The Girl in The Album: An Article by Narayani V Manapadam

The perfect selfie doesn’t seem Instagram-worthy today. An old yellowed album tumbled out of the almirah today. I pick it up. Years of neglect heaped on it make me tear up. I caress the cover.
Softly, I open the first page. I can’t recognize the girl staring back at me. She is facing the camera, and yet she has a scowl on her face. The rays of the harsh Calcutta sun didn’t amuse her, it seems. She is wearing flip-flops. In her days, she used to call it Hawaii chappals. I grimace. The branded shoes in my rack would have sniggered at the photo. My eyes, however, refuse to leave the picture. The girl is wearing a pink shirt and a red skirt with zigzag patterns on it. I can almost smell the coconut oil on her pleated waist-length hair. On her eyes rest the largest pair of spectacles I’ve ever seen in my life.

I can’t recognize myself. Did I change for the better? I run my hand instinctively over my short hair. Memories of a bygone era come rushing in. The age of innocence. The era of human touch. Am I happy today? Yes, I am. For life evolves. But somewhere, in the corner of my heart, a mini me is lurking around, waiting to rear her head and remind me of my humble origins.