How much do you value yourself?

 

Dear Diary,

 

How much do you value yourself? Your life? Your soul? How much do you love yourself? Your being? How much do you adore yourself?

Yeah I sound like some spiritual adviser.

 

Until yesterday, I too didn’t pay much heed to my body, to my living being. Remember, I had once told you that our singing teacher, Ma’am Pamela wanted a fresh song (not that she wanted us to become songwriters) and in this very song, she wanted rhythm, melody, beat and…gratitude. She had lured us by saying-“This one’s for the upcoming Annual Day”. And you know that I am a bathroom singer and that it’s my secret dream to become a rockstar. And to make this dream come true, I had formed a band with four of my mates. And as a debut song of our band, I penned down this song entitled-“Music and Lyrics”. I didn’t sing this in front of anyone, I was too shy. But I did sing it in front of our blessed singing teacher.  And I was eagerly waiting for their answer, hoping against hope that it would be a ‘yes’. And then, yesterday, all of a sudden, she had wanted to see me in her office.

And so I went there. I pretty much guessed the reason. And then hoping against hope, that it would be a “yes” (I had this assumption of being the only one who have done this great deed).

And as I entered her room, she gazed at me through her photochromatic specs.  

 

“It’s very nice to have you here”, she began

I retorted with a nod.

“You know only two of you have submitted your lyrics…”

Please carry on, don’t pause, I’m having butterflies in my stomach.

“Your song, it seemed good. I am pleased to find such a thoughtful writing by a youngster like you but…”

Oh no! “But”

“Why don’t you patch up with Reshma? Her song is good too…”

I guess she could notice my expression cum temper change.

“Listen, your song is good…better than hers but you’re a newcomer. And we don’t wish to take any risk…”

“Ma’am I have a band” that’s all I could say.

“Yeah but Reshma’s experienced and so I’m advising you to team up with her”

Then why did you ask us amateurs to compose songs?

The bell rang and school got over at a sad note. I could speak nothing further. Even as I heard Ma’am calling out my name as walked out of our music class, I didn’t reply. 

I walked like a zombie through the corridors with blurred vision- saline tears that enveloped my eyes.

And to add to my miseries, the lead guitarist of my “to-be” band had backed out only to join Reshma.

I could actually feel nerves bursting inside my head. My cheeks turned pink. They felt warm, warmer than usual. And these bio-calamities occurred after having heard these two tragic news. Anxiety had played hay-while in my body. 

 

I didn’t know why I had cried. I was pretty sure that at first, my songs would face a bucketful of rejections. Yet, my heart kind of declined the fact that my first song had faced rejection. My song was not the best, no matter how good it seemed to me, there were many other songs better than mine but Reshma’s one wasn’t just good enough. And she got this opportunity only because she was popular. See, the common people, sorry, the common students like us are treated as second class students in school.  

 

However it was the first time I had faced such a situation. And it was the first time I had faced two traumas at a time. So, it took time copying up.

And I didn’t know how but soon this rejection morphed to dejection. The sadness mutated to despair. . The depression within me deepened. I felt as though I was the only girl on earth who had failed.

 

Mom and dad tried their best to console me. Dad even went to the point of threatening me that if such things were to happen, then its better I stop composing (such a waste of aptitude eh?). And I pretended as though I had known such would happen and I was prepared to accept it. Yeah, I did know that I would get some news from far away this week, my horoscope said so. And I quite guessed it would be something related to this debut and band thing. And I had smelt something fishy too (no doubt mom was cooking fish that day).

 

And I didn’t tell you that my heart was not immune to excess anguish, did I? And so, in no time, such “excess anguish” would turn into suicidal tendencies. Now when I think about it, I laugh at myself.

 

Very soon, I felt useless, desolated and hopeless. With these same thoughts harboring mind my mind, I went to bed. That night, I didn’t muse my thoughtful musings. All I could think of was being defeated, being unsuccessful and being a burden to my mom and dad. And as I tossed and twirled on my bed, a sudden stinging pain gripped my chest. As a quick reflex, my hands went up to my heart. The pain was so close to the heart. It felt as though it was gripping the left lung, swallowing it into its gut. Postural pain- it seemed. And I tried to straighten my body. Even as I tried to do, it felt as if the alveoli within my lung were bursting with pain. I could feel my heart beat faster. My legs kicked the blanket off my body. I could see my hands quivering as they held my chest.

And I started musing about my past, my long lost, golden days of childhood-when I was pampered-when my mom and dad held my hand with love, even as I tried to crawl. And suddenly, the thought that a man peeps into such memories at his death bed occurred. Then I tried to block this flow of memories. I tried to sit up. My heart-ache or rather, lung-ache increased. My palms messaged over the inflamed area.

 

Heart attack! How can it be? My family history doesn’t allow that. Even my age doesn’t. But my weight does. My lipids can surely cause such an untimely turmoil. And besides, I had emptied two bowls of ‘halwa’ drenched in ‘desi ghee’.

 

And then my head recollected the symptoms of heart-attack.

I felt my skin, it was not sweating. My breathing was normal although my heart-beat was faster than normal. But this could be due to anxiety. I had a tooth ache in the evening- this was the outcome of excess halwa. One symptom matched. But it was in the evening and not during bedtime. 

 

“God I don’t wanna die” I prayed “Let me live God let me live. I promise I’ll increase my yoga time. I promise to check my weight and my fats. God I don’t want to die”

And as I chanted further, I felt a sort of relief.

I stepped down from my bed and went into mom and dad’s bedroom. They were in a peaceful sleep. My eyes gazed at my “busy-in-sleep” younger sister. Probably she had already started dreaming.  By then, I was quite sure that this wee-hour would not occur again. Not that I wouldn’t let it happen again but for the fact that it was the last night of my life. I sat down beside the bed and grabbed mom’s hand. Then I started crying.

 

No, I don’t wanna leave. I want to stay here with my mom and dad and my stupid sis.

Everyone has to die. I’m not immortal. But let me die when the right time arrives. I’ll die when I had lived my life, when I had accomplished and enjoyed all that I had wanted to.        

                                                       

And the next morning as my eyes opened, I saw an unfamiliar ceiling. It was the ceiling of my parents’ bedroom. I was alive. Still alive.

“What happened? Why did you come here last night? You know you were sleeping without any blanket or quilt…”

“I love you mom!” I embraced her when she was still in mid-sentence.

“You must’ve had a bad dream” she muttered caressing my hair

“Sort of” I replied holding back tears.

tell me, how many times have you considered yourself useless, good for nothing? How many times have you wished to die like a real coward? We consider life to be a cakewalk where if we fail, we have the option of killing ourselves. I felt the same way. But now I know how precious and how sacred my life is. Being born as a human is a great gift from God. Greater than all the other successes we hope for.

For instance, a beggar- we’ve seen many people surviving on begging. How hard it is to beg others for money or food. Yet, he never wishes to die. He still appreciates God for granting him life.

At times we seem to elude the value of our life. But when we do, life acts upon us and we finally recognize its value.

So, Diary, my friend, here’s the moral: You are not unimportant. You too are important and born with a talent. Don’t worry, it will show up at the right time.

Yours,

I.D.

 

 

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