Story behind the piercings and the tattoo: Part-I

So this is in response to Mr. DJ who once asked me, “What is it with you and pain? You like pain?”

And that was when I was going on about the multiple piercings and tattoo that I have on myself. Ten piercings, and one tattoo. Very proud of them too. At that time I gave him some fangled funda (have still not found a proper English equivalent for this word, guess I never will) about how it makes me feel powerful, in a weird way, maybe because it made me conquer fear of pain. I still say I have a higher pain threshold. And maybe it has also got to do with how I feel “unique” to have been where very few people have gone.

Just the other day, while trying to force open a clogged piercing (you don’t want to know details, believe me) with a mirror pressed between my knees, eyes stinging from tears of pain, it suddenly struck me as funny; all the ceremony surrounding my first ear piercing at the tender age of five. My sister was eleven. The brave-heart that she was, she pushed me forward to get it done with first, while “Compounder Uncle” sat with his sterilized needle ready. And this is the part where the story gets funny enough to be repeated over family dinners, for life. Seeing me getting my ears pierced my sister actually passed out, coming to sense a minute later to the horrific realization that she would have to go through the same process and that no, it didn’t magically happen on its own while she was passed out.

I should have sensed the direction of the winds, around that time when I got bit by our pet puppy on the knee, and had to be given six injections. The nurse (Kalpita Mahi, I still remember) had remarked to my mother that I was the only six year old kid she had met, who wouldn’t cry at the mere sight of injections, leave alone at having to take them. I would actually keep looking at my arm to see how the needle went inside the skin. And until a few years back, I’d had a lunch box that she’d gifted me on my birthday way back then, as proof that I was a brave kid.

But it is not about bravery. I think more often than not, in my case, it is about being whimsical, and about the thrill of “something new”. Cut to the year 2005, when I was in Guwahati for my graduation, in my first year as a Physics Honors student. So on the day we had our internal assessment for laboratory work, while on my way to college in the bus, I saw a woman who had two piercings in each of her ears. It’s not like I was seeing two piercings for the first time, but I admit back then it was not that common. Something about that lady stuck to me all throughout the morning, and so, after coming out from college after a crappy exam, having been yelled at by the teacher, I decided I had to do something to make my mood better. In retrospection, an insane amount of chocolate or even a good lunch might have done the trick as well, but my mind was stuck on a second piercing. Consumed by that thought, once I reached my Uncle’s place I didn’t talk much for fear of letting the idea slip out of my mouth by mistake, and extremely determined, walked out to the nearest beauty salon.

Before I go ahead, you have to understand this that my upbringing, though never conservative, was always traditional. And there was no place for the superfluous and the frivolous. Make-up for one, or even an extra dress, fell in the category of the unnecessary. And as I sat there in the salon, with one little black dot on each ear marking the spot for the piercings, I remember having a thousand “second” thoughts. That, and the fact that the moment I mentioned I was there for the piercings the ladies there actually smirked at me. Smirked. The lady brandishing the gun (ooh, doesn’t that sound dangerous!) for the piercing kept giggling so hard I was scared she’d miss my ears. But then. Two stapler-like shots, and I was done. Through with my first ever rebellious act.

I again wonder if the next six piercings would have happened had my Mom acted like a drama queen over my piercing. But quite an anti-climax it was; my Mom’s reaction to the piercings. Here I was, thinking I was being the rebel, rebelling against a crappy exam system, crossing a line, and all my Mom said was “Ugh. Why?” Not quite what I’d expected.

But after a few weeks the novelty wore off. And in a matter of months one of the piercings got blocked by itself. My rebel-act covered itself up.

On twenty years of loving “The Archies”

Prelude: My relationship with The Archies began when I was all of four, and till date I have no idea how those torn battered copies of The Archie comics happened to be at our place. Just like I have no idea as to how many times those three-four copies were read and re-read over the years till I had my first set of four brand new Archie comics when I was, well, twenty. At least those didn’t have cousins’ names scribbled all over the pages, and the puzzles already solved (In pen, too! And not in pencil so I could erase them and work them out all over again).

I guess the first time Archibald Andrews, or Archie, as we have it, made his presence felt in my life, was when I was in kindergarten and down with measles. For some strange reason, I had this aversion to getting myself washed and scrubbed during that time. I have a vague notion it must have been because it hurt like hell when Mom would take my chin between her hand and start rubbing my face vigorously. To work this out, my eldest cousin (the one who I mentioned in this post, the one who’s my hero even now) would shove a picture of the freckled Archie at my face, and yell at me, “You wanna look like him, with scars like his on your face? No? Then stop screaming and let me wash you up!” And I would take one look at those freckles (of course it wasn’t until years later that I got to know they are called freckles) and submit myself to him. I think I owe him, and Archie, one for life for this one. Courtesy them I escaped with just one poke mark on my left eyelid, and a faint mark on my forehead.

