slowly into the shadowy recesses of the carriage, but not before the wide, red mouth smirked at her.

The Prince straightened up, and glanced around imperiously, before his gaze came to rest on the sweating, trembling intruder. His eyes widened, and he began walking towards her, raising an arm. She began to shake -  it was a dream - there he was , a mere foot away, ready to acknowledge that she was really the one who had captured his heart during the ball...

The sting of a slap brought her staggering to reality. The Prince was looking down at her, his eyes blazing in anger. He pinched her arm and she howled in pain. 'Dirty cow!' he roared, pushing her down to the ground. 'How dare you interrupt a royal wedding ceremony? Be gone, wretch, or face my wrath!' With that, he whirled  around, quickly got into the carriage and rode away, the vehicle biding her a sadistic farewell as it shone pinkly in the fading sunlight.

She was deaf, dumb and blind. She was a hollow shell, legs splayed beneath her torn dress. The world turned into a cold tomb of silent greys. Her eyes were opaque with disbelief and unimaginable sorrow, as she simply sat there, without regard to who or where she was. She clenched her hands tightly, and a sharp pain in her right hand brought the world back in a rush of shapes and colours.

The entire wedding party was gone. She looked down to see crimson ooze down her wrist; the glass slipper had cracked in her hand.

She closed her eyes and gripped the slipper harder and harder, welcoming the waves of pain as they roared and broke over her. She could go back, but she wouldn't. It simply was not possible. Going back would entail scrubbing, washing and brushing. It would mean running after her step-mother and sister, attending once more to all their needs, and bearing the pricks of their insults again. It would mean crying over her father's portrait every morning, and hating her Grandmama for what she'd promised and what she'd failed to provide. But most of all...it would mean going back to the avatar of the poor, orphaned servant girl.

She slowly opened her eyes and smiled. No, she was a princess. A certain quiet dignity descended upon her slender form as she stood up. Her back straightened with regal pride, and she raised her head, as though addressing her people. I am a princess. I am the Queen. And nothing will ever change me. She smiled again, as she raised the stiletto heel of the glass slipper. I will ensure that.

*

The wood-cutter staggered through the bushes, screaming in fear. He tumbled onto the road and ran for his life. Reaching the inn, he yanked open the door.

The crowd inside immediately froze, watching the man heave and retch, trying to catch his breath. Finally, the bartender, abandoning his dirty washing cloth, strode forward and pulled the wood-cutter to his feet. 'What the hell's the matter with you, man? You look like you've seen a ghost!'

The man stared back at him with crazed eyes. 'It may as well be, John! She was just lying there, a damned flower wreath 'round her pretty hair, 'n all the animals sniffin' about her 'n all. Her hair was soaked, man, soaked with the blood from the wrists crossed beneath her head! That wasn't even the worst bit! Her lips - God almighty! I can still see it, clear as day! - were smiling, like she was enjoying it, although I dunno how she bloody well could, with that great damned shard of glass, all the way through her heart!'

There And Back Again (yeah, I took that from the Hobbit. Sorry, Bilbo.)

I grinned at myself in the mirror and added a final line of kohl under my right eye. Then, snapping the lid shut, I proceeded to put the tube away and rearrange my hair - which I had done ten times hitherto. My mum, watching amusedly from the doorway, finally voiced the question she'd been itching to ask the whole day. 'Are you sure you want to do this? You know it's been a long time.'

I turned to her and let out a small sigh. 'Mum,' I said. 'This might be the last time that we'd get to meet like this. I...I need to see them.' One beat of understanding later, she nodded and returned to the kitchen, to put the finishing touches on her famous au gratin, which she'd prepared specially for this occasion.

Hell, she didn't realize the depths of nervousness my stomach sank into the moment she left. I was meeting up with my old friends, friends who had stuck with me right from first grade, and who had experienced each stage of growth with me up till that point. And yet, this strong friendship had somehow dissolved almost to nothingness, when we made new friends in high school and allowed bitterness and jealousy to ensue between us.

Now, four years later, we were meeting up, with old-but-new faces, new haircuts, clothes and attitudes. Would we still be able to talk as easily as we did so long ago, or would the dinner be four awkward hours of stilted small talk and frozen conversation?

I had no time to dwell on this, as the doorbell rang, and they stepped in, one by one, scrutinizing the place which, for a long time, had been our main hangout.  And thankfully, not much had changed. Slowly, they ambled to the couches and sat down, avoiding each others 'eyes. My worst fears were coming true. I gulped and began doling out the juice and hors d' oeuvres. 'Thank you,' one of the guys said softly, before delicately biting into the pastry.

My mind was spinning. Thank you?  In the past, this particular fellow would have simply swatted my hand away from the plate, grabbed a couple of pieces for himself, and scarfed down the lot. It would have been so rude...so boorish...and so comfortable.

My temper of old rose, and prompted me to raise my hand and smack the back of his head. 'Idiot!' I snapped. 'Stop being so polite!' He was so startled that he simply stared at me, eyes bugging out and mouth opening and shutting like that of a goldfish. However, my slap had done the trick; the proverbial ice was cracked, and everyone burst out laughing at his face.

After that, it was easy to melt into the banter of old. We joked about our new appearances, reminisced about our childhood friends and classmates, and the guy I mentioned earlier began gulping down the starters ten at a time - just to spite me for the smack he'd earned. I loved it.

When my mum brought out the au gratin, my friends roared with joy, for this was  one dish that had virtually become the bane of our existence for two days, during the French exhibition - one of our fondest memories of the 8th grade.

Needless to say, conversation flowed like an open bottle of wine during dinner. We talked about everything under the sun - books( yes, the paperback kind), movies, games, fan fiction, crushes(even the guys) and life after school. We even sorted out the problems between us, although it took barely five minutes, with an explanation and apology from the guilty party, and a shrug and a 'Chill, man, it's all cool now,' from the other side. I looked up, and caught my mum smiling at us from the doorway, proud and happy. I grinned at her and gave her a thumbs-up.

In the end, when it was time to go, one of the girls turned to me and opened her mouth hesitantly. Everyone else stopped whatever they were doing and looked at us. She let out a sigh and gave me a brilliant smile. 'Thanks, Aditi,' she said softly. 'Thanks for calling us...I'm so glad we could meet up like this.' I stepped forward and hugged her. The next moment, I was engulfed in a group hug, as arms came around everywhere. It was a perfect, shining moment.

After the hug, I stood at the door and waved goodbye to everyone as they left, one by one, disappearing behind the gleaming doors of the elevator, their happy grins the last I'd see of them for a while. However, I wasn't upset - not at all. We had parted as old friends should, not with tears and flowery promises to reunite, but with fresh, happy memories of our past, memories that made us grin and realize that our years together had made us who we were, and it felt wonderful to visit that place for a while. We realized that we'd all gained a return-gift of sorts from the dinner I'd hosted - golden remembrances, the strength of renewed friendship, which would be actively pursued on Facebook, and hope, hope that come what may, if we did meet up again, we'd be able to hold on to our camaraderie. It was enough for us at the moment, quite enough.