I pick up the glass and fling it against the TV screen, breaking it. Damn! But it feels so good to give vent to my rage. I wait there, welcoming that expected explosion of frustration from my ma. Now she has no choice but to notice me.
You must have guessed by now that I tend to lose my temper… A lot, especially if I don’t get my own way. My dad tells me I have always been stubborn. That’s me alright: born obstinate. He is a lot more patient with my tantrums. Guess that’s what comes of being a scientist: and a brilliant one. He’s quite absent-minded too. When I was just five years old, he shut me out in the balcony of our apartment. I stayed there happily playing with my toys, while the rest of the house was in an uproar.
When they finally found me my ma gave dad an earful.
But, that was when she still cared for me. I am not sure what happened, but my age seems to be inversely proportional to the extent she cares for me. With every passing year, she grows more distant. I really do miss her sometimes.
Right now, she is standing there, in our living room looking at the broken TV with a look of shock-fast-turning–to-anger on her face. It’s a brand new set: Her pride and joy. As I watch, her face goes an interesting shade of purple. I don’t think I have ever seen her look this thunderous. I love it! And I pay the price: the next day I find myself on the couch, in Dr. Poonawala’s clinic.
He is a child psychologist and ma has decried that I must see him once a week: for anger therapy. At least it provides a new topic of conversation. “My daughter, she is in therapy,” she now says proudly, shaking her head.
Well, now you know why I turned out the way I did: the only offspring of an absent-minded, South Indian scientist and a slightly off the rocker, gin-swilling Goan-Portuguese housewife.
The Many Lives of Ruby Iyer, is out November. Meanwhile, stay tuned for an occasional, sneak peak into Ruby’s innermost thoughts, as we raid her diary. Sign up here to find out about the book release. Follow @RubyIyer on twitter.