My Glasses and Me

The things one sometimes does in one’s youth can classify her, or in this case me, as an oddball within the family. Like the time when every I.C.S.E - appearing friend of mine sported dark circles and wasted time getting fitted out for new spectacles. It gave me a mighty big complex, so I swapped my study hours from evening to night, and after plenty of ingenuity, finally arrived at school showing-off my new-fangled half-moon under-eye grooves. This certainly elevated my status from a frivolous madcap to the scholarly echelon. Thank Heavens though, I never joined the spectacled fraternity, as glasses never did look good on my nose.

It was sometime while in college that I developed astigmatism problem and was prescribed corrective cylindrical glasses. I resented the Doc who assured my headaches would go away, I hated looking at the mirror and categorically refused to wear those glasses to parties. Of course, my Mizo friends’ refusal to let me accompany them to Sunday church with those specs on, rankled as well! According to some of my zany mates, the one with those awful glasses was my alter-ego, with completely discordant behavioural patterns.

Thankfully though, the glasses did indeed correct my off-tangent vision, and I discontinued the same, though I still haven’t forgiven that Doc. It was because of him that I spend most of my carefree college years sporting a Wilma-like¹ countenance, when I could have been at least a diminutive version of Daphne.²

As youth gave to twenties and thirties, my petite frame became a deterrent at times. It rankled that I was oft mistaken for a school-going girl, at high-level meetings, press conferences and TV shoots. Not only did I have to make that extra effort to prove them wrong, I recall even resorting to austere tones and a brusque manner. It makes me cringe with embarrassment when I think of it today! It was sometime then, that I had to wear my cylindrical glasses yet again. This time however, I was ecstatic, for the difference it made to my entire persona was remarkable. I no longer had to wear saris to portray that image of efficiency to the first-timer who dealt with me. But alas, in a year or two, the same had to be discarded. My vision was declared perfect, my capricious eyes had ditched me again.

Thus when I kick-started my forties with a ‘near-sighted’ diagnosis, I had mixed reactions. I adopted the half-moon reading glasses, suggested by my spouse, who incidentally hates being seen with bespectacled women. Maybe his friends would then think he married me for my brains, or whatever. I am still in the dark, for he refuses to comment each time I prod. Of course, if you are one of those ‘near-sighted’ ones who use these half-moon glasses, you will know how convenient they can be. At meetings, you have the extra edge, for you are empowered with that perfectly legitimate extra time, fishing out those glasses and perching them on your nose, taking your time to adjust them, while you think fast what to say. Or like when you are presented with bills you do not wish to pay, you can conveniently lose the glasses and refuse to ratify the bill without the use of your own eyes, or in this case, the four-eyes.

The flipside is that, I have to carry these paid-for two eyes, wherever I go, to check out the green marks on food cartons, the expiry dates, the numbers on currency notes and mint marks on coins while making payments, (for my child’s collective interests!), the list is endless. Shopping at Pantaloon and Westside is a no-no without an assistant because of size tags on outfits. But the worst is when I have to put on those ‘half-moons’ in a plushy restaurant so I can spear my peas in the dim light without having them fly up someone else’s nose, AND when I have to put on make-up with glasses on. I still don’t know how the heck a person is supposed to apply eye-shadow with glasses on, and I am one of those persons who JUST CAN’T DO WITHOUT eye make-up. So these days, my ever obliging child is my self-appointed ‘eyes’ (how much will you give me Mom?) to point out ‘upside-down’ bindis (they have such bizarre designs anyway) and do the “Good going Mom, this eye is neatly done…” routines. When I am assailed by such comments with commercial overtones, it makes me wonder sometimes, when God gifted me with problem vision, She could have jolly well have made it hyperopia or ‘long-sightedness’, at least I wouldn’t have to take in such patronising stuff from a teen!

Of course, I never use the term ‘short-sighted’ but ‘near-sighted’, because I am already quite fed-up with people’s inability to differentiate between ‘petite’ and ‘short’, and I have this weakness for the synonymical. My sister who wields the scalpel a minimum ten times on average weekdays, refuses to understand why I don’t get corrective surgery done. I am not THAT crazy to go traipsing all the way to Delhi to change my satisfactory status quo. For the first time in my life this ‘four-eyes syndrome’ has given me unlimited flexibility in image-projection, for I can indeed indulge my whims, donning them at Philatelic and Book-Reading milieus, not to forget PTMs, and leaving them in the safe confines of my purse at social dos and film fests. Did I forget to mention that my cell phone is one of those large-lettered, colourfully displayed myopic-friendly gadgets?