Its that time of the year again. The time to restore my steadily diminishing vision to its once-youthful acuity. Its time for my annual eye check-up and, as night follows day, time to order my new glasses. The computerised eye check-up throws up a new set of numbers every year; and though I linger, hesitate, postpone and otherwise drag my feet, I have to head to the optician to order my new glasses.
At the optician’s
Its an ordeal I detest immensely. First, of course, is choosing a frame from the bewildering array on display. Square, round, oval, black, brown, gold-rimmed… why can’t we just make do with my old comfortable frame, I ask. The salesman smiles, a trifle smugly. He mentions lenses. The questions begin rather innocuously. Bifocal or progressive? That’s easy. Then it gets tougher – like questions at your MBBS viva-voce exams, only trickier. Plastic polymer, polycarbonate (what’s that?) or glass? Anti glare? Hmm.. all right. Coated? With what, you want to ask, but don’t want to look ignorant. Scratch-resistant? You’re scratching your head instead. UV and blue light protection? Rose-tinted was not an option though. Who knew that ordering a set of glasses was such a complicated affair!
Its not over yet. I am subjected to more measurements to ensure that every single ray of light entering the high-refractive index, lightweight, polycarbonate, coated, scratch-resistant lens is captured and directed precisely to the fovea, in the manner of Arjun’s arrow!
the first look
Within the week I get a call from the optician that my new glasses are ready and waiting. I try them on and gaze into the dazzling mirrors lining the shop with some trepidation, while the salesman stands alongside like a proud parent. I find myself rather unprepared for the momentous clarity of the occasion. Each wrinkle on my face stands etched in high-resolution precision, and the many much-touted signs of aging need no magnification! I mumble my thanks and pay for my new hi-tech visual aid. I must confess here that I can read every digit of the five-figure sum on the bill with great accuracy. However, I stumble on the steps leading out on the street, blinded by the concentrated beam of sunlight in my eyes! I change into my old spectacles once I am out of sight and am relieved at being comfortably misty-eyed once more.
But there’s no getting away from it. Where are your new glasses, demands my husband the next morning. Maybe the morning light will be kinder, I think as I put them on, still carefully avoiding the mirror. I open the morning newspaper. Every word stands out in stark black and white clarity; but alas, the news – of wars, violence, scams and inequity – remains much the same. The colours on the TV are vibrant but the stories only cover the dark underbelly of the human condition.
I divert myself by casting my now hawk-eyed vision around my own house. I can locate with unerring accuracy every crumb of toast scattered on the dining table where my husband is having breakfast. He’s not impressed. Neither is the maid when I point out a smudge of grease on the knife and the liberal amount of dust on the bookcase. She sniffs and sulks the rest of the day.
On the way to work the dust covering the roadside shops, the buses with peeling paint and the tattered hoardings stand out in grim detail. The street urchins look grimier, the stray dogs mangier, the traffic cops at the crossroads more weary-eyed. Mercifully, the winter smog descends and obscures much, which not even my new glasses can penetrate.
By the end of the day, I grow thoughtful. Was life ever meant to be seen in such stark detail, in such perfect clarity? Wasn’t it better in soft focus, with its blemishes and imperfections just a little blurred and fuzzy?
Perhaps I am not quite ready for my new glasses. I take them off and put them back in their case. They will probably be more comfortable next year.