Tales of my SPECT-acular escapades

Third grade. That's when the blurry blackboard finally drove me to the eye doctor. My notebooks, a masterpiece of miscopied gibberish, were a source of constant frustration for my teachers. But honestly, I was secretly thrilled at the prospect of glasses. My wish came true, and I made my grand entrance home, the proud owner of negative 0.5 and negative 0.25 diopter, oval, silver-framed spectacles, complete with spectacle straps ensuring a secure placement (thanks to Baba!). Instantly, I resembled every strict grandmother I'd ever known and, predictably, became the school's prime source of amusement for the next few days.

As a teenager, I really wanted trendy eyewear, which were sometimes hard on my father's wallet. I'd strategically complain about 'eyesight problems' and even managed to manipulate him a few times into getting me new glasses instead of just lenses. This trick also let me sit closer to my crush whenever the teacher put me in the back of the class.

Beyond the fashion statements, my glasses always seemed to lead to new adventures. Seventh grade found me on a family holiday in the picturesque Dooars, enjoying its secluded nature spots. It was there, amidst the hills, forests, and rivers, that my spectacles betrayed me. One of the nose pads popped off, nearly poking my nose. I was furious. Naturally, a spectacle shop was non-existent. Our desperate attempt at stuffing cotton to act as a temporary cushion proved utterly useless, and the fluffy white evidence stuck to my glasses was forever immortalized in our vacation photos.

I'd often get these compliments, you know, "You look so much better without glasses!" So, I decided to ditch them for a whole year, despite the constant headaches. Turns out that wasn't the smartest move. My next eye doctor gave me a good lecture about playing doctor myself. But something was terribly weird about this man. Every time I went in with my parents, he'd look at my mom and ask, as if genuinely confused, "Is she your daughter?" Every. Single. Time.

My father, a staunch advocate for glass lenses, insisted on a premium pair for my spectacles. During my final exams, a particularly stressful time, disaster struck. While idly staring at the wall, one of the lenses fell out after the frame broke, the other lens remaining in place. Turns out that my ordinary frames couldn't handle the burden of such high-quality glasses. My father, ever the master of impromptu solutions, quickly patched them up, saving me from a full-blown meltdown. But even after the fix, something felt off to my eye. A section of the wall appeared to me to have jutted out, as the rest remained flat.

So, Baba whipped up another "jugaad"—a quick fix—because, you know, finals. No time for eyewear shopping. Everything seemed fine until I walked into school the next day. Much to my surprise, I caught my crush staring at me. When confronted, he politely asked, "Don't you think your glasses look, well, a little oversized?" I froze. Of course they were! Dad, in his helpfulness, had repurposed the frame from his enormous, rectangular wire-rimmed sunglasses. I felt my cheeks flush.

After my post-grads, Baba gifted me a new pair of spectacles. They were really expensive—the nicest I'd ever owned. And, of course, I accidentally sat on them. Just like that, my beautiful new glasses were broken.

Here's a little quirk about me, if you do not know yet: I'm extremely bad at cleaning my own glasses. It's always been a team effort, usually involving my father or, later, my husband. Then came the pandemic, and my father decided to take his cleaning duties a little too enthusiastically. One fateful day, while attempting to restore my lenses to their former glory, he accidentally snapped them. But, bless his heart, even with everything locked down, he somehow got me a new pair—aesthetic appeal wasn't their strong suit, but they were, nevertheless, a lifesaver. But, unfortunately, they now gather dust in some forgotten corner of my cupboard.

Honestly, with all the prescription changes, I've no idea how many glasses I've gone through. Countless frames, worn and discarded—many finding a second life in my father's resourceful hands. Then, contact lenses waltzed into my life six or seven years ago, and that pretty much ended my passion for spectacles, which soon became relics. These days, my glasses are only reserved for relaxing at home or for long, aimless road trips. Basically, they're for any time comfort takes precedence, or, to put it another way, any time I don't care how I look. But looking back, each blunder tells a story. They're a testament to my father's determination and my own clumsiness and to the simple truth that life, much like my vision, is often a little blurry and wonderfully imperfect. And honestly, I wouldn't have seen it any other way.