The Monkey Bars

Image from Pixabay

"What are you doing?"

Sonu opened her eyes, breathing heavily. Her brother was standing in front, looking at her in confusion.

Taking a few quick breaths, Sonu said, "Hanging."

"I can see that," he said, rolling his eyes. "But why? You hate playing on the monkey bars!"

But Sonu was in no state to answer. Her breath was coming in shorter gasps, and her face was turning red. And her hands! They were hurting so much! Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself to hold on for a little longer. But right then, her hands started slipping, and she had to let go.

Landing on the ground with a thud, she took a second to make sure nothing was broken. Satisfied, she sat down on the sand, catching her breath.

After a few moments, when her breathing finally seemed to come back to normal, she looked up at her brother. He was still standing there, hands on his hips, watching her antics.

"So?" he asked again. "Why were you hanging from the monkey bars?"

Sonu looked away, remaining silent for a few seconds. Finally, she mumbled something softly.

"What?" Bhai asked, looking confused.

Taking a deep breath, Sonu spoke again, this time loudly and clearly. "If I hang from there I'll become taller."

There was silence for a bit, and then her brother burst out laughing. "What?!" he chortled. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!"

Pouting her lips in annoyance, Sonu huffed her shoulders and said, "Shilpa aunty said I would!"

At this, Bhai's laughter died down a bit, though he still looked quite amused. He walked over slowly and sat down next to Sonu.

For as long as she could remember (which wasn't many years ago), she had been the short one. Her parents were tall. Her brother was tall. All her cousins were tall. Even in school, she was the shortest in her class. She was always made to stand in front of the line because of that! In fact, there were many students in the younger classes who were much taller than her.

And every time she complained to her parents, their only response was that 'one day' she would shoot up in height. That one day still hadn't come. Until it came, Sonu was still very much short, as people around her felt the need to point out all the time.

One such person was Shilpa aunty, their neighbour. She would often mention how short Sonu was, and this did nothing to help Sonu's mood. But this time, she said something that caught Sonu's attention. As a passing comment, she mentioned that Sonu should probably hang from a bar, as that was the only other way she would grow taller. In hindsight, she was probably joking, but for Sonu, the idea took root.

At first, Sonu rejected the idea. She hated monkey bars. She could barely hang on to the bars for a few seconds before falling down. She was really jealous of Bhai, who would easily cross over from one end to the other, while Sonu wouldn't even be able to hold on to one bar.

But the more she thought about it, the idea started sounding better and better. She was so tired of being the short one. She was tired of being told by everyone around her how short she was, and then having them look at her with pity. She really, really wanted to grow taller now. So if this idea actually worked, it might be worth a try.

So here she was, hanging from the monkey bars in the playground, huffing and puffing, hoping that those few seconds would at least let her grow a few centimetres.

After a few moments of silence, Bhai looked sideways at her and asked, "Why are you so obsessed with growing taller?"

"Don't you remember the picture?!" Sonu asked, confused that he even asked this question.

Bhai stared at her for sometime, as though trying to remember which picture she was talking about. And then, suddenly, he burst out laughing again.

"It's not funny!" Sonu shouted.

Last month, the whole extended family had gotten together. Before they left, everyone had posed for a full family photograph, with Sonu standing in front. But when the photo was finally developed and brought home, Sonu was nowhere to be seen in it! The photographer had somehow managed to click the picture a little higher than needed; and as a result, had ended up cutting Sonu out of the pic. Everyone else was in it, except her!

After a while, Bhai finally stopped laughing. Looking at his little sister, and the lack of laughter on her face, he asked again, "Seriously. Why does it bother you so much?"

Happy that he had finally stopped laughing, Sonu thought about his question. "Everyone is always saying that I'm really short," she said finally, not sure of what else to say.

"Well, you are," said Bhai. Looking at the angry flash in her eyes, he added hurriedly, "Arrey you are short! But why is that a problem?"

Sonu was about to open her mouth to reply, but she stopped short at the question. No one had ever asked her that before.

"I don't know. All the grown-ups keep saying I should be taller. Maybe taller people look nicer?" she said, trying to come up with an explanation that made sense.

