To be … this fascination of remembering oneself, can be rather intimidating for many, for reasons inexplicable. Life ItSelf, can be daunting when memories fail to grant the facility to grasp the essential.
That of one’s non-comprehensive identity, of one’s reality. Memories darlings, are dreams lived!
I must have been two, if not earlier when I first was en déshabillé, so to speak. To be unveiled at that early an age, wasn’t, at least for me, something to be fearful of. I was reminded of the things I did as a child — to speak, laugh, or just peacefully with hand gestures in the air, play with no one although as if being surrounded by other non-visible children to the adults’ eyes.
Looking back, I must have been totally indrawn — When I sat for that Myers-Briggs test years later prior a professional appointment in an MNC, it only confirmed the stark rudiments that God is definitely not an extrovert! How could He have been when He is so friggin’ overt.
Pulchritudo Amantes Defendit
It is rare to find one who isn’t broken, admiring the worlds without the world thinking her insane, lazy, ill or obtuse — see how some are quick to offer remedy or judge anyone who simply aren’t like them, and who is drunk on Life. At school, a teacher had asked me, in a circle of about twenty other children what I wanted to be when I grew up. To me, it was the silliest question anyone could ask — you see, at that age, I was adjusting to the perspectives instead of the perception.
“Well? Cat caught your tongue?” Mrs. Muthu asked, her eyes barely blinking, perhaps to intimidate me. I was seven.
“To be? What do you mean … Misses Muthhhu” I had to articulate the th sound since it was obvious — we went to English public school, and we only spoke bloody English!
“Trying to be a smart Alec aren’t you?” she snapped back. She still hadn’t answered my question. I thought teachers knew everything. My mum did, and she was a very fierce school teacher. Thank God she didn’t teach at our school, or I’d peed in my knickers.
“Engineer? Police? Lawyer … like Vijaya over there, she wants to be a teacher, like me” she proudly answered, rolling her eyes as if I was lacking intellectual acuity.
“Erm … well, I never thought of being anything else but myself” I answered Mrs. Muthu.
I was sent to stand in the corner of the classroom where the waste paper basket was posed only after she threw the blackboard duster hitting my head, at me. She put a dunce cap on my head, and said that I could pretend to be a something, if I wanted to.
I didn’t have to pretend.
It’s not often one pretends to be something in a virtual world, besides, being itself is a full-time responsibility even if we have to face the corner of the room looking at the cracks in the walls thinking if the ants would come out of one hole and walked into the next. Did you know that there are at least six hundred species of the Formicidae in South East Asia alone?
I bet she didn’t know that!
The children laughed, and poked at me ever since then, and my whole life changed that fateful day — I became popular in school because I was considered dense, slow, clueless … RETARDED — and unlike newly programmed robots, I couldn’t come up with a brilliant answer to appease Mrs. Muthu’s daemon.
On the spot.
Seven was my turning point at pretending to be something. A label of society’s conditioning — To live in a fantasy world without getting carried away with the idea of believing that one, is that irrespective the perspectives. These days everyone I didn’t get to personally know or meet up with, is clamouring about awakening, about being conscious of the moment etcetera, Buddhic or Monotheistic it doesn’t really matter. Really, so long as you remember what you are.
Amoeba, Chimpanzee or Obama.
I have lived in that state for as long as I can remember and it keeps on getting better. At eight I was Prince Planet. I knew nothing of gender identity then. A boy is a girl is a boy is a twit … we all looked the same except that we wore different colour coded clothes, some from Made-in-England stores, some starched like paper cardboards, and often, the mucous secretions from the nostrils if we cried too much were the same yucky stuff; or the cries we exclaimed were either pitched or silenced.
We were children. We needn’t have to think of these superficial conditionings, adults find entertaining.
At eight, I told my classmates that since I came from the future, the world will, when they will have reached the ages of our parents, invent a portable telephone with a screen on it and they would be able to visually communicate with each other from around the world.
Sometime in the late seventies, they released the first portable telephone. It was huge of course, but portable néanmoins!
Mr. Tham, my Science teacher sent a signed letter to my parents diplomatically asking them to give me a good pep talk. My parents are liberals — they didn’t lecture me on what to think, and how far I should go in thinking.
Critical or otherwise — and to think I was retarded!
At nine, I performed in a Piano classical concert facing a large audience of mostly adults in an auditorium, filled with dignitaries from the foreign affairs and International media and the bloody heat-releasing spotlights were on me. My first media break when I became famous and really popular for like a week or so, refraining all labels Mrs. Muthu and her school of robots stigmatising me.