About me

1) Here’s an excerpt from my sales pitch or positioning statement seven years ago

“Girl English Copy Writer looking for work. Blah blah blah (Tedious career history). Resigned 30^th August 2002. Interesting story there. Can produce authentic resignation letter and acceptance. Personality slightly neurotic, predominantly sweet with aggressive top notes. Has unruly lovely curly hair, hairdressers exclaim over. At least one person has said eyes are mesmerizing. Stands 5 4” in modest heels. Weight 115 lb or less. Due to decorum vital statistics not given. Will wear suggestive dress for interview.

Hopes to get called for appointment to show portfolio.

P.S. - Please call. Credit card statements arriving regularly.”

2) Seven years down the line, hairdressers still exclaim, still 5 2” in bare feet, only the weight is different. It’s only 107lb now which is fine by me since outgrowing the ridiculous notion that South Indian type hips are attractive.

3) I think that excerpt is very psychologically telling and the things it’s telling aren’t very encouraging

4) I think a streak of pure bullshit and a sincere, courageous gallant streak exist side by side in my nature. Which streak becomes dominant at any given moment is not always under my control, but I have an idea that if I stick to a very disciplined regime every day, run every morning, don’t daydream, stick to my time table, etc I can keep the bullshit streak repressed. When I was little my mother did her best to shout down the bullshit streak; really xxxxx (the name she calls me) I am sick and tired of your nonsense, xxxxx, I don’t want to see any of your nonsense when we go to that function/visit relations/have visitors, xxxxx, I have enough work without having to deal with your nonsense. Words to that effect.

Even today when I feel the bs streak trying to surface I shout at it in my mother’s voice.

Talking of psychology I have a confession to make. I cannot read through the symptoms of most neurotic deceases without some of it sounding very very familiar.

This for example;

Research suggests that people with AvPD, in common with social phobics, excessively monitor their own internal reactions when they are involved in social interaction. However, unlike social phobics they also excessively monitor the reactions of the people with whom they are interacting.

Or this;

They often feel a sense of extreme entitlement

That is if you please the key word to my personality, the driving force, as it were; a sense of extreme entitlement.

The first man to look upon my naked virgin breasts and compliment them was....

Professor Colvin Guneratne. The chain of events that led to my standing naked above the waist in front of that suave, sophisticated, straight talking, famous and sometimes scratchy man started with puberty. Mine not his.

Here, Watson let us examine this strange woman whose seeds of strangeness started sprouting from puberty onwards. I am in a dilemma here folks because I don’t want to call myself strange online. This blog does seem to enjoy some little traffic. Mainly because I direct people here in a shameless bid to toot my own horn. Calling oneself strange is not considered the done thing in certain circles. But Watson how else can we explain this thing. Here we have a girl entering puberty and sprouting breasts. And resenting it! Because they make her feel unsafe and threatened. They spoil her pre pubertal pristine silhouette, attract unwelcome attention and unwelcome restrictions. The attention of adults, the bad sort.

I remember after a bath walking from the well towards the gate in wet knickers and nothing else. And a rug seller was walking along the road and he gave me this hot scalding smoldering once over. This thin kid of 12 or so with just sprouting breast buds. And why was a 12 year kid in the early stages of breast development walking around in knickers you might ask. Because the kid in addition to resenting the breast development is also in denial about it. Covering up would be an admission, an acknowledgment of breasts. So she does not. May be if she pretends they are not there…. they might go away. I remember my last uncomplicatedly happy April. Was in my 13th year. The last year that I could get away with being one of the boys with my brother and cousin brother. The last year of total kid freedom. Next year I would be told not to accompany them to the paddy fields to fly kites because there would be jd types about. My last year of being totally comfortable with my family members in public places without feeling unpleasantly singled out and creepily special because of all the male stares directed at me. And all this was without the complication of breasts! From my 12th year to about 18th year I could still pretend in certain clothing that I was flat chested. I remember looking at my fully endowed mates and thinking what hell their life must be. Having to carry that conspicuous luggage around.

