Posts Tagged ‘letters’

useless items

I can’t forget one particular day in my life. A chapter in my leaflet that made me immensely gloomy when I was quite young. This was way before I was introduced to the concept of love. It holds a special place in my heart because it belonged to that era wherein I was learning how to enjoy my words. Life was nothing but a proving ground for me.

It was a letter competition with a hazy date. So hazy that I was convinced our submissions were supposed to happen before 24th September when in reality, what the announcer meant was 23rd instead.

Days spent in brooding, scribbling, re-writing again, creating words that were next to magic. It was the beginning of the change in my head. Words were finally making more sense to me. My hunt for appreciation, nay, love was true. It was trying to express itself in its purest form. I had seen a rare spark of talent in my pen somehow. I knew it was a proper hammering of a dream that was to pan out a sculpture of me on the anvil of destiny.  All I needed was a nod. Just a mere nod. Someone or something prizing me with these words:

“You are something in our whole lot of nothing.”

Until the day in my head finally arrived.

With all that sweat and all that dreams in my eyes, I scoured like a madman for the teacher who had asked for submissions. It was a big school; nobody was spared from getting lost. But my resolve couldn’t be shaken. I went from class to class looking for her, all her possible frequented areas, all her probable inclinations. Amidst my search, two pages of diligence dangled between my hands. Those leaves were as excited as I was.

When I finally got hold of her on a wretched staircase, I gave her the biggest smile my face could ever register, handing over my baby in her hands.

She was quick to respond,

“But the last date is over. You are a day late.”

And I could only manage:

Weren’t we supposed to hand it over before 24th?

Her blank eyes that were well clouded by a thick layer of her spectacles failed to recognize the zeal in mine. She was as blunt as I picture her right now. She responded coldly.

Yes, on 23rd. Before 24th means 23rd. You should have come yesterday.

I apologized for being stupid with a sinking heart. As she went on to meet a waiting class, I stood there looking at my papers. If she had just read it, if I could have convinced her to read it once, maybe she would have changed her mind. I was a stranger to her. Strangers get hurt without the other realizing it. I was tempted to shout:

You haven’t lived in my shoes. You don’t know me the way I do. Maybe if you had, it would have affected your decision to see how bad I had worked on my letter.

I went to my class utterly disappointed at myself, at the teacher for being so crude, and at my hard luck. I couldn’t stop myself from going on and on about it for a day or two in front of my mother, my brother and some of those friends who really listened when I talked. Later I came to realize someone from my class won that competition and he with a smug face came to point it out to me.

For a couple of days, it sat there on my table, that letter I had written. It looked at me with an uncertain fate. It had connected to me on a level, no one ever could. It knew all about a dream that went inside the head of a child while it was penned. It was well aware of the despair too when that dream couldn’t manage an approval.

Until one day it chose to get lost amongst countless papers of the past.

image of how to remove a bad teacher

Sometimes I think every failure we encounter is nature’s way of warning us, its way of adjusting us, putting us on the scanner once again till we find a better path. Maybe where we were headed in the first place wasn’t supposed to be our destiny, and that universe furled itself knocking us out of our elusive surefire resolve, asking us to do something else altogether. In a way correcting our moves with its very own ‘Reset’ button.

When you begin to do something that is in line with nature’s big plan for you, you will find yourself succeeding at every juncture. The Universe drops you hints right from the beginning saying:

“You were good at this. Why don’t you keep doing it? You will succeed all the way. You will keep getting results.”

To exemplify it better I could array it with my very own chords – Writing was my first affair. And the reason I consider it my ultimate salvation is owing to all those clues I received growing up. It was inbred in the form of emotions, and it gradually straddled out with my instant love for literature. I swooned over it and lost my heart somewhere between its words.

My first official letter I wrote had my heart out on an application leaf. I was quite young, yet brainy in a way. Its subject read: “Complaint to Remove a Bad Teacher.” It gushed with emotions, pointing out everything that was terribly wrong with the teacher who did everything but teach. It traversed meaning of life, our existence and what not. It digressed a little with lines like: “Children are supposed to be the future.” etc. Pah!

The counselor who had picked it, was giggling stupefied, wondering how could a small child be writing big words for his age. I laughed along with her, believing I was stupid too. But to my surprise it was acted upon, taken seriously. And so began an unending regime of getting things done via letters. Every time I wrote one, the response was always good. Either an action would be taken or my wants would be positively satiated.

My convincing letter was the first inkling I got that had me believe, nature wanted me to write more, that it was nothing but a mere pen and a paper that would get the job done for me. I distinctly remember thinking out loud reassuringly saying, “I write convincing letters!” I would often boast about it – “If you want something done let it pass through the mouth of my letter.” Surprisingly the results were always positive and in the favour of my words.

Those letters took a more tangible form when I began enjoying what I had written at a later stage by rereading them in future. That it was a product of my head made me extremely euphoric and satisfied. I would turn the pages around to read an old written account and would marvel at myself wondering,

“How did I manage that?”

With that it became more than a wont, now my life; my only resounding satisfaction when I pen one good.

Somewhere deep down I think those letters were responsible for hammering that nail in me unknowingly, and for that I am really grateful. It has made me the writer I was born to be. I surmise, it has paved the path that Universe had for me all along.