Lines and lines of grey pencil sprawled against the white paper I tore off from the notebook I used for the class of a less strict teacher, big alphabets of big words I spelled out with my small hands, I started like I had seen people do on the T.V. I said Dear mummy and explained to her how difficult it was to go to school these days, I don't remember my exact words, but I do know what I said in those sentences.
I said,
Maa, it's difficult to go to school these days, I look at my time table at the back of my diary time and time again and check if the math period is before or after lunch to see if I'll take food in my hands and not think of the scale that would hit them in the coming minutes. Yesterday, maa I got the spelling of diameter wrong and sister Elsa hit me with a steel scale, five times, on the knuckles. While copying down the notes from the blackboard Sister said to the class "take down each word and miss nothing or else, I will slap you" so, I took down the thought for the day written on the top of the board on my notebook too, I didn't want to be hit, but she slapped me for that too. Maa you know how I get that ache in my ear from the cotton that got stuck in there and left a wound? It hurt too much yesterday, so I went to the sick room and Elsa sister was there and she said I was there because I wanted to miss school. I don't want to miss school Maa, but I don't want to go to this one, Can we change the school that I should go to?
Fourth grade me was a shy person who couldn't talk to her mother about being punished at school, math was the only class she struggled with, she liked to be a student with grades that were good. So when she couldn't get herself to talk to her mother, she wrote her a letter. Fourth grade me had mature thoughts in immature words, probably why her mum took that letter to be just her trying to apologise for not being good at school, mum never had her go to another school because she thought that letter in all the glory of its immature vocabulary was more of a 'Sophie stnut' by her day dreamer daughter than a cry nay, bellow for her help, for her protection.
She grew up to be me. My mathematical talents are so damaged as of right now that when someone says 18+8 my first answer is 28. But, you know what? I wouldn't have growing up any other way, I am grateful, so so grateful that when I wanted to run away, I was asked to stay 'cause three years later in seventh grade, I went to my first trip outside of Maharashtra from that same school I had wanted to leave. I would not trade that moment when Archi pulled my hair bow out of my ponytail on the train to grow up somewhere else. I would not trade that moment of pride when that same year Jitin Sir declared me the class leader and in the first forty minutes of being on that position I had already had three trips to the staff room (So many homework books to collect!) I would not trade that moment when I got an eleven on fifty on math and this girl I fought a lot with from the next class came to the door frame of ours to scream out loud how much of a failure I was, because that made me so so so much more strong. I wouldn't trade that moment in ninth grade when all of us joined hands to strike against the management which was adamant on taking our favourite teacher away, our teacher had to leave, but I learned the lesson of unity. And I wouldn't for the best of things in this world change that moment in tenth grade when I got my first merit certificate for sports home. I wanted to run away, disappear in fourth grade, but tenth grade me wouldn't pass out from any other school.
Since, all the bad things in grade four I saw very bad days and very good days in that same place. I think it was the same place I was hit for getting the spelling of diameter wrong where I played truth and dare with my co-dancers for the Shiv Tandav, on annual day of ninth grade. And if the brain allots physical spots for the data in our memory, like computers, I'm pretty sure the latter of the two takes more space in mine. What I mean is good memories > bad (I know as much math)
I'm telling you all, all of this because today I talked to a friend who wants more than anything right now, to runaway and disappear. I'm asking you to pass on this message of mine to her because as much as I've grown since fourth grade, I'm still better at letters than I'm at speeches.
Would you tell her for me that staying is alright? That staying however, hard is not bad and it gets better, please for me, ask her to stand right where she is and not make herself disappear.
Ask her please, not to leave,
To stay because, maybe if not tommorow and not the day after, maybe three years later we could go on a lunch date to a beautiful resteraunt and laugh and be so much better.
To stay because, maybe on the next phone call or the next birthday message I could make her smile a little again.
To stay because, here is life and life is precious. Especially, hers is so so special.
She thinks she is mediocre looking but she has never seen herself talk about that show and that music band she loves so much, she is the splitting image of the word you all call beautiful hell, she is a competition to all things Jhon Keats thinks are of beauty, She could walk into any room in this world and she would be the centre of my attention, I may not understand trigonometry but you better not debate with me about what is beauty.
She is the lotus about to bloom in the middle of a muddy lake.
Ask her to stay.
Please, Ask her to stay, she doesn't know that even in the dirt all around her she rises above it all and blooms like no 'beautiful' rose knows blooming.
Ask her to stay because she keeps so many more from running away. Her smile itself is the thread that ties so many of us from breaking off and falling away.
Please ask her to stay.
