The Voice of My Soul

Today, I couldn’t stop thinking of an incident that had happened when I was in 3^rd grade. I had joined a new school the previous year, and was still getting used to the fact that none of the kids around me spoke Hindi. They could only talk in Telugu or broken English, and since I did not know Telugu at all, I chose to speak to everyone in English. It made me stand out, and as a result, I was the subject of scorn and ridicule. I hardly had any friends, was constantly bullied, and was desperately trying to fit in. In the midst of my misery, my house mistress decided to put in my name for the Hindi poem recitation competition. My mother immediately jumped to my rescue – she brought a poem from someone she knew and slaved all evening to help me to recite it perfectly. Since I was blessed with a good memory, it took me very little time to memorize the poem. My mother then spent the rest of the evening in helping me practice the recitation.

I went to school the next day. As the competition began, I was terrified due to snide remarks from the other kids. Then I noticed that most of the other kids who were participating were terrible. They had all memorized the same poem – the first one in our Hindi text book, and were struggling to remember and pronounce the words correctly. Some of them just shook their head and went back to their seats. This elicited huge gales of laughter from all other kids – I saw that most kids found the floundering kids pathetic, while the ones who gave up were apparently, hilarious. So when it was my turn, I just shook my head and went back to my seat. The judges (our impatient teachers) quickly announced the winners, and made them come up to the front. I was shocked to see the “winners” - they were actually terrible. But they had won prizes since they were the only ones who could at least get through at least 2 verses of the poem.

After the results were announced, we broke for recess. Images filled my mind. My mother spending her entire evening to teach me the poem, and to help me practice. Images - in which, instead of acting like a stupid jerk, I was confidently reciting my poem much better than anyone else who won. Images of me – head raised, shoulders squared, smiling with the pride of a winner. I broke into helpless sobs, and no matter how much the other kids or teachers tried, I just could not be consoled. I cried endlessly the whole day until I reached home. Shamefacedly, and till sobbing, I told my mother the whole thing as I sobbed at the floor. I could not bring myself to look into her eyes and see her disappointment in me. I did not understand my own feelings then, but the guilt of wasting my mother’s efforts, of hiding my own talent, of letting my mother & myself down, and of not having made use of the opportunity when I had it was weighing very hard on my 8 year old conscience.

My mother consoled me like no one else could – probably because she could understand exactly how I felt, and what I needed at that moment. However, that moment was definitely one of the most important ones of life – as I learnt the most valuable lesson of all. That incident, among many others, helped me become what I am today. The memory of this incident makes me seize every single opportunity I get and give it my best shot today. This memory reminds me that while it is definitely easier to blend among the crowd and be a part of it by being mediocre, the worst insult I could ever give myself is to actually want to act mediocre. Today, I don’t care at all about whether or not I fit in with everyone else around me. I embrace my individuality, my own uniqueness, even if it comes at a cost. Undermining my own worth is not something which my soul will allow me to do. I strive to be the best at anything and everything I do – at least, I give it an honest try. For, anything that I do should always be at the best possible level to which my abilities allow me. If that makes me insanely competitive, then so be it – because anything less would be the worst way in which I could humiliate my own self. The voices of other people – be it of praise or rejection – matters very little compared to the voice of my soul. This is the only voice, the only opinion that really matters.