The Tale of My Nose
A bumpy journey
From the moment I entered this world, my nose became a family project. Not my eyes, not my smile — just my nose. It wasn’t particularly sharp, which, according to my grandmother, was a problem in urgent need of fixing.
“Hold still,” she would say, pinching the bridge of my nose between her fingers like a sculptor shaping clay. “If we do this every day, it’ll get sharper!”
Every day, my nose endured the grip of destiny, as she called it, while my grandfather sat nearby shaking his head. “Enough, woman! The poor child’s face is turning red!” he would say, waving her away. “This isn’t how noses work!”
But my grandmother was undeterred. “You don’t know anything,” she huffed. “You’ve had the same nose for seventy years. I’m making improvements here!”
Despite her efforts, my nose remained stubbornly the same. My brother, ever the opportunist, found this endlessly amusing. We had a long-standing game of teasing each other’s noses, complete with dramatic reenactments.
“Look at this nose!” I’d declare, pointing at his. “It’s like a perfect little mountain.”
“And yours,” he’d counter, “is like a soft, sleepy hill that refuses to wake up.”
This went on for years, an ongoing sibling rivalry where noses were both the insult and the award-winning joke. But the universe wasn’t done with my nose yet.
One day, I met a guy. Tall, confident, and equipped with a level of honesty that bordered on reckless. Midway through a conversation, he suddenly said, “You have a pakoda nose” (Pakoda is a Hindi word for a fritter).
Now, let’s pause here. There are many ways to react to such a statement. Shock? Maybe. Offense? Understandable. But what did I do? I chuckled.
“Of course I do,” I said. “This nose has been through generations of modifications. It’s practically a historical artifact.”
The poor guy looked confused, but I turned away victorious. Because in that moment, I realized something: My nose had been a source of family bonding, laughter, and ridiculous traditions. It had survived my grandmother’s remodeling attempts, my brother’s relentless teasing, and now, an unsolicited review from a stranger.
And the moral? Simple. Some things in life aren’t meant to be changed — they’re meant to be enjoyed, laughed at, and used as a weapon in family roast battles. My nose wasn’t just a nose. It was a legend to survive it all.
Until I broke it.
Now? It’s even funnier — a fritter cut in half, like siblings dividing snacks with surgical precision. A picture would explain it best, but I won’t make it that easy for you.
I woke up with a start. My nose — my sleepy little hill — was intact. I loved it even more now.
And if this nightmare was a sign? Let’s just say I’ll take the writing cue, but I’ll pass on any real-life pakoda critiques or pray for no breaking of this cute little hill in reality. Praying!
