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. 

Happy New Year!

The issue with keeping a record of your time on earth using the somewhat arbitrary system of your revolutions around the sun is, in my humble opinion, grossly inadequate in its capacity of a tracker. It is ill-equipped for everything except to make you (me) feel miserable about the (now) terrifying expanse between what is and what was expected to be. For whatever reason, my color-palette and brush set is different from that of who/what-ever is painting the bigger canvas.

This one time, a friend and I were standing at the edge of Lake Washington, staring at the beauty of the sunset. He mentioned that his life looks different from what he had imagined for himself; and in one of those moments of aura-ed glory, I had suggested that it was never guaranteed to us that our myopic plans will be in congruence with the *big* plan. I remember he looked at me all wide-eyed; completely taken by surprise that a pretty little airhead had voiced the idea. He confessed that it had taken him a really long time to figure that out before asking me about the source of that wisdom.

How easy it is to forget, and how important it is to remember (or least store it in a ready part of your own hard-drive).

This kernel had tucked itself in some inaccessible corner of my mind and I lived the last few weeks as a hamster on a worry-wheel. I was miserable about the divide and filled with heavy feelings pervading my comprehension of all things. It really did not help that my birthday was here again - these seem to come around so much more quickly now than before. Perhaps the earth moves faster around the sun the older you grow (haha!)

From around the time when I needed assistance with putting books together for the next day's study schedule at school, I was part of the group that went for an inter-school painting competition on Republic Day that year which was hosted on the roof-top of the Bhagalpur Engineering College. The junior group was to work on the theme 'Seasonal Flowers' and the seniors were to illustrate 'National Integration'. Not many of us knew the actual meaning of the word 'seasonal' and as a concession we were allowed a quick peek at the flower beds a few floor-levels below.

I drew a poppy bush with half-a-dozen flowers in full bloom and a few others eager to follow suit.  I wrote a stylized 'petunia', below this bright red drawing. When the allotted time was up our drawings were collected and presented to the panel of judges, and participants were instructed to stay in our places. I remember being impatient and wanting to go home, but I was too timid to even request for a bathroom trip and so stayed put. Few of my friends were watching the activity at the judges' desk curious about the results and someone told me that my drawing was on 'that' desk.

Soon (but what seemed like a long time) it was time to declare the result, and (who'd have guessed) my drawing won (gasp!) the *first* prize. My name was called and as a response my body vacuum-sucked my stomach in and I became the third-person in my own narrative. I walked up to the stage in disbelief, accepted the prize (engraved brass-shield) in disbelief and returned to my seat in disbelief. I was so numb that I could not feel elation till much later. It was the first and the only time (yet) that I have won the first prize for something in my life.

I pen this life-event because I felt a similar disbelief-filled-elation when I read through messages, postings, texts and phone-calls on the occasion of my birthday (I happily blame facebook for being rigorously insistent that you make your contribution to ensuring that someone-anyone has a happy birthday). It was an exhilarating revisit to my fundamentals of optimism, affection and smiles that climb up-to the eyes.

So, thank you. I suspend my dislike and distrust for social-media on this occasion. I confess that I am a long way off of an immediate change from my notoriety for not acknowledging conversation-snips; but the affection is reciprocated in equal measure, if not more.