by Nandini Rajagopalan
I spotted her on a fine, summer day and almost instantaneously, fell in love with her. The moment our eyes met, I knew that she was the one that I had been looking for. Calm, serene and clad in a sparkling pink evening gown, complimented by matching slippers, she was placed strategically on the upper rack of the toy store, at a comfortable distance, away from prying hands. Majestically perched on the wooden rack, she seemed to look down upon other mundane toys. There seemed to be a justified haughtiness, gleaming in her eyes. I didn’t mind. I wanted her. I stretched my hands, trying to reach her, and briefly hurled myself in the air, trying to catch hold of her; but I was unsuccessful. I tugged at my mother’s pallu, my index finger pointed in the direction of my new found love, covetousness written all over my face. My mother’s stern facial expression said it all; I wouldn’t get a Barbie. Tears welled up in my little eyes. I took one last look at her through my moist eyes and let a drop of tear roll past my cheek.
Life was never the same again. I looked at my old, ragged doll in contempt. She had been my faithful companion for as long as I could remember. I had spent many a fine evening dressing her up and taking her to tea parties. I would gently make her bed and tuck in the bed sheet to keep her warm and close her eyelids with my little fingers, singing a lullaby. I would hug her during rainy nights to keep her away from the cold winter breeze. I would wash her plastic golden hair and neatly tie a red bow on it. Yes, Mona had been the apple of my eye, but not anymore. I took one last look at her and threw her away under my bed. I didn’t need her anymore. I wanted my Barbie. And no other doll could take her place.
The next few months and probably years, saw me yearn for her. I shunned all other toys away. I braved the urge to grab a stray pillow on dark, lightning-lit nights. I refused to play with the neighbourhood kids. I chose to spend the day in solitary confinement. I punished myself this way hoping that my parents would pity my loneliness, finally relent and gift me a Barbie. But nothing could impress my mother. One sunny day, the doll was promised in return for my good behaviour and above average score in my final exams. I read every single chapter of my textbooks diligently and completed my homework in time, desperately trying to impress my parents. Though my academic records were noteworthy, a casual “daydreams in class”, at the bottom of my report card, had ruined it all for me. I would look at my neighbour’s Barbie in envy and silently mutter a curse. I would longingly look at every guest we entertained in the next couple of years, hoping that they would gift me a Barbie. However, they would be content with buying me a big bar of chocolate; something that I never cared about.
Middle school saw most girls abandon their faithful childhood companions. The toys that had been so dear to them now lay in an unwanted corner, gathering dust. Nail polishes, long telephone calls, slumber parties and late night movie sessions had taken precedence. Not for me though. I still wanted a Barbie. My parents laughed it away claiming that teen girls had no need for a lifeless doll. I simply smirked at their puerility. They surely didn’t know how much I loved her. Years rolled by, promises were made and broken and I was soon convinced that the doll would not see the light of the day. But deep down I knew that she would come to me. Hope never failed me. I patiently waited for my day to come.
Eighteen years have passed.
I trudge through the well-lit corridors of the supermarket looking for a set of color pencils for a friend’s daughter. All of a sudden, I spot a patch of pink. My eyes fall on the pink little doll that has always evaded me. I stop and lift her from the rack and stare at her. Enclosed in a plastic cage, she glistens. I gently pull her out from the box and hold her in my hands. I look at her bubble-gum pink gown decorated with shiny stars. A little crown adorns her tiny head and a wand is tightly clasped in her left hand. A chill runs through my spine. I can sense fulfilment. She has been the one that I have always coveted. She has been my dream from early childhood. She is the only thing that I had always wanted. And now, she lies in my hand, staring at the sky, urging me to befriend her. Without further ado, I put her in my shopping basket, triumph written large in my eyes. I now own a Barbie! I can now stitch pretty little clothes for her, spoil her with dainty, matching slippers, buy her a dressing table, host a kitty party for her and her other Barbie friends and even find a Ken for her! Excitement clouds my mind. I chuckle aloud, giving a wide smile to people around.
But the excitement is short-lived and I am left grappling with a strange predicament. I no longer belong to the innocent world of the young. I am an adult. I can no longer care about pretty pinks, frills or laces. I cannot play with dolls. I am not allowed to believe in the magical. I cannot read a fairy tale and lose myself in its fantasy. I cannot pick up colour pencils and randomly scribble over the walls of my house. I cannot litter the living room with lego blocks. I cannot build a makeshift house from my mother’s old saree and spend the night in it. I cannot fill plain water into a tiny tea cup and claim it to be a hot, steaming cup of tea. I cannot randomly burst into laughter on seeing Jerry outsmart Tom. I cannot hum my favourite nursery rhyme. I cannot lick the little melted blob of chocolate that is stuck to the wrapper. I cannot happily suck a bright, orange stick of candy ice cream and roam around the streets. I cannot look at my orange stained tongue and marvel at the magical powers of the candy. I cannot build castles of sand. I cannot play hop scotch. I cannot laugh until my eyes swell with tears.
I am an adult. I am to embrace practicality. I should love banality. I should shove innocence out of my front door. I need to do behave like a grown-up. I cannot be childish. I should refrain from experiencing ordinary things creatively. I should love routine. I should become boring.
I cannot play with toys.
Painstakingly, I lift my Barbie from the now empty shopping cart and place her back to where she belonged. I take one last look at her, longingly, and then find my way out of the children’s section.
Leaving behind a sea of innocence, happy times, silly games, slumber parties, cat-fights and ad-hoc afternoon tea sessions, I move on, silently cursing adulthood.
Nandini Rajagopalan is a quintessential software developer who is looking to showcase her creativity. She has an opinion about everything under the sun and she is also brave enough to express them. Her interests vary from cuddling cute bunnies to watching gory Tarantino flicks. Food is her second love; only after literature. She worships Oscar Wilde and his cynicism. She blogs at http://mangapachadi.wordpress.com/
