Ms Chatterjee

Walking in the narrow corridor, I carried my books to the locker. It was just 5 minutes past 8 in the morning and Ms Chatterjee would have started the lecture. I was late and anxious, as is usual of me. I entered and to my surprise she let me in. She did have a soft corner for me, I'm sure. As I sat I realised she was reading out my exam sheet to the students for reference. "I would have given it a full grade only if it had not been for the grammatical errors", said she. It meant a lot to me, and I know she guessed it. She saw inside me, the real me, my capabilities. She told me to work hard and come back to the college and join her as her colleague in the future. She had expectations from me. She saw something in me, she knew I was capable. But am I? Yes, I am. 

Gradually as I grow up, coming out of my shield of nervousness and low-confidence, I know I am worth it. It takes hell lot of guts and forcing yourself beyond the limit to come out of that constant rottenness of criticism you have been facing since you were a child. It is hard to come out of it, trust me. But I guess I made it through. Nevertheless, I shake like a bird flying against a gust, when told to do something impromptu, like addressing a room full of audience, be it an ignorant audience.
But do I live upto her expectations? Sometimes I wish she was my mother, I would have been not so scared, not so anxious, not so messed up.

But let's face it...

Alter Ego

I can't figure how it differentiates us, the quality that makes you less miserable than her. Everyone has fond memories of their childhood. She does too. But to grow up into adulthood, and move away from those memories, she can't grow out of it. She can't figure out how others can.

Still stuck in the dusk of that breezy day, playing in the grass barefoot. She doesn't live in her childhood home anymore but her alter ego still lives there, not in the same home perhaps, but in the back lane with the skating court, or in the tree they used to climb and party on near the huge iron gate that would always stay closed. Or maybe in the 'first park' as they used to fondly call it. Or maybe in the pathway adjoining another building lined with pomegranate and bougainvillea trees.

I try to figure out what's wrong with my alter ego, who is too heavy on me these past few months. Why is she mourning a loss? Perhaps she knows that I won't make it through.

I don't need anyone to rescue me, I just need them to divert me. They say, when you get the first sign of anxiety-DIVERT your mind. I just need diversion. But I'll never be rescued. Because my feet are fixed too firmly in my nostalgia.

Adulthood is nothing but the ending. I want to know the quality, and perhaps try to imbibe it in myself, to see adulthood as a new beginning. Maybe I didn't turn out how I was supposed too. Why? Did you turn out to be how you always thought you would? Didn't you scar or burn or fade a little?

I'm sure you did. How did you get out of it? What is the quality that helped you?