“Can you get out and let me go in?” I muttered as she gave me a blank stare.
I asked again, this time a little louder, “Can you please get out and let me go in?”
She looked at me, dumbstruck. I was grumbling inside as I signalled her to get up.
Deeply annoyed, I hesitantly sat next to her.
“Why do they make me sit with girls all the time?” I scowl with frustration.
I never liked sharing my personal space with a girl. Two sisters and a mother at home were enough!
. . .
I was too young, but I vividly remember her face. Her round fair face with light brown eyes. Slightly flat nose and sunken forehead with shoulder-length hair. In her neatly pressed white shirt with a blue skirt and a perpetually perplexed demeanour.
Why was she so puzzled all the time?
In a world obsessed with the English language, she could not communicate. Transferred from a school where Hindi was the primary medium of instruction. English did not come naturally to her.
She could write a few words but could not read or write long sentences. I did not understand her plight at the time. To the 8-year-old me, she was just another girl encroaching on my personal space.
. . .
She kept pulling my right elbow to peek into my notebook as the teacher dictates the essay in English.
“How am I supposed to write if you keep moving my hand?” I grumbled in Hindi.
She did not utter a word and kept writing gibberish in her notebook. Her perpetual silence was annoying, more so her inaccurate spellings.
She tried to pull my elbow again. But this time, I clenched my fist and tried to resist. She started exerting greater force. I tried harder to stay stiff.
I could not lose to a girl! But she was not the type who would bulge. Our battle for space continued for another few secs until her inner strength surpassed my fickle ego.
Well, I was guarding my personal space, and she was fighting to create a safe space for herself.
In all that frenzy, the page of my notebook ripped apart and I snapped at her.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she sobbed profusely. Wrapped in my ego, I could not say anything and ignored her. But I could tell she felt worthless and helpless.
That night, I could not sleep. The 8-year-old me tossed side to side thinking about the poor girl who became a victim of my rage.
What do you say to someone who doesn’t understand you? How is a kid supposed to behave with another kid? Is there anything I could have done to make her feel better?
. . .
The next morning I was unsure how to face her. I walked to our desk, hesitant to meet eyes.
“How about I sit outside from now on? You can look into my notebook from the left side while I write peacefully with my right.”
She agreed with a wide smile.
While solving arithmetic problems during the class, I translated Math concepts to her in Hindi. She explained to me the deeper meaning of a poem during the Hindi class.
Is this all it takes to be human?
It did not occur to me at that tender age. But unknowingly, it was the first time I communicated with empathy. It was the first time I selflessly helped someone in need.
. . .
Next month, she managed to scrape through the exams. I was sad for her, maybe she deserved better. But for her, it was the best feeling ever.
She thanked me with a bright smile. I could see the happiness in her eyes.
At that moment, I realised the most important lesson of all time — Life is a struggle, but it becomes enjoyable when we give people the time and space to grow.
I wish I had never made her cry. But I was glad that this time I was the reason for her smile.
. . .
Always have a willing hand to help someone, you might be the only one that does
– Roy T. Bennett
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This post was previously published on Hello, Love.
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