I grew up in a city called Bombay in India. I went to an all boys school. And at age 12, I was a typical adolescent- rebelling against [...]]]> Last Friday, while discussing books with friends, I remembered this incident that happened when I was 12. And it brought back a torrent of painful memories.

I grew up in a city called Bombay in India. I went to an all boys school. And at age 12, I was a typical adolescent- rebelling against my mother, trying to fit in with the cool crowd, getting the jocks to like me (and by like me, I mean not beat me up during recess) and pick me in their cricket team (and by pick me, I mean have me as the non-playing substitute player) and struggling with polynomial factorization.

On the last day of school, my class teacher Ms. Myra Dias gave out a story book to every boy in the class. And the sweetheart that she is, she wrote a little personal note to every student. Now Ms. Dias was one of the coolest teachers I’ve ever had. She was young, fit and totally in sync with the psyche of a 12 year old. She was one of us- one of the guys! Everyone loved her. She was tough when she needed to be but also knew how to have a good time. So naturally, it was a rather big deal to everyone in the class what she wrote in the note and what book we got. These books were abridged versions of some of the most noted classics in English literature. Now, even though I’m no expert on classic literature, I badly wanted to get a “cool” book. And by cool I mean a book that atleast 3 boys had heard of or even pretended to know about. There were rumors of some guys in the class getting copies of David Copperfield, The Count of Monte Christo and Oliver Twist, and I’m wishing and hoping that I was one of them. I have no idea who David Copperfield is or who wrote it or why Oliver Twist is such a famous book, but they all sounded just so badass. I was also at that precarious age where boys went all ewww at the sight of girls and “having a girlfriend” was actually an insult. Yep, true story.

But no. Even at that tender age, fate plays a cruel game with me. And when my turn comes, I open my packet and stare blankly at the cover of Little Women.

SP (playing with KB’s fingers, checks out the shiny solitaire on her right hand): Kuki fai, why are you [...]]]> Last week, my buddy KB and I took a spontaneous trip down to San Francisco. The following conversation took place between KB and her 6 year old niece SP, as we drove around downtown Fremont.

SP (playing with KB’s fingers, checks out the shiny solitaire on her right hand): Kuki fai, why are you wearing a ring? Are you married?

KB (trying to mess with the kid, she indulges): Yes!

SP (her gorgeous dark eyes lighting up): Then why don’t you have a baby?

KB: Uh.. umm!? WTH!?

Turns to me and whispers, “I did not see that coming!”