My Favourite Scar.

I’m sitting in a conference room at NID Ahmedabad, the top design school in the country. I’m going to be interviewed for a place in the Master’s course in Product Design.

With one hour’s prep, I’ve ranked 17th in India’s toughest design exam. I am, how you say, the crème de la crème. I’m in the city that gave me the sweetest years of my life, still buzzing from meeting my old friends Maanush and Dhara the night before. The smugness is palpable in my face and my yellow floral getup – the only untucked shirt in the room. 

Obviously, the interview isn’t going well. The jurors won’t betray emotion, but they hate my guts. I can tell, they’re not the first. I rattle off profoundly intelligent answers to every design question they hurl at me. I came to these hallowed grounds on a whim, to see if I could. As it turns out, I can. Arrogance reinforced, my ego is writing cheques my CV can’t cash. 

Disaster imminent, I let slip some critical information. On my graduation day, I tossed 3 years of work into the bin for my professors to see. Fuelled by righteous fury, I believed my artistic integrity had been compromised – and I wanted to make a scene. Ever the diplomat, eh Aadyan?

Back in the conference room, the lady juror plays a blinder. 

“Do you self-harm?” she accuses.

I see her lean in, thinking she’s cracked the case. I hit back with instant laughter, but her stony face demands explanation. It’s okay, I’ve seen that look before. It’s haunted many a PTA meeting.

“Where did that come from?” I think to myself.

“Oh…I see.” 

There’s a three-inch scar running down my left forearm – in a spot that raises unpleasant questions. Normally, it’s hidden under my watch, which is off my wrist thanks to a middle-aged juror who’s broken character to fiddle with the calculator. Still, I suppose an explanation is due. Let’s give it a whirl, shall we? Stand back, ye of little faith. Aadyan is about to tell a story. 

———

Long ago, we lived in Ahmedabad. We had a large flat – built around an indoor courtyard, our living room. I did everything there, with Puppa – made Lego cities, spaceships from upturned chairs, tracks for my Hot Wheels, and so on. Even then, he was a bit nutty. He had a habit of just showing up with things. Most times, it’d be trinkets. This time, it was an R/C aeroplane. 

Unfortunately, it sat in its box for a while. The rains outside made for bad flying weather. In Puppa’s jittery manner, I sensed impatience bubbling. In those days, he had to explain his schemes. These days, a naughty glance does the job. Anyway, it stands to reason that an airplane needs an airfield. 

It really was a large living room. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? I wasn’t. It was a weekend afternoon, Mumma was in the bedroom falling asleep with a book. Puppa started to move the furniture with suspicious stealth. I still hadn’t caught on, but I wanted to make myself useful to the Captain. We were quiet enough to avoid drawing the Eye of Sauron. Furniture off to one side, the living room became truly cavernous – big enough to ride a bicycle in. 

Then, the big reveal – A V-tail, long straight wings, and a single rearward propeller mounted on the tail. It was a thermocol fuselage, I remember. Smooth to the touch, and clearly breakable. Sensing my own trepidation, I made sure not to touch it too much. Puppa lined it up on the edge of the living room, and I heard the propellor whir into life. My 3-foot frame crouched alongside with bated breath.

One of my favourite things to behold is a flight-controls check, that ritual preflight dance where the pilot tests the surfaces that steer the plane. Yeah, Puppa wasn’t a pilot. He skipped the formalities and gunned the throttle. The plane shot past me. I couldn’t turn my head fast enough to see it go, but I knew it hadn’t flown. The runway was just too small. But the sheer speed of it, I was obsessed. The whirring stopped, and I smelled blood. I felt the fuzz on my arms stand up. My body went cold, and I turned towards Puppa – hungry for more. 

“AADYAN, Mummala dakhav!” (Aadyan, show your mother!)

His face was white with fear. Oh, that’s why my arms went cold; the prop had nicked my left forearm on its takeoff run. Now, I was a quiet baby, never made a sideshow of myself. I needed a cue to cry. It never came instinctively, even with blood dripping from a 3-inch cut on my forearm. I woke Mumma, which brought raging hellfire down on Puppa for his tiresome but predictable tom-foolery.

———

The jurors aren’t buying it, they think it’s a fabrication. Truth be told, I don’t blame them. It’s a wild story. And sure, there are some great storytellers out there – God knows I think I’m one of them. But no imagination, not even mine, could’ve come up with that.

“The damn thing just wouldn’t fly!” Puppa maintains. 

“Yes, because Mumma made you return it.” 

I was offered a place in NID. I did not accept.