When I was 15 to make matters worse this creepy crawly male life form developed a thing for me. He wasn’t even going to school at the time, was short, wasn’t at all the kind of male qualified to frequent my fantasies and yet he dared to cast his eyes at me. Actually gave me a letter all wrapped in brown paper via a friend of his. I received this packet when I was in the act of getting down from the bus. Tore the brown paper. Saw red flowers and hearts drawn with a red pen. Dropped it in the bus halt like a radio active titanium rod and forgot about it.

Next thing I hear the whole neighborhood is buzzing about our affair (how my skin crawls even now to use the word ‘our’), the short creep is routinely following in his bike the bus I take to the tuition class, I see him with depressing frequency in my haunts, my mother is interrogating me, my brother is teasing me, my friend’s mother is advising me, my friends are telling me stories of how they heard the creep had vowed to lift me. All this without one word being passed between the creep and me. Can you believe it? I remember a nightmare I had shortly after hearing this ‘lifting’ story. In it I was being lifted, carried by a friend of his. And this was a nightmare. There was nothing sexual about it although being carried by a man, had always had deeply sexual connotations for me on account of witnessing when very young my father carrying my mother. I think it was a kind of foreplay act for them and they did it in front of us kids because they thought we wouldn’t be aware. And there was another nightmare spawned by this lifting talk. In it my legs would be covered in some thick wart like gray skin. The real skin would be under this covering and extremely itchy. But no matter how hard I would scratch the warty gray second skin I would feel nothing and the itch would remain. It was very fortunate that I didn’t have any obvious assets back then because if I had I would have felt like cutting them off. The presence of assets would have made me feel worse as if I was inciting the creep in some way.

Then in my 18th year there came this point of no return when I could no longer pretend even in my school uniform that I was flat chested. At 19 it was worse. Uniform had been bad but T shirts made it worse. Not for nothing do they have wet t-shirt contests. To make matters worse Watson the girl is still not wearing any bras. Because she is still in denial. To wear bras, to be seen to be wearing bras, to go to mother and ask to be bought bras would be an admission, an acknowledgment of the existence of breasts. If she pretends they do not exist they would go away? Perhaps not. But at least she would be part of a manufactured set of reality where breasts don’t exist because they are unacknowledged.

However going bra less presents serious mobility issues. Not at all conducive to comfortable, smooth streamlined movement. So the girl wondered. Could a bra actually help? Would it have a reducing effect too as well as a restrictive effect? The girl decided to experiment. Only rather than telling mother she just decides to embezzle some funds and buy it on her own.

The girl tries it on and wears a t shirt over that and it is a disaster. The effect is totally Pamela Anderson. A little explanation here Watson. Getting a bit above herself this girl. No way could she have looked like Pamela Anderson. It is a genetic impossibility. That fabled 19 year old bust can’t have been more than a 34 B at the most. Here we have a girl whose body perception is way out of touch with reality.

So now what. The bra doesn’t help? Maybe if she pinned it up real tighter? Would she be able to do with her breasts what the Chinese did with their feet? Real tight like with about a ten pins? Faint inducing, rib crushing, permanent welt forming tight? How about that folks will that work? What I remember about this period and it lasted around two years, is the pain of having to sit long hours in the classes enduring the pain and the suppurating cut marks and the welts. And finally the gradually easing pain as the bust shrank gradually. And at the end of those two years, eureka! a totally acceptable non threatening bust. Then gradually awakening to the knowledge of the terrible achievement, the remorse, the yearning for the lost fullness, the depression and then pinning hopes on hormones or even plastic surgery. And that was how I ended up in front of the Prof naked to the waist.

I told him the tale. A likely tale he must have thought. As you must too. But it really happened I swear. It made my bust go down one or two sizes. From around 34 B to 32B. Or was it from 36 to 32? I will never be sure. I have to believe it’s the former and not the later. Makes it easier to sleep at night.
Anyway to get back to the main scene. Me bare breasted in front of Prof Colvin Gunaratne and telling him “But Sir my breasts used to be pretty” and he coming right back at me “And they are still pretty”
“No Sir, they are not” “Have you seen breasts of other females?” “ No Sir” “I have seen thousands and I am saying they are pretty”. End of story. The girl goes home. She will play with her silicon ideas and hormones ideas a little bit longer. But it has ended right there. In Colvin Guneratne’s room”. With those words “I have seen thousands of women… And they are pretty”.

