As a shy, gauche, newly hormonal and stupidly pretty teen in 2006 I ached to be more than just what the skin showed. Where was the pain? I pined for that depth, intensity and seriousness that comes from "having suffered". Kurt Cobain was yet to be introduced, Janis Joplin was a far dream, I was mostly dancing away to Avril Lavigne's punk. My favourite teacher in school (Mrs Bhattacharya I MISS YOU MORE THAN EVERYTHING) had scolded me for scoring poorly in accounts and eco: “The Kajal in your eyes won’t hide the zeroes in your marksheet.” My Eco teacher (Ms Bakshi), I think she secretly hated us all and was jealous of our freedom, had told us: “You’re at an age, 16, where even pigs look pretty!” In hindsight I take offense on behalf of our beloved pigs who give us so much (bacon, my sweet, sweet breakfast) and wonder what propelled her to say those words.

But I was someplace else altogether. Obviously, isn’t that was being 16 is all about? I had just made my first boyfriend, was in my rebellion phase where I'd lock myself up in the garage of my parents' house and just studied English and Mathematics for unending hours. Music was taboo, as were novels, but I had siphoned enough of those from Scholastic bookfairs, using stolen money.