ring

I always wear a single ring on my right hand. Throughout my life I have had a few ring that have stayed glued to my finger during the various phases and stages of my life, the different embarrassing and impossibly hearth-wrenching crushes, and the several even more embarrassing ego-driven life crises (as most life crises have been ego-driven). All rings stand for their time and fit their period on my finger well. In times of boredom or strife or just by chance, I look down at my right hand and stare at my ring, thinking about how it relates to whatever particular stage in my life I currently reside. I share a special connection with my rings, each resembling the secret thoughts and stages of my life's progression. I never buy them or go searching for a new appendage companion, but after years of wearing the same band a ring will just sort of pop up and say "hello, my dear! ready for your next direction?". "Fine", I think, wondering what strange experiences and mental states this next ring will join me in.

Last night I believe I may have met my next partner. I was at a tiny silver shop near Charminar with Auntie and Sweety where we spent hours sorting through and weighing silver trinkets for an upcoming pooja. I was going through a box of rings looking at all their different colors and shapes, and thinking about the different personalities to fit them when I saw a sweet, simple ring with a peach colored jewel whose pigment was not far from the light tint of my skin. Out of boredom and possible subconscious longing to be someone of a different, more genteel and polished personality, I took off my wide, hazel colored, bohemian ring of six years and slipped of this classy treasure.

"WoOOoOOoo! How refined", I thought looking down at the sweet jewel on my hand, wobbling my head side to side in true Indian fashion, and wondering if I'd ever have the calm, classy mien that such a piece of jewelry would compliment. Ha! Most likely not.

"Madame, excuse me, Madame". I turned around thinking "is someone calling me madame?". The shop owner was smiling sweetly, touched by my whimsical look resembling a dreamy little girl trying on her mothers fancy, oversized accessories. "Keep the ring on", he said warmly, "it is a gift. Welcome to India."

"Oh, nonono!", I couldn't possibly accept. I tried hard to pull the ring over my knuckle, but it wouldn't budge. When I was a little girl, my dear grandfather told me as a joke that the secret to slender hands was to pop your knuckles excessively, and it was through following this grave advice that I will forever be cursed with my gloriously misshapen fingers. Definitely not the fingers for such a classy gem, but I couldn't get the ring off. In my nervous frenzy, I tugged and tugged, but to no avail. I had no choice but to accept the gift..

I will always remember the story of finding this ring on my finger, and then being escorted through an unruly political rally to an auto that drove me passed a line of men defecating on the sidewalks of an Indian avenue. A promising start to a new era.