Of enid blytons and posing for photographs...

Ok after ranting and raving in the previous blog..here is a breather.

Ok before I begin, I have deleted two comments fr my previous post entirely by mistake…so wud the people who commented plz resend it? Really sorry..but I was kinda groggy at 3 in the nite….thnks tho!!!Ok back to business..

There are 2 kinds of people in the world, I am secretly jealous of…..the first are those who can marry Abhishek Bachhan( I have a narcissistic streak in me..) and the second class of people are those who manage to resemble themselves in their snaps.

I have gone through life trying to keep my passports, ID cards and all those cruel docs which demand a photo id hidden from public view. Because I know the person with the vacuous smile and dopey eyes who stares back from each photograph, is just not me!!! There is a conspiracy here!!! However much I try, my snaps unfailingly fall into one of 3 categories. I have classified my snaps as the Demented, the Depressed and the Doped.

The Demented: The problem lies in posing for the camera. I still haven’t figured out where exactly to look. If I look straight at the camera, I get really self conscious and trying to smile at those moments is a Herculean task. The most I can manage is a semblance of a happy sneer (is that an oxymoron?).This involves pursing the lips and stretching them horizontally as far as possible (I avoid baring the dentures, for reasons to be disclosed later), which kinda accentuates my wholesome cheeks and makes me resemble a smiling hippo.

The photographer has often gone into fits of helpless laughter and instructed that I try not to look at the camera, if that makes me feel less like a goldfish in an aquarium.

I don’t know if I am unconsciously muttering a prayer to the heavens but in these endeavors, my eyes seem to be focusing on some giraffe standing right in front of me…(dilated pupils are wht one is trying to express here).My face is a homogeneous blend of a forced smile and a furrowed brow which leaves me mystified. I do go through an emotional turmoil!!!

The Depressed: I decided that smiling for photographs was not my forte since when I tried that “natural” laugh and smiling eyes look…..like the harbinger of sunshine and warmth, I bared too many of my teeth, and displayed a more werewolf resemblance than any non member of the species would be comfortable with. Plus no one I know associates a were wolf with sunshine and warmth.

The Doped: So for me it was the philosophical pose, lips clasped firmly together, do not giggle, do not look at the camera. Most of my snaps show me as about to burst into tears and have drawn many concerned queries about my suppressed sorrows. I guess I can live with that,..coz when I tried a few other variants, crinkling my eyes, squinting at the camera, lips half parted..the quintessential seductress….they could have used my poster as a mascot for the Stoned and Happy cult..

But this was a painful subject. The other day someone reminded me of Enid Blytons(thank u btw!!!).

When I was young reading an Enid Blyton was pretty much like opening a treasure trove.

I would open every book dying with anticipation and wait to be mesmerized by the Faraway trees ,Wishing Chairs, Silky, Moonface and amused by the Malory Towers and St Clare kids, not to forget the famous Fives, the five find outers…the list goes on.

They transported me to an alternate reality and it was difficult to break free, I would always stop a book halfway and spend the rest of the day in a dreamlike haze, trying desperately to postpone the inevitable end. I am sure most of u wud be mentally classifying me in the weirdoes section but bluhh!!

The three of us (me and my 2 younger sisters) were very taken by this entire English environment. We would tirelessly work at producing our very own pantomimes, plays and operas. Our “captive” audience, usually our polite parents would be subjected to these soporific renditions. After sitting through too many of these and tired of our incessant demands for meringues, seed cakes, macaroons, our parents decided that their demented daughters needed to get a grip. Especially after they found us combing the garden for a dark patch of grass (the entrance to the wising chair for the uninitiated).(I am really not making this up!!!)

So my dad decided that it was high time I read a few serious books. Maybe the shock was too much for him or he wanted a radical cure, the first book he gave me was the Autobiography of a Yogi. This was followed by Conversation with God and the Celestine Prophecy. Recipe for instant nirvana!! I was twelve then. And totally at sea. I tried reading the books, gave up pretty quick and then demanded of Dad as to why he thought being a nun was a lucrative career option, reminded him of the fact that I was closer to 15 than 50, and that both of us need not necessarily read the same books. He realized that he had gone overboard, but that was just a natural reaction, when we demanded chocolate blanc-mange instead of the gajar ka halwa, and vacations in Cornwall.

But the point being , he realized that to understand the deeper meaning of life, his daughter needed to live at least a shallow one for starters and he gave me my very first Agatha Christie. So I was again embroiled in a web of intrigue, romance and mystery.All was right with the world again, and I was no longer a prospective intern for a sisterhood.

I did finally read a few serious books and all the ones I mentioned. And I did stop dreaming of trifle puddings. But I still hope that I would find that darker blade of grass, that fairy ring. And if the faraway tree is anywhere near, I would be the first to believe it.