When I was in standard III or IV, I have the memory of my father throwing a fit for not translating the subtitles in English into Hindi for he magically believed that’s what enrolling his daughter in one of the best convent schools would do- an easy access to an English tongue! I started retreating bit by bit from the language for finding it tiring to match his expectations. I ended up disliking English for assuming the image of my father: haughty and hard to please but found shelter in it too for I had no other home. Days and years passed and no matter how lonely and toxic it got, lighting a torch, I would read novels under the mattress cover, relaxed and away from the gaze of the world with nothing to prove. That’s how the ambivalence began; I was neither in the game nor out.
Clearly losing my hold on academics as school got over, my anxiety took over. I was a nervous wreak. A confounding mess. Without getting torn further apart in competition, I got enrolled in English Major. Thankfully, no competitive exam that year! Neither I could hide my anxiety behind a book nor I could languish in a corner. One has to pay the price someday even to pursue pleasure!
Feigning my anxiety, I knew I could never gather myself up for any exams. “Did I write it grammatically correct? Did I pronounce it right? “ A foggy-headed muggle-born I was! My essay got a C. My grades declined. Embroiled in bouts of IBS, I lost myself further to screens and pages in the solitary confinement. The best years of my life resembled the retirement of a septuagenarian just not senile enough.
One day, crossing the hall, a bunch of Slytherins sniggered at me after I froze on stage. My witless wand could spell no charm. Getting buried in the increasing weight of my degree, I became that lone star in the firmament that wished to fade away soon. As years passed, anxiety changed shapes but never left my side. Like a shadow, it followed, dictating my life’s choices thus charting an anxious course until a break came about!
All these years, moving in circles, caught up between action and inaction, weathering several attacks on my intent; I dip my quill into the pot of mudblood English. Through the nib flows a darker ink that promises to cast a lasting spell.