Honestly Sir had you even expressed a desire to be called Hamu or My Lord I would have obliged

I am sorry if I caused you offense by my behavior. I want to assure you that, I really meant you no disrespect and was fully aware of your professional stature, from day one. If I gave you the impression; that I was ignorant of it and that my behavior stemmed from that ignorance, my apologies. At the same time, I wonder if I may try to place the whole thing in its proper context.

As I understand it, my first protocol faux pas was calling you by your first name. This was because I had the impression that Zest Biscuits Sales and Marketing division was a first names office. Sorry if I was wrong. Even if it is a first names office I normally stop short of using first names when it is a case of approaching senior citizenship status. That did not seem to apply to you. In fact Vic once told us ‘Roger is young’. I suppose I could have called you Mr. Roger. But it would have been the wrong etiquette. Mr. Janus frankly seemed too…. stiffly formal .

My second protocol related faux pas it seems, was passing you the story board to look at and asking you to cue me on what the voice over says;

"Roger could you read out what the voice over says?”

At the time, this seemed to me to be a perfectly acceptable bit of interactive presenting. If this seemed to be an offensive breach of protocol; I am sorry.

All I can say in my defense is that; my notions of protocol were formed or warped (depending on how you look at it) by the profession I am in ; advertising. Starting ten years ago as a Trainee at AlfredHarry Co. and doing time in six agencies before coming to Sanctuary this April, my notions of protocol were formed and defined at ad agencies. When one has practically grown up in a setting where relaxed protocol is a way of life one tends to adopt certain behaviors and mannerisms. Wouldn’t you agree? For example, I have worked with creative directors, who wouldn’t take their feet off the table even when the MD comes visiting, and I have also worked with creative directors who stood to attention when talking to the MD.

I started off thinking that the former were heroes and the later were suckers. Then again as time passed, I learned to see such loud and overt displays of nonchalance, as signs of insecurity and set my protocol meter at some point midway between these two extremes. All these inroads into my biography must be boring you, but my intention is to explain.

Another reason for this mail is to clearly communicate three vital issues, which I tried but failed to convey to you due to my lack of diplomatic finesse.

• You told us, not to try to short circuit the proper channels of approval, in place in your organization. This was so; far far far from being our policy, that I simply couldn’t help speaking up at that time. Nobody in our team ever tried to short circuit the process. In fact we simply wouldn’t even know how to short circuit the proper channels, even if we wanted to do that. And we do not; most definitely; want to short circuit. To us Vic and Brett, your marketing managers are the client. We always have gone through them. We have never felt any urge to short circuit or circumvent them because they are the ideal clients. In fact, they are a throw back to the clients that used to exist, in the long past, golden age of advertising. Clients, who were prepared to roll back their sleeves and get down to business with the agency team. Clients, who do not entertain the mistaken belief, that a client’s involvement with the agency team is limited to two points; the briefing and the presentation. Clients, who share the belief laid out in the most basic advertising book, that for good ideas to emerge the agency and the client have to exist in each others pockets. In fact, it was due to your marketing managers’ commitment and willingness to get involved in every phase of the ideation process, that the whole Zingers campaign went swimmingly and also the Raspberry campaign. So when you said words to the effect “ my marketing managers know better than you. They have better concepts than you” my jaw literally dropped from amazement. Whoever suggested that they weren’t? Of course they are, and thank God for them. If you have somehow got the impression, that we had any complaints against your marketing managers that is wrong; so totally wrong.

• Then you accused me/the team; of putting a family in the Lean Zingers commercial and wasting your time, when it should have been perfectly obvious to us, that the primary target group was the 30 + adults. But my dear Sir, the idea of using the family, was totally cleared with, approved by and endorsed by Vic beforehand. I am sure Vic will bear me out.

• Then Sir, you made it clear that you don’t want me to keep pushing. Once you have spoken, that’s it. You are right Sir, I accept I am a very pushy person. But once you get to know me, I am not such a bad person. I merely believe in free and frank discourse between people to resolve issues. In fact Sir, if you have the time and the inclination (And I am fully prepared to concede that you would have neither) to get an idea about the real me; visit this blog “indi.ca” and search for ‘six questions for tamils’ page and you will see the comments of a blogger called ratnawalli That is me. And you will see the discourse currently being carried out between ratnawalli and nayagan. Nayagan is a member of the Tamil Diaspora. And you may see how healthy, how illuminating and how refreshing discussion can be. If you click on the name ratnawalli, you can go to my blog and you can really see, the essential me. But of course you would not have the time or the inclination and that’s fine.

