Being Me

It was an announcement no one had expected to come from a teen who was riding the high-wave of an uncommon achievement.

Topper.

100 percent.

600 on 600.

And then the startling statement. It was as if a bomb had been dropped amidst a carnival.

‘Pure Science. That will be her choice,’ dad had said to his colleagues the day the exam results were declared, and they had all nodded in unmistakable admiration for me. The choice was barely a surprise to come from someone who had a perfect score in the subjects that their children struggled to pass muster.

The men in dapper suits and Clarks shoes acknowledged that his daughter was par excellence, and she was all set to be propelled to the next level of academics from where she would go on to create an irreversible success story. They agreed as they congratulated dad that I had everything on my side to become the next Einstein; I was all set to bring home a Nobel Prize in due course. A gold medal all the way from Norway was predicted to sit pretty among a plethora of other decorations that I had brought home in my 17 years of life. It was something dad had always spoken to them about, and by now, everyone who knew him knew about his grand aspirations for me too. 

Mom for her part said to her friends that she would love to see me wear the Doctor’s coat, cure ailing humans, and save lives. (She always said it in that order.)

‘What a noble thing it would be do! To fix broken hearts!’ she exclaimed poetically, seeking approval from her peers.

‘Of course, of course,’ they said in unison, their festering grudge safely tucked under their heaving bosoms. Some even felt a twinge of jealousy, and rolled their eyes when mom wasn’t looking. Mom was certain that a few among them had already started planning the alliance of their son with me and she laughed about it over dinner with dad and me.

There was no doubt in their minds, neither dad’s nor mom’s, that I would bring them the greatest of glories a child was capable of bringing her parents; glory of the kind not envisaged by common people.

With my topping the 12 grade exams, Dad’s ‘Nobel’ dream had inched one step closer home, and he made no attempt to plug his pride.

Mom, being a tad less ambitious, lodged no such towering ideas in her head. She was content with me becoming the best-known heart surgeon in the country. Who decided such things- the best and the rest- I had no clue, but she had always been obsessed with ‘excellence’, especially in matters pertaining to me.

I had been undaunted throughout, fulfilling their desires, handing out accolade after accolade, in everything from academics to music to art, year after year. It was as if I were pulling out the rabbit of their choice from my hat, as and when they pleased, with no question asked. With no dissent nor digression. Granting their every wish.

Come to think of it, I was in a tearing hurry to complete my obligations towards them and then break free, to lead an unfettered life on my own terms. I knew that day would arrive at some point, when I would unfold the wings I had kept tucked under my arms, and flail away to the skies, but that it would come this soon was a surprise to me too. It was a spot decision.

The day the results were announced, we had newsmen swooping on us, with dozens of cameras jostling for space and some soundbites from dad, mom and people around. It was curious to see them all making celebrities out of us when all I had done was bring home a perfect score in my board exams. When the numbers and grades had stopped being a fetish to me, I don’t know, but this accomplishment was insufferable to me.

I watched the beavering pack of newsmen with wonder and felt seriously tickled by their questions.

‘How does it feel to be the most intelligent teenager in the country?’

Most intelligent? Really?

‘Unbelievable,’ was all I said, because that was what I had heard my predecessors say.

To a few others who shoved the mic in front of me, I said, ‘It feels good,’ faking a squeal.

In reality, I wanted to confess to them that it all felt a little bizarre to be tagged ‘the most intelligent’ when that claim could not be ratified. How could they say I was the best student in the country based on a standardized test of a few hours? I could probably be described as an ace crammer, a rote specialist or something equally wacky, but not the most intelligent in the whole country.

Dad and mom gushed with pride as packs of sweets began to get stacked on the side table. They waited for their turn with the reporters. I had even caught mom rehearsing her lines in front of the mirror an hour before. The neighbors who had gathered to congratulate us looked on with awe, eager to grab their 60 seconds of fame in the frame, and the newsmen competed with each other to ask the most ridiculous questions to me.

‘Did your parents sit with you while you burnt the midnight oil?’

‘No, they were busy making love at that time,’ I wanted to say.

‘Did you think you’d top the whole country?’

