Amor Fati

Author's Note: The following story has real-life elements, but still, mostly fiction. Enjoy, and constructive criticism is always welcome!

“ELEANOR!”

The trouble with attending the wedding of an old classmate was that one ran into other old classmates, Eleanor Button mused. She’d already dodged several so far. Perhaps she could pretend she hadn’t heard and make her escape?

“ELEANOR! It is you, isn’t it?”

The voice sounded older – fifty-something, not twenty-something –and regrettably it was close enough that a graceful escape would be impossible. “This is what comes of dilly-dallying over dessert, Eleanor Button,” said an inner voice, which sounded disagreeably like her Auntie Florence. “And what were you doing at the dessert table, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?”

Better the unknown voice than Auntie-Florence-In-Her-Head.

“ELEANOR!”

It – rather, she - was right behind her now. Eleanor turned, and was faced with –

“It’s Mrs Harefield! You were in my grade 12 English class, Eleanor… Don’t you remember me?”

How could anyone forget Old Harey? Swathed in multicoloured scarves, well-thumbed copy of War and Peace in her hand, Old Harey had established herself as the intellectual authority of Monsignor Ryan High School. She had taught English Literature and History, and considered herself an expert in the performing arts as well, which had led to many highly entertaining confrontations with the drama teacher, Mr Carton. Eleanor had been one of her favourite students.

“Of course, Mrs Harefield. How are you? Still teaching?”

“Oh wonderful, my dear… You know, I so enjoy working with young minds... They come to me as unformed masses of clay, and I give them definition!”

Eleanor supposed that any definition that happened to Old Harey’s pubescent charges was due to the uncomfortable process of growing up, but she kept that thought to herself.

“But of course you, Eleanor, were different! How you loved to read! If only your classmates had followed your example – but of course teenagers are teenagers, no matter how much you highlight a good path to follow, they insist on doing as they please!”

Eleanor barely suppressed a grimace. Old Harey had been assiduous in her highlighting of Eleanor’s good example.

“How many of you have done the reading? None? Eleanor, what about you? My dear, is that a twitch or a nod? God did not give us the gift of speech so that you could twitch, child. Now speak up, have you done the reading? Yes? Now why can’t the rest of you be like Eleanor?”

In hindsight, Eleanor knew she never really had a chance of being popular in high school. She’d always enjoyed being a geek too much to ever hide it. But there was still a small part of her that thought, “If only Harey would have shut up about what a paragon I was, perhaps more people would have liked me.” Given that this was the same part of her brain that thought tequila should be an integral part of a healthy diet, Eleanor tried her best to ignore the thought.

Old Harey was still speaking, “Nevertheless, so many of my former students are doing terribly well for themselves… Denver Choi appeared in an off-Broadway play last year, Jeremy O’Leary is doing something financial in New York, Sarah Black is a surgery resident…”

Eleanor was nonplussed. “But I haven’t seen any of them tonight?”

“Oh no, they’re not here… facebook, my dear! I mean, of course it’s deplorable, centuries of letter-writing tradition to be replaced with pokes and lols and what have you, but still, I can’t argue, it’s a remarkably effective way to keep in touch. Which reminds me, we must – what is the expression – friend each other as well! But my dear, I’m being stunningly rude. I haven’t asked about you at all! What are you doing?”

“Well, I temp mostly.”

Old Harey’s expression froze. “Temp? But – but, Eleanor, you went to Columbia!”

“I dropped out. I figured college was just a practice run for the bigger rat race, and I decided that’s not what I want to do with my life. So I temp here and there, and when I have enough money, I travel.”

Judging from Old Harey’s face, she’d have been less appalled if Eleanor had told her she made sculptures from elephant dung.

“My dear, you had so much potential…”

Eleanor didn’t quite know what to say to that, so she shrugged.

“Anyway, I’ll catch up with you later, child. Must circulate, you know!” Old Harey fled. Eleanor looked after her, looked down at her dyed satin wedding shoes and sighed.

Two months later, Eleanor had still not received a friend request from Old Harey. She could live with that.

Girl. City. Confused.

Things I have learnt after two weeks in Bangalore:

• Trying to find your way around a new city can be trying if you have no map, no clue re: the city layout ("Indiranagar? Gandhinagar? Stop confusing me!") and no grasp of the local language (though knowing Hindi helps.)
• The autos here are insane. Either they don't want to go where you want to go, or they want to charge you an exorbitant flat fee for their services ("Meter? What meter?")
• The buses are cheap and fairly frequent, except there's no such thing as a route map at bus stops. So unless you know the bus routes offhand, your best bet is to ask the bus driver, "Majestic?"
• Traffic is abysmal (though this is probably true of all of India's major metros.)
• You will not endear yourself to the locals by going, "You know, x is so much better in Bombay!" - even if it's true. :)
  

More to follow.

Silence at the dinner table is highly underrated.

Now Playing: Agnes Obel - Riverside

"Oh, she eats with her left hand?"

I'm used to getting that question from Indian aunties and uncles, usually in a disapproving voice, so when someone asked my mother that over dinner, I said, "yes, she does" in a tone of voice that most reasonable people might take as a sign to retreat.

