𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝!

 
“Run, Forrest, run!”

Jenny tells young Forrest to run away from the bullies chasing him. As he runs, his leg brace shatters and falls away, setting him free from the limitations that once held him back. From that moment on running becomes one of the defining traits of his life.

That is how one of the most memorable scenes from the movie Forrest Gump unfolds. We too, in our lives have heard words that were outwardly simple, unadorned, yet having long lasting impact on us.

Mine was…

"Last row, last bench, last girl, stand up, what is your name?"

Those were the exact words that brought my life forward (Yes, literally!). I was in class 12; it was almost the end of term, and on that fateful day, my physics teacher woke me up from the invisible corner of the classroom and asked me this question.

I felt as if the whole world was crumbling around me.
It was not a great question to ask a student who had studied in the same school from LKG. I was engulfed in shame. How could he not know my name? Did I remain so invisible?

My school was very popular in Madurai. Well known for its top-class students and their academic achievements. Getting an admission was very tough. Every year almost half the class walked the corridors of prestigious medical schools, BITS, REC and other top professional institutes in the country.

And there I was, an average, obedient student. Not bad, not brilliant. I somehow managed to keep my grades good enough to stay in the same school. The only sport I played was carrom, which, of course was not the kind of sport that made anyone popular. If I were disobedient, I would have at least got negative attention, but I was too afraid even for that. I existed in the safe middle, where teachers did not complain, and report cards did not disappoint anyone enough to start a conversation.

I knew all of this, and yet that question shook me.

He doesn’t even know my name???

At that age, I felt as though my whole existence was questioned. The reality of being unknown for those 14 years was discomforting.
I swallowed the shame and decided I was going to change things around in college at least.

Surprisingly, the first row in college was already cramped with 4 girls and I had to shamelessly squeeze myself in. Over time, I mastered the art of not sleeping during boring lectures and that earned me the acceptance of fellow first benchers. I became officially one of them.

Slowly this habit grew on me and I began occupying front row everywhere as long as they were available. There were even days where I sat in the front row of panchayat gram sabha meetings, asking uncomfortable questions and getting booed from the back.

Even today, my husband keeps asking me why we have to sit in the front row of my son’s school cultural events.

“Am I seeking attention?”, “Am I giving my inner child the front row seat she never had?”, “Am I overcompensating for all the years I stood quietly at the back?”

Honestly, I don’t have the answer myself.

 The art of doing nothing

 

An interesting conversation came up in my friend's circle recently about getting up early. I missed most of it but as the chatter faded, I found myself quietly reflecting. Everyone was proudly complimenting the discipline of rising early. But in the contrary, I felt that I have somehow lost the skill of getting up late. Yes, you heard it correctly. Day after day, there’s always a reason to get up early, or at least I’ve convinced myself so. On weekdays, it’s my son’s school which starts pretty early, by 6:30am his breakfast and lunch needs to be ready. On weekends, there’s always some plan or schedule. Even when I go to our farm, I somehow find a reason, I need to catch the owls before sunrise, maybe I’ll get a rare shot with the moon in the background. My body and mind refuse to cooperate with the idea of getting up late. Even during our “relaxing” holidays, I’m awake before everyone else, mentally calculating how long it’ll take the whole family to get ready, considering, of course, one-bathroom situation in the hotel room. 

I guess it must have been my mother who must have inculcated this as a good habit. She has always carried the moral baton of our family and we followed her lead without any questions. Both my brother and I were obedient kids, not the rebellious kind who questioned her rules. She often told me, If you don’t get up early and draw the Kolam (Rangoli) in front of the house, Goddess Lakshmi won’t visit. And back then, that was my sacred morning duty. So, like any good child, I learned this habit early or may be perhaps too early.

When I got married, it was totally different situation, nobody was there to pickup the baton my mom passed on, moralize me on what is wrong and what is right. Everyone just did what suited them. I was the sheep who had lost her shepherd. As a newly married woman who had just quit her job, I had very few responsibilities. I’d wake up early, out of habit but didn’t know what to do next. I’d try to go back to sleep, but my body refused. The only thing I mastered was pretending to sleep. That’s when it hit me, I had truly lost the skill of getting up late.

You may wonder why I keep calling it a skill. Because, breaking away from routine and rewiring your brain for unknown is an art. Calmly reclaiming lost time requires a Zen mind, and letting it go and accept whatever happens happens need another level of character. I envy those who can wake up at ten, stretch lazily, and still feel no hurry. I wonder may be I cannot, as I subconsciously fear the unknown. May be one day I'll relearn this lost art. Until then, I'll keep rising with the sun, checking clocks, owls and wondering what it truly means to rest

 What’s in the name?

It’s been very long since I wrote anything this lengthy. Please bear with me
  

 Just hold your thoughts for a second; I need to clear the air first. Don't go by the title. This post is not in any faintest way related to literature. If you know me well, then you know how far end of the spectrum I’m on when it comes to English literature. All I can read well is some mediocre fiction with excellent plots and that’s all.

Now that I have set your expectations low, let me dive straight into the topic.

Probably the first thing you came to know about me was my name. The moment you heard my name, especially if you are a Tamilian, you would have identified me with a particular region or particular caste or a particular food. Some may even go beyond that and try to extrapolate my possible relation to the infamous finance minister. I agree that our community is small and everyone could be related to everyone, but it is far stretched. The point is every time when I said my name, most of them assumed they knew one or other thing about me. You may ask, What now? Why are you cribbing?

Let me share this side of my story… the pride, joy, discomfort, and uneasiness of having such a unique name. I’m not alone in this journey; most of the children born in our community have such unique names. We have this rich tradition of being named after our ancestors, or Kula Devata. I’m really proud of this as it keeps me strongly tied to my roots and aligns me with life, both inside out.

But see, every good thing comes with a price in this world…so does my name. First of all, it is but natural to mispronounce my name. In my college days, a prof used this trick to intentionally mispronounce names to lighten up the sleepy post lunch sessions. Often, my name ended up crooked in his attendance register during roll calls, and the whole class would burst out in laughter. I didn’t have enough maturity to handle it at that time and I wondered why my grandparents had to name me like this.

When I came to Bangalore, after so many people unknowingly called me Nagamani, I became what I was called at home, simply Nachu. But my miseries were to still follow…People who were fond of Mexican food took the liberty to call me Nachos. Even some North Indian people thought it was funny to ask me if I could dance.

Often times, I have wondered what it is to have a name like Nivedita and stay mysterious in a quiet corner, people left without having anything to judge. All said, it doesn’t hurt or make a big deal anymore, but still, I cannot shrug it off lightly like Khalid Umar, the famous blogger in his recent post, comments that name is just an ID given by parents. For me, Name evokes complex emotions that we can rarely fathom. Surely, Name matters, and all the little things in between matter too.