But my point Sir is if a member of the Tamil Diaspora based thousands of miles away can enter into a dialog with a Sinhalese and build an endearing forum, why can’t we, Sanctuary and Zest (who according to our Chairman are practically family members) discuss things without offending each other? We can Sir. We really can. I will do my part and I hope you will be kind enough to give us a helping hand.

Once more I am sorry, if I have offended and hope you will see me as I really am.

Yours Sincerely

ratnawalli

Dear Rohan

When you look back on your love life what do you see? A series of women who said no to you and kept on saying no until they got so revolted that they had to remove themselves from your presence or until your frustration grew so much that you had to remove them from your presence in revenge.
And yet there are men who can make women into slaves for life with just a simple glance from their eyes. How come you are not one of these men? How come your heavy handed bird hunting technique fails when those men actually have to live their life fighting off interested females?
When some men touch women those women start frothing at the mouth and ask for more. The touch of such men can transform a woman’s life, motivate her, and galvanize her. She can live on that thrill for months without food. But how come when you touch women they run a mile? Why do they class your touch firmly with the touch of the common cockroach?
Why? Why? Why? Is it BO? Halitosis? Or just the wrong chemical composition of your pheromones?
The world is divided into two categories of men; those who can make it with any woman of their choice and those who can’t. JFK, Clinton, Gamini Fonseka and countless non famous men (peons and laborers among them) belong to the first category. It must come as quite a shock to realize that good old R. Fernando belongs only to the second category.
But dear fellow do not try so hard. Success with women is a bit like achieving orgasm. The harder you try the further away it moves. The trick is to take it easy. Women are like fine tuned violins. The true maestro plays them with the lightest of touches. Only pathetic, desperate amateurs use the chainsaw arm on them. Better luck next time. Hmmm…?

Dear Kalpa

Dear Kalpa

I thought of writing this because on the two days I came to see you I couldn't help noticing that you kept dropping hints about what you have heard about me, the things people are saying about me. You said with what you know you could have destroyed and you said you know exactly who I am but you are never going to reveal because you respect women. I assume by all these you mean things about my personal life that you have learned or think you have learned. As you say you have kept your distance so obviously we don't have the kind of relationship where we sit down and discuss each other's personal life. So I am puzzled as to why you keep referring to my personal life via hints. Shouldn't my personal life be a no discussion no interest no entrance zone to you?

Don't get me wrong. I am not offended only puzzled. Usually it is only lifetime members of a select club which I call the losers' club who go around talking about, investigating and taking an interest in my personal life. I naturally get offended by the attentions of the members of the losers' club. It's like finding cockroaches crawling all over your meal. But obviously you are not a member. You are this dynamic, happening person who is my ex boss and naturally I am flattered that you took time off your demanding schedule to investigate the intimate side of my life. Also unlike the losers' club members' opinion your good opinion is important to me. So when you seem to suggest by your hints that my personal life is some thing negative, something to be ashamed of I am a bit puzzled about what to do.


If we had been on personal life discussing terms with each other and if we had a mutual interest in each others personal lives I could have happily given you a blow by blow commentary on my personal life, explained the motivations, admitted the mistakes, corrected the incorrect bits and said yes this is me this is my life this is my philosophy good, bad, sad these are my memories take it or leave it. But obviously we don't have this kind of relationship and I can't do this. All I can do is to make a general statement. I have lived my personal life according to my own rules. They are fair and honest rules. It has been a colourful and happening personal life. Not as colourful and happening as Kate Moss's, Elizabeth Taylor's and those kind of people's but in my own way. This is what has made me me. So I stand by it. Far from being ashamed of it I am modestly proud of it. Although the losers' club lack the intelligence, sophistication and the cultural background to understand this I hope you will.

