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Journalism of Courage
As the countdown to my 23rd birthday began, I went into a shell. I was going to be 23, for heaven8217;s sake, and wasn8217;t that enough to make anyone depressed. It meant that in another seven years, I would hit the big 8216;08217; 8212; 30!
A day didn8217;t pass by without my reminding myself, and my friends, of the calamity that was approaching me with the speed of light. And they, being friends, certainly did not help. In fact they did a very good job of calling me names that rhymed with 8216;oldie8217;, and pretended to count my grey hair. But misery was evidently a source of great glee to each one of them, especially those who were a couple of years younger. That8217;s when I decided that from then on I would only make friends with those who were older to me!
While watching me get ready for a friend8217;s marriage, my six-year-old niece started analysing my outfit. She gave me her take on how sweaters don8217;t go well with saris, how my hair should be left loose, and how I needed to use make up! All this while she was in front of the mirror, trying out everything she could lay her hands on.
I finally lost my cool and snapped, 8220;For all this advice that you are giving me, how old are you, Miss?8221; 8220;Tikhteen!8221; she lisped back defiantly.
Well, if she is 16, that would make me 33! So much for despairing over turning 23! The brat did provide some perspective on how, ultimately, age is always relative.
