It was a sweet Sunday morning and I was sleeping peacefully with my husband. Unfortunately, my sweet sleep was rudely disturbed by a loud noise created by my doorbell. Annoyingly I opened my door to find three visitors. Actually three very angry-looking visitors.
My three Barbie dolls had come to visit me. They looked like they had a rough time. Their hair was extremely messy and I think one of them was missing a shoe. All my sleepiness evaporated by my concerned for them.
Before I describe their plight, I must give a little background.
My grandfather gave me my first Barbie, who was in fact my first doll ever. If you believe my mother’s story, it went a little differently. I had a fight with one my friends because she wouldn’t let me play with her doll. So apparently I came back home and called my grandfather in his office and demanded him to bring me a doll immediately. Although I don’t know how it could be true as I was not even four. I am not sure if I even knew how to recognize numbers and dial.
Anyway, I got my first doll. She was dressed in a white dress and she looked like an angel. I never named any of my dolls but ‘Angel’ describes her perfectly. She was my constant companion. Always helping me through rough times. She even gave me stern lectures when I was not on my best behavior and made me finish all my homework on time. She was a good influence on me and all her younger Barbie sisters.
My second Barbie was a gift by my uncle. He had returned from his first of many visits to America. I don’t know if my Barbie was purchased on his trip or more locally procured. Still, she was always ‘The American Fashion Diva’ for me. I loved her although I always felt she was a bit too concerned about her looks.
She was a bit immature too. But she went through a lot of traumatic experiences. She was taken as a POW by my little brother. By the time I could come to her rescue, her head was separated from her body and she was being forced to participate in a war with my brother’s ‘G.I. Joe’. (He used her body as a headless witch and her severed head as a giant villain head. Go figure…)
She never recovered from this trauma. Even though I reunited her head to her body, it always remained a little loose. Sometimes while changing her dress, her head would come off. Poor girl. Imagine your head falling off every time you change your T-Shirt. My brother should have shown some respect to her. After all she is older than him.
My third Barbie was also my last one. I asked my parents to get me an Indian Barbie (with black hair) for my 16th birthday. Some might say that I was a little old to ask for a doll. But a heart wants what it wants, right?
As I was too close to adulthood when I got my Indian Barbie, she spent very less time out of her box. But she never complained and she always smiled. I loved that about her a lot.
Even today, she was the only one who gave me a smile. Other two were probably too mad at me.
I had packed them and left them at my parent’s house. Recently my parent’s home was invaded by an army of vicious rats. There were no casualties but my Barbie dolls suffered a lot. My Angel’s hair was nibbled and the American Diva’s clothes turned into rags. My poor Indian Barbie was brutally molested.
Ultimately, they decided they could not live there anymore. So they ran away, got into a train and reached my home this morning.
I felt so guilty for leaving them behind. I promised them I would never abandon them again. We made plans to take them and get their hair fixed and then we will go get new clothes for them. I was making all these plans and hoping they will forgive me when I finally woke up and realized it was all a dream.
My dolls are in fact currently residing in my cupboard and I spend the entire morning looking for any traces of rodents. To my great comfort the dolls are safe, happy and healthy.