A soap opera

This column is a particularly sentimental and sloppy post, so any unruffled reader is earnestly requested to refrain from sneering and casting nasty remarks. Eccentricity shall hopefully prevail tomorrow and this particularly vulnerable moment will pass. With a flourish of my hat (adorned with a pink feather), I invite all the brave ones to continue reading.


Well, I had a fight with my mum and dad today. They’re really grumpy now (which, as regulars will know, is pretty normal). The troubling bit is that I’m grumpy too which makes the fight kind of pointless because my spectacular tantrums are generally the residue of a particularly ugly quarrel with my friends(s). So when all the annoyance finally reaches boiling point – I explode – with really magnificent results. Then, regret manifests itself and I’m left mumbling apologies to my glaring mum. Pathetic.
Today’s ritual had its raggedy origins in the universal irritant i.e. my studying or rather, lack of it. After the shouting had subsided (a source of amusement for our highly fascinated neighbors, rivaling any weepy soap on television), I banged my door shut with a deafening thump. My mum responded by turning up the television volume and subsequently torturing me with the miserable dialogues. Ah well, she’s had her revenge.
And so, as I bang away on my keyboard (occasionally swearing when the keys get stuck), the waves of remorse are already washing away my self righteous anger and sense suddenly dawns with dazzling radiance. So poof! All my pretended dignity vanishes in a flash. I’m back to mumbling apologies. My mum gives a long-suffering sigh and returns to stuffing something that looks horribly like brinjals back into the fridge, brandishing them like a sword to wave me away. I take that for forgiveness and trot away. Mission successful.
And yeah, this ceremony (dreadfully familiar to all teens suffering the agonies of tenth) will persist for the months to come. And maybe, a day will dawn when I’m NOT at fault. When my mum comes up to me, hugs me and says ‘I’m so sorry sweetheart’. No shrieks about my tee stinking. Perhaps only a withering look at my flyaway hair. And an enormous smack on the cheek thrown in. Boy, I’d enjoy that.
Castles in the air, some would say. An impossible dream. An unattainable delusion. Well, I respond to all the sniggering skeptics, ‘every geek has her day’. Bill Gates had his when he contemplated Microsoft. Apple had theirs when the iPod revolution was launched. My flabbergasted teacher had hers the day she managed to shout me down in class. Oh well, I’m patient. Are you listening, God?

Woe Petite!

When you think Lord of the Rings, you think of Peter Jackson, the ultimate master of direction. You think of the incredible hi-tech graphic-artists (or whatever they’re called) who created Gollum. You think (inevitably!) of Orlando Bloom, the amazingly brave elf Legolas something-leafy (is there gal out there who’s NOT blushing?).
And of course, you think of Elijah Wood.
The hobbit.
The SHORT hobbit.
Now I’m not some loony who’s gabbing away to glory.
Maybe at this point I should mention that I’m a diminutive person with an ENORMOUS personality.
Midget, I believe, is the appropriate word (though petite is the one which meets favor!)

• AND I’ve spent fourteen miserable years with people telling me “but you’re so short!”
• And missing out on ALL the awesome-est roller coaster rides because I wasn’t tall enough.
• And meeting teachers with politely incredulous expressions on their faces while enquiring ‘oh, are you in my class?’
• And standing forlorn faced in front of all lines (and getting caught because my shoes weren’t polished to perfection while my taller and infinitely more menacing classmates got away) *enormously long-suffering sigh*
• And being ridiculed by the school elite (read rich, spoilt and *unfortunately* TALL kids).
• And having to scamper over to the children’s section every time my mum decided that my jeans was FINALLY worn out enough (after three years of brutal experimentation with scissors, blades and knives) of to be gifted to our maid.
• And hoping, every time, that my highly intimidating PT teacher wouldn’t notice that I was sneaking out of gym class.
  So I coined an acronym. I wasn’t short.
  I was a Spectacularly Hare-brained and Obdurate (don’t run to your dictionaries- it means stubborn) ever-Ravenous Thing (giggles strictly forbidden!), a creation, which as unfortunate acquaintances will hasten to assure you, suits me to perfection.
  Friends, of course, will say that I’m something much worse.
  Point I’m trying to make is, short DEFINITELY doesn’t mean little.
  It means short - that’s it.
  It DOESN’T mean that I’m an geeky nerd with enormous glasses and skinny knees (umm...maybe not PERFECTLY true) *cheeky grin*
• It doesn’t mean that I’m an invisible person who doesn’t command a farthing of interest.
• It doesn’t mean that just because I’m SHORT, the world won’t stand up and take notice.
  

Through history, pages are littered with numerous names of short people who made a difference. Let’s rewind to the Joan of Arc. Yup, the French peasant girl who led France through the Hundred Years war AND the one constantly invoked by politicians and eager-to-grab-attention bureaucrats. How tall (or rather short) did she stand? A tiny 4'11".

But still, all teens suffering the agony of school (like yours truly) have to (with plenty of groans and mutterings) learn a highly comprehensive account of all the great stuff she did.

• So, I may have to always be curtly informed by astonished teachers that no, I definitely cannot sit with miss-long-and-slender on the back bench.
• I may always have to get all my clothes altered because I REFUSE to wear kiddie tees with ‘Pokemon’ emblazoned across them.
  But, I always get to say (casting a malevolent grin at the unfortunate recipient) “excuse me; I’m short can I please stand in the front?” when I visit shows and parades.
  I get away with paying loads less than what my unfortunately tall friends have to shell out when we visit amusement parks.
  A mini doesn’t look all that short on me because I don’t have enough leg.
  Boy, I’m learning to love being short.
  Because that’s the way I am.
  No regrets there.
  
  P.S. So here’s a particularly raggedy boot in the face to the next loony who dares to sneer at the short populace of the world. Cheers!