What's the Worst That Could Happen

I am an extremist - I cry and laugh silly. I get angry silly, and lose my mind over little things that probably don't matter, till someone points it out. Lately, I have been on this roller coaster, partly because it is tough to reason out my emotions with myself, and partly because I think I am losing myself in the mutt of things happening around me. Then, there are times I feel I am probably sane, and others are craving, snatching, proving, fighting, not know what the point of doing all that is. And then, I think, maybe I am the insane one - is my Zen like calm within me, coming out like different avatars, and affecting people around me?

The reason for this post, is another. In my recent conversations, with one of the best people I have in life now, he said, in an attempt to calm me, "What is the worst that could happen...". These words was a shock for me at first, because of the sheer unpredictability it brought along, and two, I would have to let go - which is so not me and my controlling self. As much I let my crazy mind fly to the heavens and rake a hell on earth, I don't let loose of my chain of actions - they are measured, wary, conscious, and very, VERY controlled.

So, these words, as cool as they sounded, liberated me of a deep need to control. Probably it was the way it was said, and I am sure whoever said it did not see too much into it, at that point. But for me, when I started applying it, everyday, to everything, I was calmer, and a lot less worried about what could go wrong.

So now, every time a situation comes up, I take a step back, breathe, and ask myself - "What's the Worst That Could Happen?"

Thank You, AK.

That Little Girl Has Grown Up, Finally!

Why is this being written now? Years after the ghosts have been exorcised from within, why now? Simple, I relate to that little girl, what she went through, and what she would go through rest of her life. Insecurities, mistrusts, fear, need for reassurance, over thinking – these are terrible things to hold within, it would take many years, many people, many experiences, to get rid of these from within.

I loved playing grown-up when I was little. Wearing sari, wrapping a blanket over my skirt, tying a piece of towel around my head pretending I had long hair, playing with my doll that would close her eyes when I put her to sleep. My father had gotten me a small handbag, which I would hang on my shoulder, and run like my mother always did to catch her bus. I was a single child, I invented my games, and learnt to talk to my dolls, and pretend there were people around. Till he came into our house. He was the cousin, my father’s sister’s son. He was big, many years bigger, and I don’t know how old he was then. With both my parents working, it was a boon to have him in the house. During daytime when I went to my school, he would go for his electrician course, and would come and pick me up in the afternoon when my bus dropped me. He always smelt of paan. He would get me bananas and sweet lime soda from Appoopan’s (grandfather) small shop. In Appoopan’s shop, my father deposited money every month, so my banana and lime soda is taken care of after school. I would hold my cousin’s hand, and hop, skip, jump, till we got home. I don’t remember if I ever spoke anything to him during our walk back. After reaching home, he would help me get into my favorite white frock with small blue, red and yellow flowers, (which I insisted to wear everyday, and many wars between my mother & I took place...), and then I am allowed to pick my favorite game. 

Excited like a buzzing bee, I chose to sit with my dolls, and play house-house, or teacher-student. Till he told me about a new game called father-mother. He would be the father, and I would be the mother, and the dolls were our children – just like I was to my parents. It was our little secret because I am a big girl, and big girls kept secrets. I would get him tea, like my mother did, and cook with my steel kitchen set, like my mother did. We would sleep on the bed like my parents did. He touched me, and I asked him if my parents did, and he said, all parents do, and it was part of the game. Everyday, he would want to play this game, and I was getting bored. I got threatened that I am a bad girl and a bad mother to my dolls. I told my mother one day, that my cousin peed under the bed – and she said I was making up a story. She asked him I presume, because he was more forceful later. I was told to do "things" - only those I remember now with a shudder and shock. It went on, for years, I forget the number. The scars remained.

Till I was in my ninth standard, I carried the secret with me, till I read about what had really happened to me. I was scarred, violated, my body was used against my will – I sat my parents down and told them what had happened. I was let down, when they sat there numb listening to me. I was told not to bring it up, I was told to forget it, and move on. Little did they know how much it had scarred me, how much of it was going to live with me, how much of it would become my worst nightmare and source of my terrible insecurities in years to come.