I remember when I said "You don't know who I am Kalpa" you said "Believe me Darshanie I know but I am never going to reveal because I respect women" This dialog is so happening. It belongs in one of those Indian daytime soap operas. But seriously Kalpa if you start going around revealing who I am I will only be honored and flattered. I mean some ex employers will pretend to have forgotten your name even. To have my ex employer making sensational revelations about my personal life..... I couldn't wish for a better spokesperson.

Anyway I am sure your life has been colourful too. All dynamic people have happening personal lives because after all dynamism, the spark and the fire in a person is nothing but converted sexual energy. The losers' club will never get this in a million years because to them dynamic is just a word in a dictionary and spark and fire are things that come out of a lighter. So all they can do is to watch and envy and talk.

Ravings of a fresher

How shall I begin? Shall I say that I came to the faculty full of pleasant anticipation?Was I apprehensive? Well maybe just a little bit. But I was sure of being able to take everyone's breath away; I mean I, who was surely much more desirable and delectable than any senior girl. Come on, I can just imagine all the raggers falling under my spell and how exciting, seductive and fun filled the rag was going to be. I couldn't wait.

What I remember most and will continue to remember of the many things that happened during those unforgettable three months is our first en masse encounter with the senior batch. The first of its kind that I witnessed having missed the real first encounter which took place during the intensive English course. So while others of my batch had some idea of what to expect I was unprepared for what followed and all the more thrown and shell-shocked afterwards.

What followed folks was this. The seniors (lovely, delightful people) poured in a line(or was it two lines? I forget) into the hall where we were seated waiting for them. Their young, innocent cute faces screwed up into such blood chilling, dead serious expressions of hostility that none of us dared to look around throughout the whole session (Although some of us were longing to take a second look at those faces with their sheer beauty and cuteness)Looking back at the incident now it occurs to me that such hostility and threat simply could not have been there. It was just that we could project what we liked on to those unsmiling countenances and while I being so paranoid and insecure read sheer hostility it's possible that some of my batch mates read brotherly concern or some such thing. Let it be understood that I am talking about male countenances here. The female ones being none of my concern. Both my wrists were full of bangles that day. Bangles being a banned item, I was desperately trying to cover them up with the umbrella that I was holding. (I am bats about umbrellas. I am forever holding them) Visions were passing meanwhile through my mind of being told to get up in front of the whole crowd and take the bangles off, me refusing and the bangles being torn off my hands by force. My imagination showed signs of going on to more alarming episodes whereupon I told it to shut the hell up. Meanwhile one senior was addressing the gathering.

We know don't we, that the course proper was starting from next Monday? We must be punctual in attending lectures and if for some reason we were late we should use the back entrance to enter and sometimes it would be wise not to enter at all. About the library, the canteen and the common room we must know that no one was forbidding us to go to those places, but no one would guarantee our returning in one piece either if we chose to be so daring. We were told weren't we at a previous meeting about how to dress?

While he thus went murderously on, other seniors kept screaming at some of us for smiling, for not keeping eyes firmly glued to the ground, for not keeping legs and feet in the proper position. I was sure that before long one or several of them would scream at me for wearing bangles. But none of them did. To this day I wonder why. Maybe they were afraid of me? (Ha Ha great joke what?That's what you'd like about me. My great sense of humour)They even made our batch rep (who is a saint) and repee (who is an angel and by the way 'repee' is French for female batch representative in case you were wondering) stand up and count loudly the junior heads that were present. It turned out that some juniors were missing, so they screamed some more at the rep, repee and us in general. Meanwhile I the heroine (calm down I don't mean as in heroic) expected the axe to fall on my beautiful neck (Ha Ha another joke to cheer you lovely people up) any moment. I was mentally making myself into a tight ball, having made up my mind not to give up the bangles no matter what. Once more visions came crowding in. Visions of me dying a heroic death never relinquishing a single bangle.

After it was all over and we got a chance to talk, my friend told me that she nearly got a heart attack fearing for me and my bangles, whereupon I smiled(beautifully? heroically?) and called her silly for being afraid. However all of us agreed that the seniors were one horrible species indeed.

