At 12

I was twelve, and I wish I had known then the importance of keeping a diary. I wish I had chronicled the routines that bored me, the plays that excited me, the fights that scarred me; the foods, the scents, the sights that tempted and wowed me. But I didn’t. I am 31 now, and the truth of what it meant to be twelve has mostly slipped through my memory.

My only visceral memory of that year is busting my head open.

It was during annual exams. My textbooks were sprawled across the drawing room floor. My mother had issued a warning: “A guest is arriving this evening. Collect your books and clean the room before they come.” I ignored her. As I do, always. Until the doorbell rang.

Instantly, I scrambled. I scooped the books into my thin, stick-like arms, the stack threatening to topple before I even stood up. If I can just make it to my room before the door opens, I convinced myself, I’ll be okay.

I failed.

My grip gave way, the books lunged towards the floor. Like a fool, I looked down and tried to catch them even as my legs continued to drive forward. A spectacular first in multitasking that ended with my head remodelling itself against the doorway.

I remember mistaking the initial trickle of blood for sweat. I remember the agony of collapsing onto my bed, pressing a hand to my split skin. It left a scar on my upper left forehead, a permanent, albeit less magical, Harry Potter imprint.

Ironically, my panicked scramble for that guest was entirely wasted. A few years later, the guest made national news. The Gurugram real estate mafia gunned him down, proving there are significantly worse things to run into than a wooden doorframe.

And hence my 12th year is a memory written in blood: a few drops of my own and a decidedly less accidental puddle of my guest.