The disappointment suddenly pushed me back to when I was 10 years old. The first time a poem of mine was published in a childrens’ magazine called Gokulam. It was about the rain. I don’t remember much about it, except that it had the word ‘lo’ in it, something that makes me cringe a little. Lol. But I was so proud of the fact that the postman brought a postal order of Rs.10 the next day, which was the magazine’s payment for my poem. I could hardly contain myself. My father bought me a brand new wallet to keep that ten rupee note. I did for a long time.
The next week, in school, my class teacher somehow found out and asked me about it in class. I told her the poem was about the rain. She told me to recite it. Now, I had been writing poems since I started writing words. I had a notebook scribbled with all sorts of nonsense. This poem was just one random piece that I sent to the magazine. No way did I memorize my poems. So I couldn’t recite it entirely. In front of the whole class, she asked me if I had really written it. Instantly, I was crushed. I couldn’t believe the implied accusation. Some of my classmates clearly believed I didn’t write the poem, judging by their skepticism after that class. My glorious achievement had become ‘dirty’ in my little mind.
Thinking back, as I allowed memory after memory to come to the forefront, I realized that this was a pattern in my life. My strict and fearsome father had made sure that I didn’t express myself freely even as a toddler. Every time I did, people tainted it. I was laughed at, mocked, teased, belittled, humiliated and discouraged so many times. It seemed like whenever I reared my head and peeked out of the wall I was slowly building around myself, I pulled myself back in almost immediately, saddened and embarrassed. I did have one or two wonderful people around, but I was too timid with them. To this day, I regret that as a teenager, I never really opened up to my English teacher, a woman I admired from a distance. I wanted to, as I felt like she was the one person in my lonely life who seemed to care. But I was too scared to ‘be me’ with anyone, even at 12 years old.
So, is this where all my problems stem from? My general dislike of being around people for too long, my inability to sustain relationships past a few years, my introverted existence? Was my entire childhood so deeply disturbing to me that I took away from it a general disappointment and lack of faith in people?
Being as shy and quiet as I was, there was one skill that I silently and quite unconsciously picked up- the art of reading people. Most of the time, I know when people lie to me or when they pretend. Be it family or friends, I can tell. I realize now, that every such instance of deceit only strengthened (and continues to strengthen) my reticence. I have always felt this deep hurt when I recognize the lie. It seems to convey a clear message- you are of so little value to this person, that winning/saving face is so much more important.
Ironically, every time I meet someone new, I start off with this complete childlike trust and wonder. But I’m looking. I’m looking and looking. I’m looking for the other shoe to drop. I’m waiting for the disappointment. Is it fair? No. Not in any universe is it fair to the other person. No one’s perfect. It IS unfair. But then, I am only dishing out what I got, what I learnt. Maybe if I had grown up with my siblings or cousins, I would have taken things lightly. Rough housing could have thickened my skin. As it is, I appear to have taken everything to heart and developed such a strong sense of shame and unnecessary guilt about being inadequate whenever I faced something unpleasant, that I grew up scarred.
Unfortunately, I remained so. I'm grateful for this series of epiphanies I’ve had today. Through the years, I have tried to heal, but there is nothing like understanding to speed up the process.
The one question that saddens me, though, is- have I done all this to myself? People are people. Everyone grows up around others. Should I, as a child, have known better? Was I prone to be sad? These are questions I cannot answer. Not without a time machine.
People privately ask me why I share so much publicly. A couple of reasons. The takeaway- we all learn from each other. Maybe someone who understands this will make sure that their child’s teasing isn’t taken too far in the name of humor. Maybe someone will realize that lying isn’t just about words. Second- I truly believe in vulnerability. I do pull away on one hand, but on the other, I am always willing to share who I am. A contradiction of sorts, I know. You see, there is a difference between believing people are good and that people are good to YOU. That is a powerful statement. Third- I don’t really think that anyone can harm me with what I share. What- is someone going to mock me about having been mocked? Lol. Vulnerability isn’t a weakness. Unawareness is.
That said, I've been sitting here with this, hesitating to hit the 'post' button. Is it too much? TMI? If it is, I apologize.
Going back to how all this began, all I wanted was my niece to feel the way that I felt when I got that ten rupee note. To know that someone recognized that something I had created had value. Real value. Perhaps I am being naive. Times have changed. That little girl is not me. She is probably way more secure and way too worldly to be ecstatic about my offer. Good.
Heavy stuff, all this. I hope you’ve read it, if you’ve gotten this far, as an interesting essay, and not something gloomy. Not all that is worth reading is bloomy. See, I
am good at poetry!
