I generally drive with my radio preset to a particular channel and as is
quite the norm there is more talk and less music. The songs played are of the
new(er) artists, and hence it is not often that I get to hear any of my
childhood favorites. Well anyway, recently as I was driving back home from work
the RJ played a song that immediately struck a chord. It was a peppy number
that we used to dance to when we were in our Tweens.
That song transported me back to my days in Junior college (or High School if
you are American), and the friends, the parties and of course the incidents
that defined that age for me. Music has a tremendous ability to take us back in
time. And as with all such memories, they come to me in flashes. I cannot speak
for you, but for me these flashbacks are not a contiguous story line, but
snapshots of incidents which were either hilarious at the time, or simply
embarrassing! These memories stand independent of precedent and conclusion,
like a picture in an album, devoid of context.
This particular song transported me back to the age of impromptu dance
parties that we used to have. There were no air conditioners, and the ceiling
fans would try desperately to dissipate the heat generated by a gaggle of
teenagers, swinging and rocking to music. It took me back to a particular party
immediately after our High School final exams. All of us were elated at the
conclusion of an obviously traumatic school examination, and that got manifest
in our zest on the dance floor. Our exuberance obviously got us all carried
away – as we sang (lustily and out of tune) and danced in as ungainly a manner
as is humanly possible.
We were sweating profusely in cramped quarters, being very careful to avoid
contact with any furniture. I distinctly recall this friend (even by our
inferior standards not the most graceful) going particularly wild on a song,
his knees and elbows splaying in all directions. And I recollect him - in the
heat of the moment, in the buzz of excitement and exhilaration - running his
forefinger across his forehead to wipe away the sweat dripping on to his
glasses, and then neatly flicking it onto a girl dancing next to him. The party
came to a grinding halt as the stunned girl screamed, hyperventilated and
almost passed out from shock. I remember all us boys doubling over with
laughter, holding our stomachs and rolling on the floor, and a short while
later, the girls in a show of solidarity, staging a walk out from the party.
The party was a flop, but we guys would break out with laughter for years
afterwards just talking about it.
Thinking about parties got me to reflect on how we all looked at that gawky
age. I was a nerdy boy at best, not exceptionally bright and with two left
feet. In my teens I was as clumsy as they came, and was fortunate to have a few
friends who were even worse. Due to a sudden growth spurt, their bodies had not
yet adapted to their height and reach, whereas my clumsiness was all me. It had
nothing to do with sudden growth, as I grew gradually till it just sort of petered
off. Like bulls in a china shop, we trod obliviously through life, thankfully
bereft of the knowledge of our limitations.
The economic pressures of a lower middle class existence in those days meant
that my wardrobe was severely limited. I remember the trend of bell-bottom
trousers that took Bombay by storm, and how stylish some of the kids wearing
those, looked. I so desperately wanted a pair, but perceptive of our financial
situation knew that there was no point in asking my parents for them. Eventually
when it was apparent that my only pair of full length trousers, which had been
altered a number of times (at the waist and bottom), were struggling to cover
my girth and the top of my ankles, my mother acquiesced to new ones. As I was
still captivated by flared trousers, I insisted and the tailor grudgingly, and
with a lot of head shaking, agreed to stich one for me. I had been so fixated
on getting flared trousers, I had not realised that the fashion had quite moved
on.
You should have seen my joy as I wore them over the next few days. The
pant-material was dark (but cheap), and changed colors in the light. I can now
only imagine the sorry sight - flared bell-bottoms worn with the standard issue
Bata flip flops. Gauche, tasteless and completely out of fashion!
Unfortunately, none of my friends had the nerve or the desire to disillusion
me, and allowed me to traipse around like this. Anyway a week later we were
browsing (like only penniless boys can) on the streets of Colaba, when we
bumped into a gaggle of girls from our colony. Now these were not the tom-boys
that we hung out with occasionally. These were the more upmarket, more snobbish
lot, with an eye on fashion and trends. One of them took a look at my bell
bottoms (shimmering in the light and fluttering in the breeze), and exclaimed
loudly that they were the most ghastly trousers she had ever seen. Being quite
a fashion doyen, she 'correctly' pointed out that flares had been out of
fashion for a few years now, and why on earth did I get a psychedelic colour?
All the other girls in the group started laughing and as my friends joined in,
I wanted the earth to open and swallow me then and there. I was so deeply
embarrassed that I could not wait to get home, and out of those pants.
That was the last time I wore those trousers (they were eventually recycled
into even ghastlier shorts.)
As
easily as I was transported to pleasant memories, I got back to present reality
with a thud. Memories and nostalgia can bring a smile on your face, but as
often as not, can also make your toes curl up with the embarrassment one has
gone through.
No comments:
Post a Comment