Bhai shook his head slightly, rolling his eyes, and muttered something under his breath. "Listen, I'll tell you a secret," he said softly, leaning in.

Sonu shifted, moving closer, frustration slowly getting replaced by curiosity.

"Grown-ups don't know what they're talking about. Listen to what they say, and then ignore it. Otherwise they'll drive you crazy."

Sonu frowned. This made no sense. Everyone always said to listen to the grown-ups. They were supposed to be the smart ones!

"I'm serious!" Bhai added. "Look, they're always after me not to play out in the sun because then I'll become dark."

"What's wrong with being dark?" Sonu asked, confused.

"Exactly! But who's going to explain that to them?" Bhai said, again shaking his head.

"So what do you do?" Sonu asked.

"What I said. Listen to them, and then ignore them."

Sonu looked at him, still feeling a little uncertain.

"Listen," Bhai said, exhaling strongly. "You want to hang in the monkey bars? Then do it. I'll help you."

Sonu looked at him, thinking, and then finally whispered, "I kind of hated it."

"That's what I thought," said Bhai, standing up and dusting his pants. Sonu kicked his leg softly, annoyed at the sand flying all over her face.

"Come on," Bhai said, ruffling her hair.

"Where are we going?" Sonu asked, getting up to follow him. “To do something that’s actually fun,” he said over his shoulder.

The two walked up to the merry-go-round. Seeing it, a smile began to spread on Sonu’s face. "Do you think this might also make me taller?" she asked.

"Definitely not," Bhai said, as he started to push the bars to make them spin. He raised his eyebrows, as though challenging his little sister.

Sonu looked at the merry-go-round, now spinning really fast, and then at Bhai standing on the opposite end. Finally, making up her mind, she nodded and flashed a big smile at Bhai. "Let's go!"

With that, both of them caught on to a spinning bar on each end, like they had done many times before, and swung alongside, screaming with excitement.

New Year, New Me

It happens every year. As another year ends, and a new one begins, the world gets flooded with reflections and resolutions, all hinting towards the same thing: new year, new me.

I know. It can get annoying. There are enough memes making the rounds of the online world to communicate the same. And I don’t blame them.

Resolutions are exciting the first few times. But after years and years of failure, they’re just downright repetitive and annoying.

Or that’s what I like to tell myself.

You see, secretly, I kind of enjoy it. Perhaps not the public declarations of resolutions (because that’s not really my style), but at least, I like the idea behind resolutions.

It’s hope.

Let’s face it. We live in a world that on more days than not, is rather depressing. To add on to that, most of us (at least, I’m hoping it’s most of us) fail miserably at our yearly resolutions, probably within the first few days of January.

Yet as the next year rolls around, we’re at it again.

Why? Are we just idiotic humans who don’t know when to give up? Probably. But I prefer to think of it a little differently; that we’re people who, despite facing failure after failure, somehow find it in ourselves to get back into the rink and give it another try, hoping, that maybe this time will be better than the last.

And that’s kind of inspiring.

Of course, we don’t really need a ‘new year’ to do this, but I think humans like checkpoints. New Year’s. Birthdays. Or, in my case, sunsets. Something that makes you pause, look back at your life, take stock of it, and think for a moment about what it is really that you want. It’s the checkpoint to reflect on ourselves as people, and use the new year as an excuse to try and (hopefully) be better people.

Sure, many of us will fail. Fail badly. But maybe this is one of those things where the end result, as important as it might be, takes a backseat in favour of the attempt.

Where showing up is far more important than winning.

Fragile Communities

When did we become those people
Who take offence so easily
Whose identity, community, faith
Is so fragile
That
A word
A question
A thought
Can shatter it into pieces?

LoveJihad

Two of them looked at the photograph.

One saw only love,
The other saw only religion.

You're Beautiful

Sometimes I wonder
If I were to have a daughter
Would I be about to look her in the eye
And say
You're beautiful
As you are
Every bit of you
Your height
Your weight
Your skin
Your hair
No matter what
You're beautiful

Would I really be able to tell her that
When I can't even convince myself of it?

The Chart on the Wall

Sonu sat tapping her foot in the bus, waiting anxiously to reach school. It seemed like on the only day that she wanted to get to school quickly, the school bus was getting stuck in all the red signals and traffic jams.

