BIRTHDAY BUNGLE

So Gundu was turning 15, but I didn’t have a lot of money to buy her something and also ship it home. And this was worrying me a little bit. Not that a gift was necessary, you know, we don’t buy each other gifts like that. But the thing is.. sigh, long, even slightly sociological story, this.

My ancestors have long since, had a propensity to have their last children as an afterthought, well into middle age, resulting in large age gaps and weird relationships between the siblings. What is characterized by mostly indifference and occasional meanness in teenage, turns into a slightly maternal, indulgent sort of dynamic as we get older. Without going back into the family tree too far, I am guessing that’s how the mutter felt about her kid sister. This kid sister in turn, closer to me in age than to my mother, has spent a good part of her youth keeping me entertained, by means of long Scooty rides to suffer 90s Bollywood and stuff my chubby face. Naturally, the mother hen in me must do its duty, and it did for one year, while I was in Pondy making money. Gundu and I have had the occasional girls’ days out, enduring various travails such as Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief and Subway lunches. J has since taken over this duty after I left for which I am grateful, but can’t help feeling slightly guilty about not being able to do myself.

So I was thinking of what to do, staring at the ceiling one night, and a Sirji with what an idea came. I got very excited, and spent the next hour turning on the shut down computer to jot a few things down, and then shutting it down, only to turn it on in a minute again. At dawn, I was pwning the Energizer bunny’s ass.

So the idea was… that I would write her a birthday song, and send her a video clip of my singing it. Write a song meaning, not compose a song like these song artistes do, shuarely, but simply write my own words to an already existing song.  As is always with inspiration, the words were flowing once I had made my decision, and boy, was I proud. I had decided which T shirt to wear in the video and even dreamt about the clip going viral. Very excitedly, I told the mother, See? Such a cool idea, no?

And the mother thupped, of course. Not without reason, really. Two paatu mamis over the course of five years, silently tolerated my brutal attack on Carnatic music and their ear drums – where Bilahari sounded like Malahari, and Shanmugapriya like Karaharapriya, Natakapriya or Sripriya, I still can’t tell – before I voluntarily relieved them from the torture. I have, on many occasions, been mistaken for the fother on the home phone; such is the mellifluous quality of my voice. I thought I could make up for my lack of singing talent with my expressions, but would’ve ended up looking like a mental Genelia type, which is my least favourite type, among all types of everything that ever existed.

So singing and histrionics were out, and I was feeling a little sad and a lot less clever. And then I thought that just the words themselves might make a sweet enough gift, and set out to complete the song, which I would’ve then emailed to the Gundu. Good thing I looked before I leapt.

Previous attempts at writing songs and poetry have revealed that I have the earnestness of a five year old, and the talent of a two year old in these matters. “I went to bed, and rested my head” would about aptly paraphrase my idea of good poetry. My own ability to write a song or poem would naturally be infinitely worse; sample this:

You are a big girl now.
Study very well,
And people would tell,
Oh what a smart girl, oh wow!

As is noticeable from that one tiny excerpt, thanks to aforementioned mother hen tendencies, my song had turned out quite preachy, and I was sounding uncannily like the mother (Don’t blame me. Girls my age are busy having babies). Sounding like the mother wasn’t a problem; I certainly wish I sounded like her when I sing. Sounding unlike myself was the problem. Consider what Amma-Appa have to say, even if you don’t agree, went my song.  Don’t cut your hair, how does my crop look? Don’t go this weekend, see you Monday. Don’t step out in the rain, achhhhooooooooo. Don’t tell anyone how you feel, oh by the way I confessed my crush. Write AIEEE, bwahahahahahaha. Consider what they have to say? Look who was talking.

Precociousness is not cool, went my song. Of course, “look who was talking” could well apply in this case as well – master of all bad words at age 12 – but that was not my particular grouse with that line. If you had not listened to Amma Appa, you always could start at some point. Precocious hardly ever becomes non-precocious. Gundu’s surprise birthday cake from friends (cut at midnight no less) alluded to her having a good figure. I would not have dreamt of a midnight surprise, or heard the end of teasing to this day if a bunch of boys had acquiesced in acknowledging my figure when I was 15. Of course Amma and I were lamenting kids these days, while Appa was chuckling in amusement. Moni, the cake said ‘Happy Birthday Mis Figure’ instead of Miss Figure – you think they attempted to pun? Yes pa, it is more likely that a bunch of loud 15 year olds who read precious little, actually tried to pun, than that the cake kaaran made a spelling mistake. Zzz.

So much for inspiration flowing. Not only were the words all wrong, but I realized that the words were set to a song that was a childhood favourite of mine. What would qualify as Gundu’s childhood song? Ladki badi anjaani hai? I wouldn’t be caught dead writing words to that one.

So I did the decent thing: dumped the song in Recycle Bin, and screamed HAPPY BIRTHDAY GUNDU on the phone like a maniac.