ONCE I get an idea in my head, no matter how silly or wise, I can’t get it out. It’s almost impossible to exercise logic and restraint at such a time, and no kind of scolding, embarrassment or coercion helps.
I can still recall, much to the delight of my old friends, how in primary school I insisted on using every single one of my pencils during a lecture, in order not to ignore any one of them and hurt their feelings. Absurd as it may sound, I tediously worked through each pencil until I was satisfied, and if the class-work ran out before all the pencils could be used, my guilt would take days to subside. At the time, as most children do, I cherished and loved my collection of stuffed toys. Each night I had to meticulously arrange all eight or nine of them, comfortably under the covers, settling myself right smack in the middle of all. This routine, if broken, would wreak havoc and I would restart it, settling them in, one by one.
When I started loving reading books, it proved to be a fatal attraction. Even today I find it so difficult to choose a point in a story when I can put it aside for the night. The chosen point has to be perfect, and even as a child it took several hours of reading, with a torch under the covers, to find it and often I cannot put a book down until I’ve finished it and more often that not, if I really enjoyed a film, I’ll end up watching it twice. My addiction to movies began in childhood, and the same habits continue today. I find it painfully frustrating to have to pause a movie for several hours. A distraction, someone speaking or breaking the mood, leads to a rewind, despite all protests, to watch the entire scene uninterrupted. I may not be a cleanliness freak or meticulously punctual, I do have my chosen compulsions. Eating a chocolate bar until it is down to the right shape or size, filling my glass of coke to the brim, and eating two packets of chili chips together, without fail, are just a few. No matter what, I have to eat my chicken nuggets and kebabs in even numbers and as I efficiently clean up in the kitchen, my bemused mother looks on as I dry my hands after every single washed dish.
My bedside and my bookshelf have to be symmetrically organized. And as for the chaos on the computer table and in my cupboard, there’s a method to my madness, and so under layers of unnecessary junk, I can always find whatever it is I need, at any given time. If God forbid I don’t, I can fret and complain, stripping my room apart until that one item, which I even forget what I needed for, is found. But to date, the greatest of my idiosyncrasies, my pride and a constant source of anguish for my mother is my collection of used batteries and odd bits and pieces, stuffed into my drawers for decades, which I refuse to throw away. Countless small containers, little ribbons, tiny bottles, badges, stickers, doll shoes, cards, broken car models and hundreds of melted audio and video tapes, are a few treasures that I refuse to part with.
When I have taken on some work, there are times when my obsession with perfection frightens even me. Once I have planned an event or gathering, everything has to go on according to the sequence I planned it in, otherwise I am likely to self combust. I hardly ever become unreasonable and demanding of others, but I end up driving myself insane as I obsess over being the head honcho, convinced that my way for all practical purposes, is the right way. The lack of control, in any kind of situation, can send my head reeling and it takes a great deal of composure and Oscar-worthy acting to remain as cool as a cucumber. Successfully hiding my compulsive habits, I do a pretty good job of appearing normal in public. The unsuspecting people around me have no idea that it took me hours to fold my sweater, just so, over the cuffs of my shirt, moisturize till my skin is just right and file my nails over and over, reducing them to non-existence until they all appear identical.
I envy those who can be carefree about the number of things they eat, the utensils they use and the non-symmetry of their bed-sides. Visions of books I have to write, films I have to direct, the magazine I want to publish and the cafe I want to run, keep me awake. Camera angles, menu designs and rehearsal of speeches at award ceremonies play in my head as if I must plan them to perfection, tonight. All in all, it’s no joke, my obsessions can take on a life of their own, far beyond my own calculations, at times. I dare not fall asleep until, religiously I work through the check-list (real and imagined) and satisfy myself that my plans are made, strategies decided, and all I need is some shut eye before I take on Everest, tomorrow.