Have I forgiven him? No, Never. I am not large-hearted. I am human. But beyond that, have I forgiven my parents – No, Never. I still have my anger against them – but according to them, they were trying to protect me from society. What they did not think of, was protecting me from myself – my fear and anxieties. How I wish they had told me to fight back, and given me courage to do so, instead of telling me “what would others say, if they heard it.” How I wish, they had understood how traumatized I was. 

That's where I drew my strength from. So what; it was my life, and I owed that courage to myself. Didn't I?

Today, I feel happy when thousands of parents stand up for the rights of their children, and fight for justice. In all that you do in your fight for justice, dear reader, think of her, her little dreams, dolls and doll houses, that childhood that she would hate, and the smells that would haunt her forever...she needs you too, just like I needed someone too…

I said earlier, that the ghosts were long exorcised. No, I realize now. They live within me, my insecurities start there. The 4 year old me, peep from within, and tell me, ‘it’s ok, and you will be fine now.” I would try and believe it, for now.

[It took me immense courage to write this down. I re-read it a million times, maybe. But I had to, for her, and for me.]

Letting It Go (As published in Tehelka)

The reasons seem pretty silly now, as I look back. But back then, for an 18-year-old, they were very strong reasons to have lost hope forever. My parents were not very educated. They were, as we call them in India, ‘middle-class’, working to earn a living, without the cushion of any great legacy of wealth or power. But none of that stopped them from giving me a good education in a premium institution where I studied with children who boasted of a much more illustrious lineage than mine. What my parents also did was to let me follow my dream to study English literature. However, what they did not do, was choose to tell me the truth. The truth that pricked my subconscious every once in a while, but one which I brushed aside always.
But it got unbearable after a point — the differences of culture, thinking, behaviour. I was so different from all of them around me, my own family. The contrast kept gnawing at me all the time and eventually one day I screamed at my parents.

Sobbing, trembling, my mother told me, “Yes, you are right, you are adopted.” I had known all this while, of course, but now it was no longer unsaid. I was not prepared for this part of my life to come out in the open like this and didn’t know how to react. I didn’t know how to reconcile with the naked truth.

So here I was, 18 years old, rebellious, not wanting to live, tired, let down, cheated… and most importantly, unwanted by someone as soon as I was born. It killed me inside each day. I lost my zest for life.

I used to be the first bencher in my class, eyes shining and catching every word from the teacher’s mouth as they fell. But all that changed. Tears now rolled down uncontrollably without stopping. I didn’t know how to stop them. One of my teachers noticed, and called me to his room. I told him. I shared my misery, my sense of failure, about being cheated. He listened carefully and finally, he said, “Think of what you have now. Forget about what you lost.” Was it easy for him to say it? Yes. But was it as simple as that? Perhaps, it was. I decided to try living my life by forgetting the losses of the past and concentrating on what I did have at the moment. Then I realised my debt to the people who chose me over the other baby born with me — a boy. They were not educated enough perhaps, but they knew they wanted a girl. I knew I had to repay the debt. Though it was silly of me to even try I guess.

Life moved on after that. I studied hard, and stopped thinking too much about it. But I still had to go far — distance myself from the emotional turmoil that engulfed my nights. I left my hometown on the pretext of studying further, which I fully intended to, as well. I knew I had to stay away — be myself, and carve out my own identity. What I did not realise was, how I would look at elderly women in buses, trains, on streets and search for an identity that echoes my own in someway. That search continues still… but now I am comfortable being me. I am comfortable sharing a bond with the people who chose me. I am able to neutrally think of adoption as an act of want, rather than an act of rejection.

It bothers me at times still. But I am much more courageous. Which is why it was so important to address this niggling question of self-identity. At my lowest, I cry out aloud for the biggest rejection in my life. But then I coax myself soon after — I have done myself proud. Another year to being 30, and I know the truth which has made me grounded. I know deep within — I am me. I can finally feel the sense of relief I have craved for, the desire to come out of the shroud of self-doubt that enveloped my childhood has been satiated at last. I once stood on the crossroads of life wondering which would be the best way forward. Now I know.

LINK TO TEHELKA ARTICLE