Bittersweet memories

 

I had shifted from the Middle East to my home country, India, during the year 2017. Since my eldest sister needed to pursue her higher studies, India seemed like the best option to start. As the “obedient “kids that we were, I don’t ever recall throwing a tantrum or even whining about shifting from the place that we called home for 12 long years. Neither did my sisters. We were focused on our last school year, determined to make the best out of it without any regrets. When the time came to leave; a 6-hour flight, happy relatives greeting us, entering the new apartment and then entering the new school greeted us. 

I kind of wanted to be home-schooled than enter a new school with new teachers with kids of an entirely different set-up compared to mine. I genuinely detest writing about that particular phase since I had to let go a lot of things I held dear. The emotions that come after leaving something dear to you didn’t catch up with me, rather I wouldn’t allow myself a brief moment to catch with what had happened. Unconsciously, I let those unbottled feelings take a toll on my personality for a while and became the lamest and stupidest version of myself. Even while I write this, I humbly apologize to those who saw me in that pathetic state and had to bear the brunt of it. I became rather brash and blunt and easily irritable. The unfamiliarity of my surroundings irked me to tears. All the time, I was questioned about my whereabouts, reason to come to India, being asked to introduce myself after every classmate. I wasn’t mad about the questions asked my way, I just felt out of place by the unfamiliarity of it all.

Despite being an Indian, knowing enough about my country ( I love general knowledge by the way and never hesitate to keep up with time) and even coming over during vacations; I had never felt so unloved in a place I was about to spend the rest of my four years in. I don’t know whose fault it was, perhaps it was mine for being so naïve, but it felt really irritating to me. I was a seventh-grader and dramatic stuff happens at that age. I don’t blame my schoolmates for making me feel that way, it was destined for me to feel that way so that I can learn a lesson about how to behave in society. I have no qualms against the people with whom I ended up making the best memories but we had a rather rough start.

Once, I was told by my friends that a girl felt hurt when I allegedly “threw” her book at her while distributing corrected notebooks. Around that time, I was well-acquainted with my friends to the point that they pointed out my rude behavior during my first few days. To be honest, I felt glad when they forgave me for my rudeness. Anyway, the girl in question was somebody I rarely talked to and was known to be rather sensitive. But surely I wasn’t stupid enough to freaking fling a book in somebody’s direction, right? To clear out the misunderstanding, I told her that I didn’t mean it that way and boom. Friendship restored. Even if it was secretly pissing me off. How could you feel so bad about someone keeping a book on your table? It was a rough ride for me to make friends since I was being warned by literally every girl to be wary of the other and it left me in a maze that was bigger and more confusing. To be honest, building relationships can be a very tough job.

The cultural belief that set me apart from my peers was the annual celebration of the death anniversary of a 14th century Sufi saint. I had not heard of this back when I was in the Middle East so it was a rather pleasant surprise to me as I saw the preparations for the celebration in full swing. The road was filled to the brim with hawkers selling ornate jewelry, stalls selling mouth-watering food and a giant Ferris wheel dotted with multi-colored lights. 

When our school announced a week long holiday for the celebration, I was puzzled. I asked a friend about it and she said, “The road to our school will be blocked since the mausoleum is next to it,”

“M-mausoleum?” I asked , literal question marks popping out of my head.

“Yeah. You don’t go there, do you?” she asked with a wry smile.

“No“, I answered, “I never heard of this festival while I lived there’’.

A brief pang of loneliness squeezed my eleven-year old heart at the feeling of not belonging there even if you are related to the nation by blood.

“It’s pretty famous,” she said absently,” you get a lot of good stuff out of those stalls”.

“Huh, sounds really interesting”, I returned formally, not wanting to ask if she ever visited these celebrations. Differing beliefs in one’s culture is a touchy subject sometimes so I never take the lead in these situations. My instinct warned me to keep my mouth shut.

“I go to the celebration with my family every year,” she said herself, “it’s nice. You should go there too.”

My memory of this conversation is hazy but I do remember feeling left out over not even knowing the city’s biggest annual celebration every year. 

My self-esteem suffered serious blows over not knowing trivial information like this and by the intimidating nature of the school. I don’t mean to brag but the teachers heaped a lot of praise over me after a speech competition which earned me quite a bit of attention (which was the last thing I needed. Dear reader, I was recovering from the shock of moving from another country while coping with the fact that my father was also a whopping FOUR-THOUSAND KILOMETERS AWAY from our new home.) The most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me during that period was when I was sung ' Happy birthday'. Never in my twelve years of life have I ever been sung ' Happy birthday ' to by my entire class since my birthday always fell during the summer vacation. I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear but then I was presented with a barrage of greeting cards and chocolates later on. 

That period was indeed a tough one, but it was the key factor that shaped me into who I am now.