Our university life started in earnest the following Monday. There were lectures from morning to noon. Lectures, where we with mounting panic at transparencies being removed before we were through with them scribbled away furiously. Sometimes when we came out of the lecture hall, we would find the seniors outside, standing in two lines waiting to go in. We passed between those two lines feeling ourselves under sharp scrutiny. This scrutiny reminded each of us of different scenarios depending on which way our fancies ran. It may have reminded some of us of newly recruited soldiers being inspected by superior officers or of a herd of sheep being looked over greedily by the Big Bad Wolf (A pack of Big Bad Wolves) or if your fancies ran a bit on the kinky side (like mine) of ladies of some sultan's harem parading in front of him hoping to be chosen for the night.

Poets say that the smell of love is the same as that of spring. The flowers and the dried leaves littering the ground, the rain water soaking through them to make the ground damp. All contributing to that heady spring smell which is supposed to make your heart yearn, ache and come alive. Wouldn't it be a laugh if the combined stink of body fluid and formalin had the same effect on a person's heart? You'd say that person's heart was very odd wouldn't you? Well maybe my heart is somewhat odd.

In case you are wondering what the above paragraph was all about, let me tell you of that memorable day, when we for the first time in our lives (so short, innocent and pure) walked into the dissecting rooms where the seniors and the cadavers (Don't get me wrong folks I am not implying the slightest similarity) were waiting for us. We walked with hesitant, faltering steps. My steps even more hesitant and faltering than the others, because I your heroine just happened to be wearing denim jeans and a kurta top that day.


I saw that every senior was looking at me. I tried telling myself that one should be glad to have so many people (males) looking at one. It would have been quite O.K too, thrilling in fact if not for this sick, paralytic, weak-kneed feeling I was getting. Still I tried to blot out everything else and concentrate on what we had to do, which was cutting the skin of the pectoral region. It was at this point that a polite senior with a murderous pair of eyes came and asked to have a word with me. But before he could begin not so polite seniors with equally murderous pairs of eyes kept coming our way. I never found out why they came (O.K. O.K I know the obvious explanation) because our polite senior sent them all away, saying that he would deal with everything himself. Since I was also wearing gloves he dealt with them first.


Did I know why gloves were banned during the rag season? "No" Because handling the cadaver with bare hands would revolt-proof us against all the unpleasantries of human sickness that we'd encounter in the wards, the wounds filled with pus, the smell of decaying flesh on living humans, the vomit, the blood and etc. Did I know what pus was? I told Mr. Wise Guy that I knew, but that was not enough Mr. Wise Guy wanted to make sure. "What is pus?" he asks.


If this had been the 18th century and I had been a man I would have challenged Mr. Wise Guy to a duel for taking that smug, patronising attitude with me. Being just a girl however, I found myself actually telling Mr. Wise Guy that pus was a yellowish fluid discharged from wounds.





Next he dealt with my denim. Did I know why denims and slacks were taboo for girls during term time? Had I seen senior girls wearing denims? I was in the medical faculty wasn't I? So I should dress in a fitting manner. Did I know that house officers (another explanation here. Gee thanks) who rushed to the hospital at odd hours in emergencies were denied entry by the hospital security guards who thought they weren't doctors because they weren't dressed properly? Now did I see the importance of dressing properly? Did I believe in dignity? Did I want to get more than a normal dose of the rag? Did I think I will be able to concentrate on my studies if I am always hunted? Did I know that the reason they hadn't broken me in two by now was because I was a girl? (Thank God I'll tear my Women's Lib membership card to pieces). Did I also know that professor so and so said last year that if he saw anyone in a denim at a lecture of his, he (the offender) would be kicked out as far and fast as was possible? Now what was I planning to do?


What I planned was to ask someone in authority, a student counselor for example, if there really was a ban on certain dresses. Now dear readers, your heroine is all set to go and see this student counselor. She somehow screws up the courage needed and marches into the student counselor's room. Is that surprise she sees on his face? Maybe she is being rather rash? The heroine hesitates but goes on anyway because now it is too late to turn back. "Sir, is there a ban on casual dress within the faculty during term time?" He is very kind and helpful and puts your heroine at ease. No there was no ban as such. Certainly in going to the hospitals especially in the morning it was the norm to dress formally. But in attending lectures he didn't think such formality was needed. No certainly nobody could kick people out for wearing denims. This was a democratic country after all. However it may be wise to lie a bit low, during the first few weeks at least.


