My dear friends and my resolute enemies. My beautiful stalkee, beard brothers and sinister sisters, fellow kleptomaniacs and all you ugly children of Satan.
It is with a heavy heart and a broken spirit that I come to you with such bad, bad news.
I have been trying to keep this a secret, but it is too obvious now to keep under wraps.
But I guess this is me coming out. (Hold your glee!)
Things have happened. The worst that I feared has come to pass. Life has taken an unexpected turn, like the quality of writing went kaput from GRRM’s novels to the GOT shitshow.
I had dreams. Diet plans. Goals to procrastinate. Aunties to anger. Poems to read. Stories to write. And I had places to be.
I had ceilings to stare at. DPs to click. Movies in watch later. Items in my shopping cart to order. And I had irrational things to get depressed on.
I had people to bug. Girls to stalk. Chicken to eat. And a lifetime to waste away.
I had the dream of going to Mauritius. To take off my shirt and brave the benevolent beaches to my meat belly and scare off the pretty ladies from the shore.
All that has been taken away by the harsh knife of this sad life.
Here I was… cluelessly blessed, just moved to Mumbai with starry puppy eyes, looking forward to a life full of lethargy and gluttony.
Here I was, naive and innocent, all kinds of overweight yet handsome, and thyroid problems alike, but healthy regardless.
Here I was, looking forward to a future of forever food and annoying my sister effortlessly.
And then WHAM! Lightening stuck. (Figuratively, I mean.)
Life is so unpredictable. You plan and you plan, and sometimes you execute a rare few of them… but out of the blue, a tsunami of providence will flush it all away, or as it is in my case, things will get clogged like a dry doodie.
If it was any other disease, I guess I would have been okay. I would have had the confidence and the will to fight and stay strong. And I would not have kept it hidden.
If I was obese, well I would have resigned myself to it. In fact, I already have.
If it was a breakup, I would not be boring you. I would be eating momos.
If it was hernia, I would be getting myself operated right now.
If it was a betrayal by a friend (and there are dime a dozen), I would be after the mufukka with a machete.
But Alas! If only it was any of the above sweet things. Pain is an old friend and yet the reality shivers my soul.
But this… this is something else.
Uncurable. Unredeemable. Unexplainable. Unfathomable.
Until not very long ago, I was only concerned with the menu of my next meal. But now I stare at the blank, the food untouched before me.
The doctor took my money as she confirmed my worst fears. And sent me on my way to a doomed future.
I ask myself, “Was this deserved?”. What sin did I commit to be sentenced to perdition?
Who did I wrong to be bitch bit by karma, and like this?
My life flashes before my eyes, with specific pauses on the moments I was eating momos or texting my stalkee, as I try to remember all my sins that could have caused this.
I guess the signs were always there, but I was too engrossed in smelling biryanis to notice them. When doctors want you to be honest, they mean it, and I was not. I blamed it on the harsh weather of Chennai, and on my gross eating habits. I tried to shrug it off, even ignore it, but every time I looked in the mirror, the truth stared me dead in the eyes, as did my tummy.
My Hagrid keeps telling me to believe in magic. I guess now I must, because I have been kala-jadoo-ed.
Enough with the metaphor. I must warn humanity before this pestilence consumes me.
What I suffer from, is “Angelitis”, the new end of the world. It’s a new disease, and I am willing to donate my body for the benefit of science when the time comes. But first I must put the painful effort to warn the rest of humanity.
I am the first victim of this terrible, terrible disease in all human history. When generations down the line, the researchers will be struggling to find a cure, they will refer to me as “The First One”.
Sadly, this disease only infects people with straight, silky enviable hair. And I had such, too. Notice I used past tense.
The initial symptoms are easily overlooked. One feels lazy and disinclined to work, but this is my usual, so I did not feel any difference.
Then my hair threw a fit. It twisted and curled and did all 360s it could. Such is the severity of Angelitis.
In short, my sweet silky hair, that I could ruffle to many a heartbreak in my teenage days, was no longer straight.
In short, my genes mutated. I went from having a straight hair to totally, completely bizarre curly ones.
This was me before:
And this is me now:
The other day my boss asked me, “Soo, is everything okay?”, I was taken by surprise. I said, “Yeah! Why do you say so?”, to which she replied, “You have stopped combing your hair!”.
My heart broke into a thousand pieces. Little did she know that the luxury of combing my hair has been taken away from me, forever!
And I know how I got infected. I know the culprit. The alpha who started this all.
There is one and only one person to blame. And that is my sister Shreya, who I call Angel.
She has the curliest, ugliest hair in all of human history, and by magic or some virus she invented, she infected me with it.
It is only apt that the curly hair disease she infected me with be named “Angelitis”. You may find it funny, but this will be indeed the end of straight hair all over the world. Imagine your babies, all curly. Combs will become a thing of the past. So will different hairdos, because everyone will have same curly hair.
I used to make fun of her saying her hair could survive a nuclear holocaust.
And now I have no way to save my own. The doctor confirmed me so. Its permanent. My fellow human. It is irreversible.
And Shreya may seem the sweetest genius on earth ever born, but she is as guilty as Jerry the mouse.
She’s solely responsible for my curlitis. For the end of my good looks.
This curly hair consumes me.
I can take no more. Humanity, you have been warned.
-The First One