Glassy Recollections

Last week,taking the cue from one of my friends,I decided that I would undergo laser treatment to my eyes.It was easy,he said,just a half an hour at the doc's,and your eyesight would be back to normal and you could dump your spectacles for good.The talk about the specs took me for a walk down the memory lane,with my glasses by my side.

They had come, the light of my eyes, neatly wrapped in a shiny plastic case with the name of the shop neatly embossed on it, in golden italic letters, and a yellow satin cloth inside to wipe them clean.

They were initially taken off before sleep, carefully with both my hands , wiped clean with the cloth and tenderly placed back into the box. As time went by, I would whip them off and toss them on to my table. The cloth, replaced by the loose ends of my shirts, disappeared first, followed by the box, which ended up covered in dust, at some forgotten corner of my wardrobe. As a result, within weeks of purchase, they invariably end up with one leg pointing towards London and the other towards America.

They made the text on billboards and films on television clearer, and saved me from the wrath of many who would smile at me from far away, only to meet my blind, blank stare. They have emboldened me to look people in the eye, as I know it wouldn’t be very easy for them to see my eyes, through the glasses.

They contrived with my then awkward gait, to give me the geek look, but the competition from my miserable grades right through school and college was too much for them and ultimately the grades won, hands down.

They made me very appearance-conscious, and despite instructions from the doctor to wear them permanently and persuasion from my parents, I always made sure that they rested in my pockets till I crossed the row of shops on either side of the road, which preceded the rather deserted path which led to my school.

They ruined an otherwise good looking photograph of mine--which honestly speaking, is quite a rarity--by reflecting the studio lights with a vengeance. Despite the best efforts from me and the photographer, neither the good looks nor thankfully the glare, repeated itself again.

They once silently rested on my nose, as if mocking at me, while I ran desperately all around the school, searching playgrounds and bathrooms thinking that I lost them. I realized they were still with me, only when, temporarily forgetting that I had "lost" them, I involuntarily readjusted their position on the bridge of my nose.

They have evolved from brown to black, oval to square, from biggish to smallish, the evolutions being triggered by wear and tear or by the latest fashion trends. But the demise of the first pair was the most tragic.
“They were in the pocket of my shirt,
The shirt was hanging on the door,
The door was then slammed tightly shut,
They were smashed and crashed to the floor.”
Nice rhyme, but such a cute piece of poetry occurring to me while speaking of this incident seems quite an anticlimax, as the sight of them crushed to a hundred glass pieces, jammed between the door and the wall, had been too much to bear. I got a sound thrashing from dad that day and a brand new pair on the next.

They have reduced RayBan and PolicE brands to utter irrelevance as far as I am concerned, as sunglasses don’t come with provisions for the visually imperfect, and wearing sunglasses over your eyeglasses isn't exactly what you call sanity.

They haven't been a permanent fixture on my nose of late, and they come up from my pocket only in the event of something interesting (read beautiful) cropping up before me. While at college, me wearing them and looking in a particular direction was a sure-shot indicator of a pretty someone walking past, and scores of hopeful adolescent eyes would soon follow mine. The flip side of the whole thing was that even some of my innocent, unassuming glances were quite often grossly misunderstood.

They get deposited by me, at the oddest of places, on bathroom window sills, on living-room cushions, in trouser pockets and many such unlikely places. I go mad hunting for them, and keep everyone around me on tenterhooks as well. They do resurface at the end, leaving a sheepish smile on my face, but the resultant mess-the upturned cushions,malaligned furniture,rummaged wardrobes- takes at least another hour to get cleaned up.

With the surgery imminent,my glasses wouldn't be staying with me for long.Even with a perfect 10/10 vision,and free from all the fuss which accompanies them,and the fact that I can spot a RayBan without bothering about them,I realize I would miss them ,and miss badly - my unsung companions,their reassuring presence,the desperate spectacle hunts - and the more I think about them,the more second thoughts am I having about letting them go.