‘Of course. The astrologer had predicted it,’ I wanted to say.

‘What advice will you give your juniors who have their eyes set on this spot in the coming years?’

‘God save you from the dreams of other people,’ I wanted to say.

‘Is this something you have been planning from a young age?’

‘Not a young age. From the day I was conceived. I have been planning this from my days as an embryo,’ I wanted to say.

There were moments when I wished that it were all a bad dream. I didn’t want any of it, least of all the drama that was unfolding in front of me.

For a blurry moment, I imagined myself telling them, ‘Oh, you are all so mistaken. It isn’t even me. I didn’t even take the exams. There was this apparition that appeared in front of me a few minutes before the exam, all wired up and weird looking. I pushed it into the exam hall while I went gallivanting in the town with my boyfriend. That day, he kissed me for the first time in places I cannot tell you. It is a secret, let not my parents know about it.’ I giggled inwardly at that point, thinking of the consternation in the faces before me.

‘It wasn’t me at all who gave the exams and got this damn thing…this whatever you are celebrating,’ I protested silently. ‘It was a robot that was crafted out of me. An inanimate object that supplicates to your commands. Why, I have even forgotten my name! I am now only a dream-fulfilling machine for my parents and an envy generating idol for my friends. For the rest, like you all, it doesn’t even matter what I am.’

The press meet began amidst thoughts roiling inside me. The heart waited impatiently to release the resentment I had kept bottled up for years. Flanked by dad and mom, I rehearsed my lines in the head. It didn’t matter what the question was, the answer was fixed.

I was asked to give an opening statement before the questions were fired.

‘Thank you,’ I began, softly, running a nervous glance across the room. ‘Thank you, everyone, for your generous words of praise and appreciation. Thank you, dad, and mom, for making me what I am today. Before I am asked how I feel and what I plan for my future, let me tell you all a thing. Dad, mom, I am sorry if I disappoint you. You are not used to being disappointed by me. Hence when you hear this, it might hurt you several times more than it might parents of average students.’  

I saw dad and mom’s faces stiffen as I spoke those words. My mouth felt dry, and I swallowed hard. The audience fell into an uneasy silence, the feverish moments ticking as I paused to gather courage.

‘I don’t intend to study further. This is the end of my academics. I have no plan for my future yet….’

Just as a reporter began to ask a question, dad raised his hand to stop him and rose to his feet.

I shut my eyes tight as I felt his grip on my arm. Surprisingly, there was no animosity in his touch. I had expected him to drag me inside, but all he did was to make me sit in the chair and ask mom to fetch some water.

Mom hobbled in with panic. The audience seized the opportunity and began to fling questions at us.

‘I don’t think she will be in a position to take your questions. I request you all to kindly disperse and respect our privacy,’ dad announced. It sounded like what families of celebrities said to the media when they died mysteriously.

What an irony that it had come close to it, but the tragedy was averted only because of my firm decision to not quit.

The buzz in the room lasted for half an hour, after which the house plunged into a quietness that reminded me of the days preceding the exams.

I didn’t know what to expect from dad and mom, but this scene had been recreated in my mind several times, with changing effects, except that I hadn’t spoken the entire thing to them yet. They hadn’t heard me out and the uncertainty that lingered gave the evening a ghostly aspect. As if it was all a dystopian dream.

I wondered in what realm of consciousness I was floating at that time. What do you call that space where you are neither happy nor sad, waltzing in a desensitized land? Stoicism? No, the word sounded too lofty for comfort to my ears. I let it be. it didn’t matter.

Inside, dad and mom were engaged in a serious conversation. I made no attempt to eavesdrop, nor did I agonize over what they might be discussing. They would soon present themselves in front of me, to cross-examine me, and to demand an explanation. I steeled myself up to face their wrath or whatever it was that they would spew on me. Mom’s sullen tears. Dad’s morbid stare. Their clouded faces and the shadows they cast on me. There would be a huge display of emotions for me to contend with. Gross from mom. Grave from dad.

