the schism

original image sourced from the internet
and tinkered with to fit the narrative

I often wonder if the distances between what is said, what is meant, what is heard and what is interpreted are variables for other people too. I start this post on that slightly unclear note because sometimes when I think back on conversations that have a splatter of an unexpected reaction, I wonder if word-strings had been unable to navigate the said-meant-heard-interpreted maze. I also want to believe that I am not the only one occupying the bewildered bandwagon on the matter.

On one occasion, as a student of class 2A at Mount Carmel, I was particularly proud about carrying a brand new dozen color pencil set for art class that day. We were all coloring in our drawing books, and the pencils were being passed about around me to whoever required a particular shade for their work. At the end of the period, the pencils found their way back to me. Just as I was about the close the set and get ready for the next class, I noticed that the box was missing (and I distinctly remember this part) the violet pencil. I was particularly distraught because suddenly my new set was incomplete.

Some of us girls looked around to see if it had rolled into some obscure corner without anyone noticing, but with little luck. Then, on a classmate's suggestion that I should tell the class-teacher, the small-voice, teary-eyed me went up to the big desk and shared my predicament. The teacher was not happy at all and instructed us to look for the missing article accompanied with a warning that if the pencil was not found, each of us would be required to bring a rupee for a new box for me. In the midst of my distress and just outside it; the problem compounded manyfold.

Assisted by a time-portal similar to the one that facilitated its disappearance, the pencil found its way back into the box - it had rolled to the bottom of the box, and its sister pencils were sitting on top of it. So, I dutifully walked up to the big desk again to inform the teacher, armed with good news this time.

Her reaction stunned me and I recoiled in panic. The teacher gave me harsh moral science lesson about how wrong it was to blame others. I was made to stand in front of the class and apologize because (according to her) I had accused them collectively of stealing from me. My little brain and my forever-hyperactive sense of right and wrong wanted to push-back to assert that the idea of theft had not occurred to me at all, but could not muster the courage. Among the ancillaries of a convent-based education is that considerable effort goes into deforming you into your most timid version, blunting your sense of defiance and your ability to question authority.

This was among the earliest instances when I was unable to navigate the chasm between my words and else's comprehension. Self-reflections are polka-dotted with not-too-unfamiliar imbroglio and I cannot be confident about any change for the better either.

I am a conversational-Neanderthal (groan!) Oh well, I guess I will trudge along.