Last week was the Stanford Graduate Formal, a prom for adults who go to school. In my event roster, this day has been rivalled only by Full Moon on Quad on the Liplock Count. This evening of people-watching took me back to a memory from a long long time ago.
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The year was 1990. It was the first day of school. The first day of first grade. The times they were a-changing. The winds of liberalization and love began to blow. Something happened that had never happened before, and would probably never happen again. I saw him; it was love at first sight. Noises and voices faded out, there was music in the air, and I imagined what every six-year old Indian thinks people in love do: I imagined dancing around trees with him (Oh God, I was so tacky). Like a page straight out of every six year-old’s fantasy, the object of my affection was called Mickey. Ah, bliss.
A few weeks later, the class was abuzz with a scandalous rumour. Mickey had allegedly professed his deep desire for me, evoking paroxysms of shock from the whole of Class 1A. Hushed voices said that he had claimed that he wanted to kiss me. Shame shame. The sleepy town of Baroda in Gujarat had woken up with an open mouth and wide disapproving eyes.
‘Kuch bhi kahega kya. He can’t say things like that about you!’, said a large friend whose name I can’t remember.
‘I know. He is so…stupid. Idiot!’, I said, condemning him with the worst expletives in my vocabulary.
‘We have to find out if he really said that.’
‘How? We can’t ask him!’, said I, half-pleased, half-shocked, half-excited and fully incompetent at fractions.
‘I have a plan – Sleeping Beauty!’
‘Huh?’
‘We can prepare a play, and you can be Sleeping Beauty. If he really said that he wanted to..(uncomfortable pause)..uh, kiss you, then he will have no problems playing the role of the prince. And then we can go and complain to the teacher.’
And justice would be served.
So I offered myself as a decoy, the ultimate piece of cheese in a mousetrap for lascivious six-year old men called Mickey. The machinations of six year-old minds are astounding. Within a few hours, a script was put together, and casting was completed. Nepotism ruled high. I bagged the eponymous lead role, and no auditions were held for the role of Prince Charming either.
Rehearsals began.
The Wicked Fairy did her bit and put me to sleep. Soon, we would find out. Would we? Would he? What if he really kissed me! The moment of reckoning was approaching at the speed of Prince Charming. A wave of morality overpowered my curiosity and Sleeping Beauty miraculously resuscitated herself. Refreshed from her 100-year slumber, she offered her creative inputs.
‘I think the Prince should just hold her hand and say he loves her. That will look much better.’
The director was none too pleased with this interference, but I must make it known that I wielded considerable influence in the twentieth century, and the lead actress had her way.
Sleeping Beauty. Take Two.
The Wicked Fairy did her bit and put me to sleep. Soon, we would find out. Would we? Would he? Ugh, I was about to hold hands with a boy. I got cold feet at the thought of holding his hand. Once again, Sleeping Beauty snapped out of her slumber without a hand from her Prince.
‘I am really sorry but this makes me uncomfortable. Can he just ask me to wake up – I think that should be enough.’
The Wicked Fairy did her bit and put me to sleep. The Prince galloped towards his sleeping princess, looked at her menacingly and almost shouted, “Hey! Wake up!”. She did. And in that moment, the proper equation between six-year old boys and girls was restored.
