Embarking on this cosmic journey called life during the Stone Age—okay, fine, the 1990s—in the bustling chaos of Bangalore, I, the one and only Salman Pasha, made my grand entrance to Earth with a chuckle that echoed through the ages. Picture it: Mr. Salman Pasha, offspring of H. Babu and the illustrious Mubeena Begam, proudly representing the most open-minded Muslim family in the religious melting pot.
Now, let's rewind a bit. Growing up, I found myself tangled in a web of confusion. Why, you ask? Well, folks insisted on calling me "Sabru maga nodo" (a.k.a. Sabru's son). Meanwhile, my dear old dad, H. Babu, unwittingly had me contemplating whether my mom had some secret marriage pact with a Mr. Sabru. Spoiler alert: she didn't. Turns out, "Sabru's Son" was just the local slang for a Muslim progeny, and there I was, at the tender age of seven, searching for my elusive second father.
Ah, the carefree days of my youth, sprinkled with laughter and nicknames so odd they could make a hyena blush. Little did I realize, this comedy fest was about to pull a U-turn, unleashing a plot twist that could turn a kid with zero stress into a miniature philosopher pondering the mysteries of life, or at least the mystery of why bananas are so slippery.
The tale takes a hilarious turn as we dive into the school years. Picture this: my very first day, with my mom on a mission to deliver me to the realm of education. And oh, was I putting up a protest! "Nooooooooo! I won't go! I won't! I won't!!!" But really, who pays attention to the dramatic pleas of a sobbing kid?
So, there I was, reluctantly stepping into my classroom, tears streaming down my face. I glanced back, and my mom's exit had all the dramatic flair of Paro bidding farewell to her Devdas. Oh, the tragedy! And just when I thought things couldn't get any weirder, there was my so-called "husband" for the day – my teacher, the formidable "Rajlakmi," holding onto me like I was a precious artifact she wasn't ready to part with. Huff, God, indeed!
And thus began my epic journey through the hallowed halls of education, with tears, laughter, and a teacher who doubled as my reluctant spouse for the day. If only my kindergarten self could've seen the hilarity that awaited in the chapters of school life.
Fast forward to the 8th standard, and there I was—tall, fair, and tipping the scales at a whopping 98 kgs! Yes, you heard it right. 98 kgs, a number that could make Godzilla blush. Kids eyed me as if I were some escaped dinosaur from Jurassic Park, ready to snack on unsuspecting classmates. And the girls? Well, let's just say I became the unwitting star of their daily comedy show.
Being on the heavy side had its downsides, you know. Every step I took seemed like an opportunity for the entire school to burst into laughter. My classmates even had a theme song for me, one that etched itself into the depths of my soul: "Dumma Dumma Banda Muchkondu tinda" (Mr. Fatty strolls in slowly and silently devours the food). And just like that, I earned myself a new moniker - "Dumma Salman" (Moota Salman, Fatass Salman).
Amidst the laughter and ridicule, I transformed into an introvert, navigating the world in silence, shying away from raising my voice or expressing my thoughts. Yet, like all introverts, I found solace in my own realm, where my only confidante was none other than my mom, the incredible Mubeena Begam, whom I affectionately called "Ammi" in the melodic tones of Urdu.
Moms possess a magical ability to decipher the thoughts lingering in our minds, and here's why.
One day, as I strolled home from school, my usual lone journey accompanied by the comforting embrace of my beloved Dairy Milk, I yearned for a world where chocolate fountains flowed endlessly, and I swam in cocoa dreams. As I ambled along, a group of kids pointed fingers and jeered, "Dumma Nodo Dumma heg tintedane" (look at the fatty ass munching "wo dehko MOOTA saala kise thus raha hai"), and this time, it stung. I don't know why, but it did hurt. Fuming with anger, I flung my precious five-rupee chocolate to the ground and hastened away. Well, not exactly hastened – a 98kg guy can't run, right? I'll admit, it was more of a brisk walk with a side of heaving breaths. But I walked (okay, don't laugh) back home, tears clouding my eyes. I sought refuge with my mom and blurted out, "WHY AM I LIKE THIS" before storming off.
