Unsilenced

I am not going to lie. I wasn’t a very lovable child.

I was the firstborn, a girl, and dark-skinned. So that’s understandable, right?

I am not ungrateful. I acknowledge that I got the best food, the best toys, and the best clothes; the standard stuff every newborn is showered with by the new parents. But everything was infused with a tinge of regret that weighed down on my fragile shoulders.

I could smell the disappointment in the arms that picked me up and held me close. I could see the half-hearted smile when I took my first step toward the school.

It made me brittle.

From brittle to bitter is the shortest journey.

***

I went to a public school, unlike my younger brother who went to a private school.

I wasn’t expected to make much out of my studies except for being a prudent homemaker, like my mother, and her mother before her.

I found nothing wrong with it. Till I grew up a little and found out prudent homemakers rarely commanded anything in their lives. At best, they dreamt of commanding their sons’ lives.

There is a burden born out of no expectations from you. You are left to figure out what expectations you should have from yourself.

One good thing was my bitterness had made me stubborn.

I demanded my parents have expectations of me. And hand me the tools to fulfill them.

They were shocked. My father hurled insults, and my mother stood by silently. It hurt.

I consoled myself. They were but the products of their times. Their actions should not matter.

 I started taking responsibility for my actions, refused to be muted, and believed I mattered.

***

There is a price to be paid for the journey fuelled by fury. Joylessness.

Besides, when you are busy cutting across lanes to stay ahead, you didn’t make any friends.

It took me a speed breaker and an accident to realize that. I’m not talking about a metaphorical one, but an actual one.

As I lay in the ICU, my entire journey from a brittle child to a bitter woman flashed before me.

When I opened my eyes, I saw my mother sitting next to me.

I wanted to ask her so many questions. But just croaked,

“Ma…”

She clasped my hand and tears rolled out of her eyes. I felt my shell of bitterness cracking open, a little.

I told her, much later, once back at home,

“Ma, I’m sorry. I haven’t been a great daughter.”

She looked out of the window, smiled, and said,

“You turned out pretty all right, child. Daughters are not meant to be great, anyway. But I’m glad you found your way out of silence!”

Well, I’m not going to lie. Hearing her say she was proud of me would have made me happy and shattered my shell completely. Maybe. But I guess it’s too early.

I am not going to give up easily though. My journey has just begun.