Rewind to a few years ago. Circa 2007. I was a lowly graduate student in New York City. Barely making ends meet. Living paycheck to paycheck. Had [...]]]> So remember how I’m like the king of awkward moments? Yep. The following is another similar embarrassing incident that will forever be etched in my wretched mind.

Rewind to a few years ago. Circa 2007. I was a lowly graduate student in New York City. Barely making ends meet. Living paycheck to paycheck. Had no more than $35 in my checking account. And the cardinal rule of graduate school is that you do not do laundry until absolutely necessary. And by absolute necessary I mean that until you completely run out of clean underwear. It was one such night. I had a job interview the next morning. And no clean clothes. At 11 in the night, I decide that it would be a good time to do laundry. So I grab my hamper and head down to the basement, drop it in the washer, come back in 30 minutes to put them in the dryer. As I’m dumping my soggy clothes into the dryer, through the corner of my eye I notice my neighbor starting her washer cycle. About half an hour later, I’m back in the basement to pick up my clothes. Neighbor lady is waiting for me to empty the lone dryer (it was a pre-war, rent-controlled building and cheapass landlord so 40 apartments had to share 2 washers and 1 dryer) so she can start her dryer cycle. And as luck would have it, my clothes aren’t completely dry. I mutter the classiest of swear words as I prepare to kick off another dryer cycle. Neighbor lady goes all sigh-ey and complains about how she had an early morning meeting and it was getting late. And the good samaritan that I am, I offer her to share the dryer with me. Lady jumps at the opportunity to save an hour of her time, drops her clothes with mine and leaves.

About half an hour later, we meet again in the basement. We separate our clothes and go our own ways. Later, when I’m folding my own clothes, I see that she left a bra behind in my pile. Now I could either trash it and let it be at that. But then I do know that bras don’t come cheap. But I really don’t want to be the one handing it over to her. Because, well, that would just be awkward. So what do I do? I decide to leave it on her door knob, ring the bell and vanish the fuck out of there before she opens the door. Pleased at my genius plan, I tiptoe over to her apartment (very conveniently, she happened to live right next door), and am about to leave the bra on the doorknob. And before I could get to doing that, her door opens, and neighbor girl stares at me with a judgey look in her eyes and her bra in my hand. Awkward with a capital A. Avoiding all eye contact, I hand over the goods and turn around and close the door to my apartment.

I avoided her like the plague for the remaining 6 months I lived in that building.

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.