"You know how you can fix that?"

"Uncle, I don't want to fix it!"

Mum intervened, "We never felt it was necessary to force her to use her right hand. What's the point, really?"

Uncle still didn't take the hint. "But you know, if you wanted to change, how to do it?"

I looked at Mum. Clearly Uncle was going to have his say, regardless of our feelings. "How?"

"You take a knife - oh don't worry, a very small one will do - and you cut the... what are they called, ligaments? tendons? Well whatever it is, you cut the ones on your left hand, and you'll wind up having to use your right hand by default! Ha!"

We stared.

Thankfully, there was no knife in the vicinity - very small or otherwise - or somebody would've gotten hurt real bad.

"Ma, they broke my hair!"

Now Playing: Ellie Goulding - Lights 

As a rule, curly hair is invariably appreciated more by those who are not burdened with it. 

People often ask me, "Is that your real hair?" "Oh no," I feel like replying, "this is just the result of a perm gone horribly wrong. But no need to worry! I'm suing the hairstylist responsible!"

Personally, I doubt anyone would put up with hair like mine - a higgledy-piggledy mess - unless they had to, or perhaps were paid handsomely to do so. I only put up with it because I'm too lazy to go through the bother of straightening it every other day, but most curly-haired people of my acquaintance have, as it were, crossed the Berlin Wall, leaving me to languish in East Berlin as Stasi agents watch my every move. A few months ago though, I was forcibly dragged into West Germany, not so much kicking and screaming as dazed and confused. 

The facts were these: I was minding my own business and wandering about Scarborough Town Centre, when suddenly I was accosted by a straightener-wielding female. 

"Do you have a minute to spare?" she asked. 

"Um, actually, I'm on my way somewhere - " 

"Not an issue, this will only take a minute! Have a seat, set your bag down here, did you have a nice day shopping?"

"Yes, but - wait, please don't undo my braid - "

At this point, her supervisor steps in, dripping hair gel and confidence, and launches into his patter: "You don't straighten your hair very often, do you? No, of course not. Do you own a straightener? You do? Wait, let me guess, it's probably a ConAir, right? Takes forever to use? Well, the new infrared straightener that my colleague is using on your hair - no, don't get up - is super fast, and won't burn your hair. Don't you get bored of your hair always having the same look? Of course, it's natural for women to want to look their best! And this product makes it so easy! It's only been seven minutes, and my assistant has straightened a good third of your hair! How long would it take to do the same thing with your old straightener? And it doesn't damage your hair. Super-fast and safe to use, and it only costs $200! So what do you think?"

"It's a brilliant job, but as I said, I never straighten my hair and I'm really not looking to buy a hair straightener today."

"Well. If that's what you want. Jane*, give the lady back her scrunchie. You have a nice day, now."

So, I have to make my way home with a chunk of my hair Avril Lavigne straight, and the rest the usual mess, providing, I am sure, ample conversation fodder for any or all of the people I pass on the way: "Oh. My God. Did you see her hair? Did she seriously leave the house with her hair only partially straightened? WHAT is wrong with her?"

I finally get home, wash the curl back into my hair, kick back and let it dry. Back to normal at last! Except... one lock of hair suddenly seems longer than the rest; which, what? I extricate it from the rest, and the reason becomes clear - while the rest of my straightened hair has gone back to ringlet-y curls, this laggard hank of hair is just wavy. 

Huh. Have I not rinsed my hair out right? Alright, I figure it'll be back to normal the next time I wash it - except, it isn't. That stubborn length of hair persists in its delusions of waviness for more than two weeks, during which time I look as though I've cut my hair myself and done a really sloppy job of it too. On the positive side, I've learnt a valuable lesson: NEVER let random vendors come near your hair with heated implements; no good can possibly arise thereof. 

So, as messy as curly hair generally is, I believe I've finally accustomed myself to it; having seen life on the other side of the wall, I'm happy to be back in East Berlin in my little Plattenbau flat, with my curly-wurly, higgledy-piggledy hair.

*not her real name

This Is Not The Sci-Fi You Are Looking For

My father and I were discussing Star Trek. As you do. 

Me: So you have The Original Series, right?
Dad: Right...
Me: And then you have The Next Generation.
Dad: ...
Me: The one with Patrick Stewart?
Dad: Right.
Me: And then you have Deep Space Nine, and then comes Voyager, and THEN you have Enterprise, which is set before TOS, so it's a prequel to all the other shows.
Dad: Then where does that other show fit in?
Me: Which other show?
Dad: You know, that show you used to watch?
Me: (thinking) What Sci-Fi show did I watch that my father knows I watched? He can't mean... (aloud) BATTLESTAR GALACTICA?!
Dad: Oh yeah, that one! Where does that fit in?
Me: They have nothing to do with one another! The two are set in completely different universes!
Dad: But they both have to do with galaxies or something...
Me: ... You are aware Star Trek and Star Wars are completely different too, right?
Dad: Oh, that I know.

I am convinced he thinks that all Sci-Fi that lacks lightsabers is automatically Star Trek.