I walk out of the student counselor's room a very happy person intending to wear denims practically every day. On the way however I meet our repee. I know do I not that she is my friend and I can come to her whenever I need help?But quite a number of seniors were asking her about my denim. I know don't I that short dresses, denims, slacks were banned during the rag? It may not be wise to offend the seniors because they can give the whole batch a tough time, maybe even postpone the freshers' night.


"Oh but would they make the whole batch suffer because of me?"


Yes they might for they were monitoring the whole batch and one stray maybe counted as a minus point for the whole lot. I hasten to assure her that I would not wear denims again while the rag lasted. The repee who is a real nice gal becomes apologetic. She hoped I wasn't upset with her, over this matter and I do know don't I that she wasn't ordering me or anything like that?



"No, no I am not upset, think no more of it" I say to her.



During the weeks that followed I kept hearing heartwarming, encouraging bits of news from my friends. One friend told me to be careful since the seniors were talking about me. I asked him "what exactly were they saying?" But he my friend refused to elaborate. Maybe what was being said was so unspeakable that he simply couldn't elaborate. There were bleak desolate days too when the seniors didn't so much as glance in my direction, days that practically broke my heart. And glorious days when I got so much attention from the lovely seniors that I felt like dancing for sheer joy. On one such lovely day when I happened to be wearing a frock which according to them was more fit for a party, a pack of lovely, adorable (such is my besotted state that I can keep on adding adjectives forever, but I must restrain myself) seniors bore down on me and asked if it was to land a boy from the faculty that I dressed like that. They then proceeded to tell the others of my body group that it was a good thing my wearing gloves because that way I couldn't contaminate them and the cadaver.



Meanwhile most of my batch mates were getting quite thick with the seniors. They kept rabbiting on about what fun the rag was and how absolutely adorable the seniors were. They were enjoying each other. There was mutual liking. I kept wishing for the same kind of feeling, wished for it with the same desperate hopeless longing of someone suffering from unrequited love. But it never worked out the same way for me.

The first term just flew by. One moment we were walking rather timidly into the dissecting rooms for the first time and the next we found the spot test only a week away. It was around this time that the seniors called another meeting. This time we were a lot less scared and felt free to look around. Once again I studied their expressions when they came into the hall. They were as unsmiling as ever, but somehow almost lacking in blood chilling potential. They used the same rude set of words, but we felt much less ill will. They had come to talk about the rugger match, the cricket match and the netball match between the senior and junior batches that would be held as was the tradition.

By the way they heard that our batch rep had been talking about a Freshers' Night! Which Freshers' Night was this? Maybe our batch rep was planning a Freshers' Night of his own? The proper Freshers' Night was as yet undecided on. They may even decide not to give it after all. The junior batch would have to answer to the super seniors about any screw up in the organisation of the matches. If the super seniors were offended they could make the 'rag' we so far got look like a picnic.

At the matches we made contact with our super seniors for the first time. They were lovely too and much less murderous. How did the heroine fare with them? Not too badly that is if you blot out certain memories. I suppose one must develop the knack of spotting silver lines in dark clouds in cases like mine.

After the matches the seniors left us pretty much alone. Sometimes we were even allowed the liberty of sitting down in dissecting rooms in their presence. Something had definitely changed. It was as though the matches marked the end of a phase, a rather jolly, exciting and thrilling phase. Studying started in dead earnestness after this, the signature and the spot only days away. The compulsion to shoot up from one's seat at the approach of a senior gradually abated. The juniors and the seniors became quite chummy together. During this time the seniors came to address us about the long awaited freshers' night, but ended up screaming at us instead having discovered that some juniors were absent from the gathering. So a second meeting had to be called at which we were threatened with chronic rag if we dared to absent ourselves from the freshers' night.

The term drew to a close. We had the signature and then the spot test. The first term ended and the vacation started on the day of the spot. I felt nostalgic, regretful and relieved all at the same time on that last day. But there was the Freshers' Night to look forward to the Freshers' Day in our case where we would again see those lovely, delightful people who were our seniors, where we would officially be welcomed to their lovely, delightful bosoms and where hopefully we would become bosom pals with them.

The End