Normally, Sonu wouldn’t have cared. A longer bus ride meant more time to sleep or to talk to friends. But today wasn’t a regular day.

 

Today was the day their teacher would put up the class chart.

 

Thinking about that chart, Sonu squirmed in her seat. She had first seen that chart many months ago in this new school. It had a list of all the student names, but ordered based on how they had done in the term exams. This was the first time Sonu had seen something like this; her previous school had never put up a chart like this. Curious, Sonu had glanced at the chart, and was surprised to see her name in the third place from the top.

 

A swooping feeling had passed through her, the kind that used to pass when she got full marks in a test, or her parents smiled at her report cards.

 

The other students had looked at her curiously – the new girl – who had already managed to reach the top 3 in the class. Embarrassed by the attention, Sonu had tried to shrug it off, but couldn’t ignore that feeling of excitement in her stomach.

 

And though she had never said it out loud, she had made a silent promise to herself that day: she would get her name to the number one spot.

 

That was two terms ago. Now, the final exams for the last term were over, and Sonu felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, she had made it to the first place. She tried not to think too much about it, wanting to avoid that feeling of disappointment she had felt in the second term. But still, she couldn’t ignore the jittery excitement rushing through her.

 

Finally, the bus pulled into the school campus. Sonu, who had specifically chosen the seat closest to the door, rushed out. She half walked, half ran towards her second standard classroom, trying not to look too eager, which was no small feat.

 

As she reached the door of the classroom, she saw her class teacher, Mrs. Chandra, putting up a chart on the wall. There it was! The chart that she had been longing to see! Sonu could make out a list of names on the chart, but was too far to read them.

 

Stepping away from the chart, Mrs. Chandra turned around and saw Sonu. Smiling widely, she said, “Good work this semester, Sonal.” A rush of excitement surged through Sonu – did that mean she had managed to come first? But Mrs. Chandra had always been nice to her, so maybe she would say this even if she hadn’t come first.

 

Slowly, bit by bit, Sonu stepped towards the chart. A few other students were starting to trickle into the classroom, but Sonu was too focused on her target to notice them. Finally, when she was close enough to read the names, she looked up at the top of the chart.

 

There it was. ‘Sonal Mehta’, the first name on the list. A mix of happiness and relief coursed through her. She read her name again and again. It really was there. On the number one spot.

 

The first rank.

 

Sonu had no idea how long she stood there, a big smile on her face, just staring at her name on the chart. It was only when a few other students came to check the list that she realized she wasn’t alone. She tried to suppress the smile on her face, at least to bring it down to the level of acceptable humility.

 

The classroom was almost full now, with students shuffling around between their seats and the new item on the wall. A few of them looked at her and murmured congratulations, to which Sonu whispered a quick ‘Thank you’, not trusting herself to say anything else. Inside, she was jumping up and down with an endless surge of energy, but outwardly, she tried to look calm and composed. She wanted to look like a first ranker.

 

As she moved to go towards her seat, she heard another ‘Congratulations’. Smiling, she turned to see her classmate, Rohan, standing behind her. Sonu began to say her customary ‘Thank you’, but stopped short as she looked at him. Rohan’s hands were stuffed in his pockets, and though he was trying to smile at her, his eyes didn’t quite show that happiness. In fact, they looked really sad and pained.

 

She looked at him up and down, trying to see if he had gotten hurt. But he looked fine. Rohan and Sonu had never really spoken much, but he usually seemed like a nice guy. Seeing that look in his eyes seemed to deflate some of the elation she had been feeling.

 

“Are you okay?” Sonu asked hesitantly, not sure what was the right thing to say. Rohan just shoved his hands deeper in his pockets and turned to look at the chart on the wall for a few seconds. Then, as though it took too much effort, he quickly turned back to Sonu. Still smiling sadly, he shrugged, and then slowly walked past her towards his seat at the back of the room.

 

Sonu stood there, unsure of how to make sense of what had just happened. The bell was about to ring, and she knew she needed to get back to her own seat. But she couldn’t move from there. There was something about the pained look in Rohan’s eyes that was taking away her excitement, and filling it with some strange emotion.

