Neon blue bags, best friends, water-bottles and shades of pista green

Last night when I lay on my bed, in between all the unwarranted tossing and turning, I thought of the many firsts of my life.

They accuse me of an exceptional memory. I just bend my knees and do a lady-like bow, honoured by the accusation. Although, I must admit, my memory mostly sticks to things of irrefutable triviality. That’s, obviously*, besides the point.

I remember the colour of my first bag, a neon blue with black piping. They’ve stopped making fun colours like that, any more. All you find is a dull grey or a boring beige. No wonder, kids detest going to school these days. If I was made to go to school in beige/black/brown/grey, I would have surely put up a fight. Of course, parents always have the upper hand, at least till you believe in Santa Claus and tooth fairies.

I remember the first time my mom had solid proof of my anti-social behaviour to show to my dad, who thought I was his, very own chubby, bundle of innocence. I remember throwing the bags and water bottles of all my classmates out of the second floor window, only because my first best friend didn’t share a secret with me. How did I know it was a secret? Well, I saw her whispering something into some other not-so-best-friend’s ears. Hell hath no fury like a four year old scorned. But I guess, the other four-year-olds were not to know this and they went ahead and in their ignorance of the gravity defying fact, chose to piss me, me, a co-four-year-old, off (melodramatic nodding of the head).

I remember the long list of best friends I’ve had since.

I remember the first day in all the four-schools I went to. No, I wasn’t thrown out. I had to move owing to my mother’s transferable job don’t you go around raising your brows missy, I am not lying. It’s a weekday, don’t ya see?

I remember pouring the glass of milk into a big steel container and then calling my brother with an astonished look on my 7-year old face, “Cheta, see see…the water turned white….like that only…. :O”. The first thing he did was tell me how my happiness is royally screwed for the day, for as soon as mum came, he was going to tell her. I thought he knew magic, else how would he know what’ I’d done to my glass of milk.

Nowadays, what irritates my close ones is the painful detailing I get into while describing a shade of green, that particular shade of green, not grass green, but frosted pista green. Most of the times, I pretend to ignore the rolling pair of eyes. Divya, child / woman/ monster**, it’s ok if you do not remember the exact height of the pup you saw, now that we know the exact shade of it’s eyes and the number of times it wags it’s tail in 1 minute.

I’m sure they are just jealous. I’m sure they secretly wish that they’d also remember stuff….utterly worthless load of scrap (er, it wouldn’t be called scrap otherwise, eh?!), still!

*For the simple reason that, being the protagonist, nothing I do/did can be trivial.

** Depends on the heights of irritability that they’ve reached.