And so for years I carried those torn pages in my memory having learnt them by heart without even having to try, until one fateful summer I could not find those comics at our place anymore. Consoling myself by saying that I had finally outgrown them, I stopped giving much thought to those anyway. Cut to 2006, when I was in Guwahati pursuing my graduation, and lucky enough to be there for the National Book Fair that’s held every year. Although my meager budget didn’t stretch enough to buy me books I would visit the fair everyday (entrance was free for students with I-cards anyway) just to roam around the stalls, and feel the warmth each time I saw a familiar book peeking at me from the makeshift shelves. And then I would come out with a light bag in stark contrast to a heavy heart. Minus books, of course. Until it was the last day of the fair, and heavy discounts were being advertised on each stall. It was also the most crowded day, and D (he’d gone with me that day) had to almost steer me like a wheel just so I would not get lost in the crowd. Well, what followed I would always remember. It was a tiny stall in the last but one row (which meant it was pretty low in the hierarchy; the best shops were the ones with their stalls in the first row and so on), and not that crowded. Which was the only reason we got into it. And then my eyes fell on those four insanely thin Archie Digests (those were the only ones in the whole fair; amazing, but true) I almost bit my lip when the salesman casually said they were 75 bucks each (normally without discount, they cost 85), torn between wanting to buy them all, and having to choose one from them because I didn’t have the money. So my angel in human form came to my rescue, and D bought me all of them. They still have, “For the twenty year old kid who would have burst into tears had I not got her these” scribbled on the covers, but at least they also have my name on them. Well, maybe that was how much I had loved The Archies through all the years. I cherished them so much I wouldn’t go anywhere without carrying one of them along with me. Even though the well-thumbed pages were imprinted on my brain owing to an obscene amount of perusal.

So, two years later when I was trying to pursue my post-graduation (M.Sc Electronics) from Gauhati University, I had spent three hundred bucks on a book which had several blank pages and hence had to be returned. Without a cash refund. I had to make do with a tiny slip, which had 300/- written on it, with the seal of the shop. And I would visit every weekend to see if the book I had wanted (which was on Solid State Electronics, if you must know) had arrived, each time to be sent back with the promise that it would “definitely, sure shot” be available next week. This went on for about a month, by which time I had given up hope on both the book, as well as the course itself. Having decided to pack my bags and come back home to take a forced year long vacation, I went to the shop for the last time, demanding I get my moolah back. The salesman shook his head and said they wouldn’t give me back my money, but they would give me books worth that amount. And I had the whole line of shops to choose my books from. Back to having to choose again (why couldn’t I just buy the whole shop, sigh!) I went off to the best shop in that area, known for its updated stock of the latest bestsellers (people familiar with Guwahati would recognise Western Book Depot). And I craned my neck for half an hour trying to read titles of books from the shelves. Sidney Sheldon’s. Jeffrey Archer’s. More of my favorite Princess Diaries series. The few Erich Segals I hadn’t read. Three of R.K. Narayan’s I had been meaning to read for a long time. Ooooh! My own copy of “The Da Vinci Code”. So what did I end up buying? Three “Double Digest” Archie comics. A crazy hundred bucks each. And I guarantee a happier girl didn’t roam the streets of Panbazaar that day.

Being back to Tezpur didn’t help much in my love affair with The Archie comics. Afterall, I have discovered the joys that lie in flipkart and a debit card fairly recently. Even now though, each time I am in an airport I find myself being drawn to the book store like bee to honey. Maybe it’s just the smell of new books that does to me. And the prospect of finding an Archie comic book. I still find it amazing that out of all the books I have in my book shelf, the ones that I am the most reluctant to lend out are the ones I should have donated to younger cousins years ago. Which include those scanty number of Archie comic books that take place of honor in my study table. Invariably.

I somehow did not have the affinity towards the more popular Indian Tinkle Digest and neither did I find much pleasure in reading Pran’s Chacha Chaudhury comics. I am not being a snob here, believe me I am not. But my taste was attuned to Pop Tate’s and Riverdale High School right since the time I had just started learning to read. I knew what a hamburger looked like before I even knew what a pau bhaaji looked like. That I thought Hot Dog was just a weird name of Jughead’s dog and Jelly Beans Jughead’s sister’s, and it took me years to figure out the humor underlying these names, is a different thing altogether. Although a few things I knew even then: