It remember myself at the age of 15. Even back then I had been made to feel like I was marked for failure. Most of the educators who were supposed to build character, instead found it easier to dismiss me over other more promising students. But the definitive moment came when I was 15. I remember it surprisingly clearly, considering most of my other memories are blurred by the passing of time or stepping in of mental defences. But I cannot forget that day. The classes have been mixed and two teams have been formed with two houses represented in each. I belong to Green. Not the most illustrious of houses. We are ranked 3rd out of 4 in almost all events and this evening will prove to be a game changer for whoever wins, earning bragging rights and glory for us little children who don't know better.
The stakes are, obviously, pretty high strung and the decided battlefield is the debate competition. Our opposing camps of four are separated into two classes and we immediately huddle into strategy. Out of the two Head Prefects (the most academically sound and obedient students from the senior class), the slightly plump girl, and my classmate, is with us. Kaani, we used to call her. This sweet girl with an academic mindset and roundish figure would go on to have a rather unfortunate ending to her school year, but that's not important. What is important for now is the thin, spindly form that makes up 15-year-old me. At this point in life, I have been the all-absorbing butt of each joke in all the gangs that form during lunch times in a school such as mine. Then, as it is now, words are a means of comfort but I am yet to discover their healing power. I did, however, understand their calming effects and malleable meaning. By some miracle, I had pipped the 'scholar' in our class to make it into the State Spelling Bee two years back and now found that my hopeful request to join the debate team was accepted.
The team, comprising two members each from the Green and Yellow Houses, is discussing the subject of the debate; The English Language Is Killing Other Regional Languages, Agree or Disagree. The irony of the incorrect capitalization isn't wasted on teenage me but, overcoming this grammatical cringe, I offer to lead the charge. Kaani looks at me in a way that lucidly communicates her skepticism. I look to the others for confidence and I find it in my friend, and Yellow House prefect, Akshay. At his insistence, the others give in and I happily get down to writing my opening lines.
Fast-forward a few hours and I have dissected every way our argument can be attacked. After finding an unsolvable loophole in the fact that English isn't the bane of all regional languages, the case was easy enough to build and I find myself feeling unnaturally capable. But our teachers, I soon discover, don't share my optimism. There's a dull knock on the glass pane of our aged classroom door and I see a few tufts of white hair framed in it. The stray strands belong to our science teacher, Mrs. Das, and the knocking fist slowly pushes the hinges open. The creak made our hair stand on end and Das' stern face firmly pushed them out of the follicles. With an icy finger she calls Kini over for a status update and she informs that I, unaccomplished and unproven I, shall open the debate for our team.
Even now I can feel the gaze as Das tilts my way, wrinkled nose crinkled in suspicion as her glasses battle to maintain balance on the small hillock of a nose. With a grunt she calls my name and asks me to present the opening speech. It's the kind of order that she was famous for issuing on students that weren't really in her class. I mean, she taught us rudimentary science for one year and her love for the textbook as a weapon of punishment over education was the only thing I remember from those hours.
So, admittedly, I am adamant in not reading it out to anyone before I go up. This insistence is also born from the fact that I'm not entirely ready at the moment, but I knew that I would be. Still, I narrate my script without theatrics and final touches, to a prematurely critical audience. Jog shrugs in reply to my attempted eloquence and I sheepishly sit myself down in a corner, hell bent on making the speech perfect. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Kaani in conversation with Jog and it's escalating into an argument. A variety of glances are thrown my way and it's clear who the subject of this mini-debate is. I drown myself in the notebook and pretend not to notice until I see Kaani's rather spherical shadow fall on my desk.
Before I tell you what Kaani said, I want it to be clear that this was the moment I understood what it meant to 'have something to prove'. Until then, I'd just been thinking how to crack this perfect opening for the weaker side of a debate. What Jog passed on through the Head Prefect had given me a reason why. Our educator, I will not call her a teacher because teachers build character and this portly woman had none of her own to begin with, had asked Kaani to make me step down from the opening speech. 15-year-old me was destroyed.
You see, I have always believed teachers should find the one trait that makes a child strong and nourish that flame. Even at that age, I was aware of this fact. So when Jog expressed her lack of faith in me, I flashed back to my earlier years when my father had expressed the same suspension of belief. Now you must understand the kind of rage filling up that skinny body. It was a fire just aching to be let out and, for a moment, I wanted to walk up to the old hag and explain why I could do this seemingly impossible task. While others would find objects to throw and people to abuse to express that anger, I managed to find my pen and channel it to paper. The silver lining also showed that not all was lost. Kaani, the ever studious, had argued on my behalf and I would still get to open. Partly because it was too late for anyone else to step up to the plate. Gathering my shattered confidence like so many brittle pieces of tubelight, I finished my speech.
That evening, I was unstoppable. What was meant to be a 4 vs 4 battle of wits had come down to a one-man-debating-machine against four hapless children. Fuelled by my anger and strengthened by the support of my fellow students, I tore through the competition's points as a piano string would slice through tender flesh. By the end of the allotted two hours, for the first time in my life, I became a hero. When the judges came in with the result everyone already wanted me to be proclaimed the best speaker and I was greeted with cheers when I went to accept the ornate certificate. They'd managed to spell my surname wrong, but there it was. The proof that crinkled old Jog's nose with air peppered by her own incredulousness. The evidence that I could manage a minuscule achievement on the strength of my own words. The ultimate prize to silence the critics who wanted me to prove that proverbial 'something'.
I had realized one important thing that day, a lesson that I would learn once again years later. I had understood that the best way to quieten the naysayers isn't to promise and plead that you can do it. The final solution is to go right ahead and do it. Because when the results come in and you come out on top, you will have proven all there is to prove. And you will have erased that stain of failure which society spat on you. Not because you had the guile to dodge it, but because you had the strength to wash it off every damn time.