 

If she were to be completely honest, a part of her had an idea what might have caused this sadness, but that was a very tiny part. The bigger part of her remained confused, not wanting to admit that the source of her happiness and Rohan’s sadness could be one and the same.

 

Finally, after what felt like several minutes, she turned back to the chart on the wall. Starting from the top, she began to scan the list for Rohan’s name. This time, she rushed past her own name, not bothering to soak it in like before. As she went lower and lower down the list, a heaviness began to sink into her stomach, which she couldn’t quite understand. With every name she read, a little part of her hoped that Rohan’s would be the next. But it didn’t come, not until she reached the end.

 

There it was, the last name on the list. Sonu felt a lump rise in her throat, as a series of realizations began to course through her.

 

Rohan’s name was at the bottom of the list.

Rohan had the lowest rank in class.

This chart was showing his failure to every single student in class.

 

And just like that, the chart that Sonu had waited eagerly to see for the entire week seemed to take on a different form. It was the one object that had given her the most joy she had felt in the entire year; but now, it had become the object that had caused so much sadness in Rohan.

 

Bit by bit, Sonu now began to read the other names on the list, moving upwards from Rohan. With each name, she paused to quietly look at the student in the class. There was Shoaib, sitting listlessly on his seat. On one end sat Abha, her head buried in her arms. There was Kushal, trying to laugh with his friends, but the laugh never really reaching his eyes. And so many, many more.

 

As Sonu turned back to the chart, she felt a rush of mixed emotions towards it. Part of her, the part that had rushed to the classroom to look at the chart, wanted to frame it and make sure it stood here forever and ever. But another part, the part that had looked at Rohan’s eyes, wanted to tear it up and throw it in the dustbin. How was it possible, that this same object could give so much happiness to someone, and so much sadness to another?

 

Mixed with these feelings was a new, strange feeling emerging in her. Guilt. Sonu thought of every time she had felt a rush of excitement and pride at the idea of being the best in her class, and realized that she had never bothered to think about those that were being called the worst in class. She thought of all those moments that she had imagined rushing home and telling her parents that she had come first, never stopping to think what that conversation must have been like for Rohan and the others.

 

It’s not that they were terrible in their studies; sometimes they did okay in the tests. But compared to everyone else, they never managed to go higher up the rank chart. Staring at the chart, a realization struck her. No matter how everyone did, someone had to come first, and someone had to come last. That’s just the way this chart worked. In a way, the chart ensured that Sonu’s happiness depended on Rohan’s sadness. With each passing second, the feeling of discomfort continued to increase.

 

Lost in her thoughts, Sonu didn’t hear the bell ring. Mrs. Chandra was calling all the students to take their seats. Sonu walked in a daze, keeping her eyes down, not trusting herself to look at anyone (especially not Rohan). She took her seat at the first bench, barely listening to anything the teacher was saying.

 

Please don’t mention the chart, she silently willed. But Mrs. Chandra clearly didn’t hear her plea, and began announcing the top names, starting with Sonu. What should have been a moment of absolute pride and joy, now felt torturous. Sonu tried to smile, grating her teeth when she was asked to stand up and the class clapped for her. This was the moment she had been waiting for all year. This is what she had worked towards every evening. But five minutes was all it took to change this moment forever. Five minutes, and a pair of extremely sad eyes.

 

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Sonu considered multiple times talking to Rohan, saying something to make him feel better, but she couldn’t really think of anything to say. Throughout the day, students and teachers continued to congratulate her, and Sonu went through the motions of thanking them, while feeling completely hollow inside.

 

She was relieved when the bell rang to signal the end of the day. She walked quickly towards her bus, ironically with the same speed with which she had gotten off it that morning, but without any of that earlier energy. This time, she barely noticed the traffic as the bus took her home.

 

Getting off the bus, Sonu walked slowly towards her house. A part of her was hesitant about going in, because she knew the question that was awaiting her, the question she no longer felt comfortable answering.

 

Finally, taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Mamma and Papa looked at her, smiles on their faces. “So?” Mamma asked. “What rank did you get?” They knew that Sonu had secretly been hoping to get the first rank.

