Trapped In My Face Paint

"You look just like Indira Gandhi now. Really. Same nose, same chin, same hair. Just like her. Very smart" the mother said.

"But the point is, I don't want to look like Mrs. G!" I grumbled to the mirror.

"See, this looks cute. Like an innocent school kid".

"Except I am not an innocent school kid".

"You are innocent."

"..." (I let the statement hang)

"Hehe. But this hair cut is hehe."

"I know! I know!"

"You know what- Now you are not Chethana, you are Chetan. Not a darling daughter, a dear son. Hehehe."

"Amma- never mind."

***

Oh, dear reader, you are demanding that essential thing to all good stories called Flashback. Ha. So here it goes:

Eight months ago, dear ol' Paddy (you might be interested in an elaborate description of him here) glanced down sadly at a blood test report (whose diagnostic fees was reimbursed by the Govt of India to Padre). He had discovered that my biological self was shamefully deficient in two somethings he called Iodine and Iron.

"This is mosa (cheating). I thought you had gained weight while staying there- so have become healthy. No No. (shake of head). This weight is not a healthy plump. This is iodine-low blowing up. Poor child. Che. "

"Hmm" I said.

Not in my wildest dreams had I dreamt what this implied, dear reader. I thought this is just one more of those deficiency ramblings of a loving doctor. No! This was a warning bell I ignored. I have an in-built knack for ignoring warning bells and getting serious about trial drills. Lets return to the story.

3 months ago, I started noticing that:
1. my hair looked like it was dyed brown in a punk rock way.
2. falling down as though they were all learning some kind of special parachuting techniques.

2 months ago I dropped back home to stay with the parents. They gasped at my skull.

"That's it." Madre declared. "No more fooling around. Doctor. Beautician. Today!"

I shivered under the iron resolution. The doc wrote an elaborate vitamin diet prescription. The beautician point-blank refused to touch my hair.

"No madam, if I cut her hair now, she will look like a boy. See, no new hair. Let the new hair grow at least for some months."

Madre considered 2 months as 'some months'. So back to the cut-lady we went. She patiently explained some rocket science principles of hair-cutting and declared she will give suitable healthy-looking hair cut. I just trusted our Lord.

So, it is after the masterful hair-style that Madre said:

"You look just like Indira Gandhi now. Really. Same nose, same chin, same hair. Just like her. Very smart"

***

I woke up today morning, looked at the mirror first thing and shrieked.

What is it, I wonder, that connects us so deeply to our gender? Is it about social acceptance? Is it vanity? My gender, to tell the truth, is just a part of my biological self. Like a scar on the skin. Yet I am so bound by its identity, that any flaw in it makes me mentally ill. I cannot accept to feel like me and look like some moron. Isn't the feeling of me being me enough, why do I have to look like me too? And why am I unhappy about something that is so brittle that it will all go away in a few months and come back in next few months?

Or am I simply like a certain Ms.Rai, who travels the world trapped in her own face paint?

May be we all differ in the face paints. But the trapping, certainly, is universal.