Clearly, it wouldn’t be easy for them to see their dreams come crashing down like that, in a snap. The ticket to Oslo, the Doctor’s coat, the pride of place in society- these wouldn’t be easy to renounce. They had spun a life around it, spent all their emotions and energies on it for several years.

I lay plonked in the sofa relishing the sweet void that was filling within me as I contemplated my life from here. I imagined the universe with its arms open wide, waiting to sync itself with me.

As the uncertainty of the evening wore on, hunger pangs began to seize me and I zombie-walked into the kitchen and rummaged in the fridge. I opened the containers inside and found leftovers from lunch. As the sharp smell of garlic-laced curries stung my nostrils, I realized my craving was not for food. I didn’t want to satiate the stomach, but I felt an intense urge to satisfy a desire that I could not quite put my finger on. Where did it rise from? What would assuage it?

I discovered a family pack of butterscotch inside the freezer that had found its way home long before the exams. It had lain there half-consumed, gathering freezer odor, for nearly two months. A cold or a cough during the exams could have put paid to dad and mom’s Himalayan hopes for me. But it was all over now, and I devoured the treat frantically, feeling the cold cut through my tongue and throat. A poor tooth, waiting for its turn at the dentist, moaned faintly as the ice-cream washed over it.

The dull ache in the tooth was instantly supplanted by the pleasure of the palate. I dumped the empty bucket into the trashcan, feeling relief in the nooks and crannies of my whole being. How futile life had been without its share of Baskin Robbins!

I felt alive again, as alive as I had before the seasons of expectations, and ambitions had begun. Before the racetrack was laid out for me to run and win. Before my accolades became an addiction to dad and mom. Before my life changed to a lame, naked, hollowed-out semblance of a teen.

‘Simmy.’

It was dad from the living room. His voice was feebler than what it usually was.

I gulped the ice-cream laced saliva, cleared my throat, and hurried out. Inquest time. The distance from the kitchen to the living room seemed like an eternity.

‘Dad, two minutes,’ I said and rushed to the bathroom. I briefed myself as I sat on the pot for longer than it was required.

I had to remain calm and solemn in front of him. The last thing I wanted him to imagine was that I was joking or that I was out of my mind. I had to convince him that I had made my decision consciously, knowing precisely what it meant.

It meant that I was giving up everything that was hitherto considered important in my life.

It meant hanging up a festooned future that I had come so painfully close to.

It meant standing up and speaking for myself at the impressionable age of 17.

It meant finding and being myself before they could usurp me.

Dad looked tired but determined in the wan light of the ornate corner lamp. Mom was nowhere in sight. She had probably left it to dad to complete the task of grilling. It was a sensible decision, I thought, given her propensity for theatrics.

‘Dad, I am sorry,’ I said, standing in front of him.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t stop my eyes from filling up. I wasn’t sure if I was sorry, but an apology seemed appropriate, for the level of my transgression wasn’t small. I had consciously sought to crush his dreams, with the ruthlessness unbecoming of a child. I had become a metaphor for filial ingratitude.

‘Hmm..’ he grunted. ‘Mom wants you to eat and go to sleep.’

‘Dad…’

‘It’s late and I am tired. You must get some sleep too. We can talk tomorrow. There is nothing that cannot wait until then.’

I wished the lights were bright for me to read his face and decipher his thoughts.

I wished he let me vent my heart and gave my freedom right away.

‘Dad’, I said again moving closer to him.

He took my hand, patted it, and said, ‘Tomorrow.’ There was no bitterness in his voice.

Even in the dim settings and through the blur in my eyes, I saw that there was no malice in his eyes.

I didn’t know if I was imagining, but there was a suggestion of a smile in his handsome, half-century young face. For once, I felt genuinely sorry for what I was doing to him.

‘Good night, dad,’ I whispered and left the room carrying with me an ambivalence inspired by dad’s unexpectedly mild manner.

The unspoken things between us had to wait for a night before they could be voiced and sorted out, and along with them, my long-awaited freedom to set out on a life of my choice.

I vaguely remember having wept into my pillow that night. I don’t remember why.

Thinking of it now, decades later, it seems like an episode from another lifetime.

Fuzzy and fogged out.