 

Clenching her fists around the straps of her bag, Sonu took a deep breath, trying to form the response. Finally, forcing a little smile on her face, she said:

 

“No idea. The school has decided to stop giving ranks.”

An Apology for V

There’s a certain image of ourselves we have in our minds - the kind of people we like to believe we are. And I suppose on most occasions, we try hard to match up to that image. But there are also many occasions where we fall short of being our best selves; moments that make you look back at yourself and cringe with guilt.

Around 9 years ago, I took up a two-year Fellowship to teach children in a government school in Mumbai. Going in, I didn’t know what exactly I was going to do, but I did have a certain idea of the kind of teacher I wanted to be; or at least, the kind of teacher I didn’t want to be: that angry, shouting, scary type.

And for the most part, I managed that. I might not have been the most efficient teacher when it came to increasing the learning outcomes of my students, but I was a teacher they were all comfortable with. But what I gained there in terms of the trust of the students, I lost out in managing their behaviour. And while I tried hard to maintain my temper and not become that person, there were occasions when it became really difficult.

This story is about such an occasion.

It was towards the end of the school day, which, most teachers would know, is also the time of peak exhaustion and brain-friedness. The kids had their PT period, for which everyone had to go downstairs. The school management had recently asked us to start locking the classroom doors, so I had to ensure every child was out before I could lock the door and go along.

There was one student, V, who refused to leave. Now, from the time I knew her, V had been a fairly docile and quiet girl. She had short hair, and big brown eyes that could melt anyone’s heart. But for the last few weeks, she had been acting out in different ways: the most prominent being leaning over her desk and swinging dazedly in the middle of any class. I’d asked her to stop multiple times, and she would, but only to go back to that habit a little while later.

That day, as I was waiting for all the students to leave, V continued to lean over her desk and swing her legs. After ignoring multiple requests from me to go down with the others, she looked at me and finally said, “No”. I was shocked. She had never directly refused to follow an instruction before. When I asked her why, she didn’t respond, and just continued swinging her legs.

This went on for a while: me, frustrated, asking her to leave the classroom, knowing I had 40 kids already downstairs waiting for me and most likely creating a ruckus; and her, nonchalantly swinging from that desk, ignoring every request and order to leave the room.

I don’t know what happened. Something within me snapped. I looked at her, the anger evident on my face, and said, “Fine, I’m locking this door with you inside.” 

Instantly, her face changed. She stopped swinging and cried out for me to stop. But I was beyond the point of rationality and empathy. In fact, a part of me was actually sadistically happy that I’d finally managed to get a reaction and figure out what it was that would make her move. I could have closed the door and not locked it. She would probably have come out. 

But I went ahead and locked it. With her inside, crying, screaming, banging the door. 

And then, to make it worse, I took a few steps away from the door, just to let her suffer for a little longer. Finally, after waiting for a good 20 seconds, I opened the door. She was there, crying her eyes out, looking terrified. 

In that moment, as I looked at her terrified face, something broke within me. Guilt rose up in a very real way. I wanted to hug her, but I guess my ego held me back. So I let her walk past me, tears still streaming down her face, as I finally locked up the door and went to join the class downstairs.

I can’t excuse what I did that day. Exhaustion, impatience, 40 crazy students - none of that makes up for those terrified, crying eyes: the ones I was supposed to protect, not terrify. That incident weighed me down for the rest of the day and all night. I knew that at the very least, I had to apologize to her, if for nothing else but to ease out my own guilt.

So the next day, I got my chance when I found V in the corridor without any of the other students. I went to her and called out her name. She looked at me, with those big eyes, but strangely, with no glimpse of anger or fear. Just those big, brown eyes looking at me questioningly, as though nothing had happened.

I crouched down in front of her, and said I was sorry for what I did yesterday. I expected some sulkiness, maybe a few more tears, or another glimpse of that fear I had been the source of.

But her big eyes got even bigger, a little lost and incredulous. She smiled hesitantly, and said, “It’s okay,” as though the apology was unwarranted.

I pulled her in for a big hug, which she returned warmly. 

As I watched her continue on her way down the corridor, the feeling of relief mixed with something heavier: the surprise on her face made it clear that she never expected an adult, a teacher, a person of authority to ever apologize for their actions.

Maybe because nobody ever had.