Wherefore art thou, red typewriter

I have wanted a red typewriter for quite a few years now. I have wanted a typewriter since I can remember. My uncle, a lawyer in Chennai, used to have a number of typewriters in his house/office. My cousin, the said uncle’s son, never let me touch them.

Subsequently, said uncle, got a number of computers and chucked all but one typewriter. It was now my cousin’s turn to not let me touch any of the computers, but ah, now I could finally clickety away at the typewriter. This was a large, grey and ancient typewriter. The pages would invariably jam after every five lines. I loved it. I loved the font and I loved the feel. They got rid of the typewriter as well. Or was it that we just stopped visiting them.

In any case, I’m certain its gone now.

***

So sometime mid-way through college I realised that I still wanted a typewriter. Of course, to mark my newly acquired ‘taste’, I now specifically wanted a shiny red typewriter. Not that I would complain, (well I would complain, but very silently and guiltily) if I got a typewriter of another colour. Why a red one?

Look here, I've placed a photo of the thing right up at the beginning. It’s a beauty that’s why.

So I decided I wanted one quite badly. Then, you might wonder, is it really that difficult to get ones hands on a nice shiny red typewriter? Well, I would not know. I don’t suppose anything would be too difficult once you set your mind to it.

Next question, um, so why have you not gone and bought yourself one if you want it so bad?

Well, I have preserved it for romance. I have kept it there allowing an opportunity for romance. If you don’t understand, here – I am waiting for someone special to buy it for me, and when that happens it would be the most romantic gift ever. Now that that’s stuck in my head, even if I did find the thing somewhere, I would probably pretend I didn’t see it.

That is where the Disney princess syndrome kicks in. I expect everyone who loves me to treat me like I am f.ing Jasmine from Aladdin. What I fail to note is that none of these Disney girls ever seem to have to demand romance, it is given to them freely and selflessly. For they are more beautiful than the lone shining star in the deep limitless night. When they smile, the world stops turning. Her laughter is like the gurgling hoo ha dee dah bazoonka. Well not quite, but you get the drift.

Alright, let’s say mine is not a world-stopper smile. It is relatively photogenic yes, but possibly prettiest when fake. I am not the lone shining star of anything. I get cranky, angry, scream, swear, trip, drop food on myself and can’t sing. If I do sing, no birds come flitting my way. In any case, I don’t like birds coming too close to me. They freak me out. (They have claws and are fluttery. shudder). So having established I’m not princess Jasmine, or any of the others, does it automatically mean I cannot be the supremely most important thing in someones life?

Ok I have digressed. End point, I love gifts. If you love me, you buy me gifts. Gifts that I love.

Wherefore art thou, red typewriter. Where, romance. Come here soon, do not make me come get you, you will not like it.

DISCLAIMER: (For I am a lawyer, and we must do this) [This is not me asking everyone who reads my blog to buy me stuff. Remember, you do not love me. This is not me saying my boy sitting there somewhere does not buy me stuff. He does, and they’re super. This is just me explaining why I have not bought my typewriter yet.]