Surviving through that Humiliation - A day of Disgust!

I write this to that child with disability. She, who needs to hear one of my many nightmares. My scars. And how they shape me till date.

I was 16 years old then. SSC Class X public exam, it was that day. American president Bill Clinton was visiting Hyderabad. And I needed to get to the exam centre early; At least 3 hours early to avoid any delays from traffic.

Amma and I started in an auto that day. The March month of the year 2000. Even as we began to reach, I knew my medical condition – lack of bladder control – was going to make its presence felt that day. Thankfully, Autos in this country have leather seats, I had thought and always do! By the time I reached the centre, my pants had soiled partially. I was embarrassed to the core.

Is all okay, Amma asked. Hmm ya, I said without any thought but I was soaking in shame and disgust about myself. How can a young teenager ever console himself that he is not to blame for his own condition? He cannot. I could not.

When we reached the exam centre, I sat on a cement bench, uneasy and distressed. A small crowd was gathering. Amma hadn’t eaten in the morning and was worried about my Sister being along at home. I stared at other students coming to the exam centre. I was also scared that my friends would arrive soon and I may have to get up or make small talk. I put on a stiff face, bringing my legs closer, even as the stomach churned again.

Ennachu, Is all okay? Amma asked again.

Yes Maa, I said in a frustrating tone.

Why do you get irritated all the time? Speak politely!, said Amma.

Seri Ma, I replied.

An hour later, I was climbing the stairs to the second floor. To go to the exam room. As I got onto the steps, my pants completely were soiled now, even as some students moved away from me, embarrassed by the very sight of my hygiene. Tears formed in my eyes as I slipped and fell on steps once. The writing pad fell too. And the cement steps imprinted with the wetness of my pants.

I wanted to run away then. But given my other medical condition, I couldn’t run! Also, I knew Amma would be waiting for me at the school gate. I shook with humiliation about myself, yet kept climbing the stairs. I reached the exam room, drenched in sweat, my own pee, and poop. The exam was to begin in 15 minutes.

After the hall-ticket was checked once again, I went to sit in one of the benches. A wooden one. I thanked a million Gods that it was wood. But was repulsed at the colour of my ‘Khaki’ uniform. I have never liked that colour since that day. 5 minutes to go for the exam to begin.

 A girl from another school arrived and sat to the other end of my bench. She held a handkerchief to her nose immediately. It brought back another horrible memory. So, I sided myself to the wall, wanting to hide into it out of sheer nausea about myself. Another boy turned back to look at me then. Was he sneering because of my stench? I wondered. I did not know. I hated myself and hated my every feeling within.

And then, my stomach began to churn again. More shit into my pants. I was also freakishly thirsty as I did not drink any water deliberately since morning. God wasn’t going kind to me that day or any day thereafter, I knew. But what could I do?

I saw the girl on my bench moved to her right a little more. Almost onto the edge of the bench. Her kerchief was still on her nose. I looked to the floor, and the floor blurred with mere seconds to go for the exam.

Sing a song for yourself Sai, a voice said within.

Sing a song da, you need to finish this exam!

More stomach churning. I could feel the wet pant cling onto my thighs and the burn of the skin rise in the saltiness. I tried humming a ‘Lucky Ali’ song to myself; I couldn’t. I tried a Palash Sen song – Maeri. I was trying to concentrate on the tune rather than everything around me. I just couldn’t.

Here, stand up and take the paper – said the invigilator, appearing out of nowhere and shaking me up from the shame I was drowning into. I did not want to stand. I did not even have the courage to stretch my hand. The girl next was holding her own question paper in one hand and kerchief on the other. The invigilator sensed something was off. I dreaded that moment and have woken up in nightmares for 20 years since then.

No, the invigilator did not say or do anything though. But the fear he might left me trembling. He asked the girl to pass the paper to me and she did it with as much unease as possible. I don’t blame her. I would have done the same.

Sing a song for yourself Sai, a voice said within.

‘Nahin rakhtha dil mein kuch, rakhtha hoon Zubaan par’, I sang that Lucky Ali song to myself.

I do not know why I began to cry even as I began to read the question paper. I understood nothing of what was asked. I read and re-read the questions, but nothing came to my mind. All other students began to look down and write. My heart was starting to race, and I was panicking. My pen did not move and would not move. Not that day. All I wanted was to disappear from the world. And just keep listening to Music, especially Lucky Ali’s songs from Sifar album.

‘Keha nahin saktha kya sehtha hoon chipakar’, the song’s lyrics went on in my head. And not a single word was written. I stared at the blackboard, letting the emotions overwhelm and scar me each minute.

‘Can I have an additional?’, some student had stood up and said meanwhile. That voice shook me out from the trance of misery and shame again. He took the additional and hurried to write. I noticed he was too excited as everyone saw him with awe for a second. I pray he tops the State, I told myself.

I was turning numb now. If only I was not that ashamed, I would have walked out. But I knew I had to sit through until everyone left. I did not want to any more sneers, stigma, or disgusts at my hygiene because of my medical condition. I will sit through the exam even if my thighs burn out from the pee, I told myself. And then, for the first time, I began to read the questions in the paper with a little bit of clarity.

One hour had passed. That Bill Clinton fellow! Why did he have to come today of all days?, I cursed in my thoughts. With little more than 90 minutes to go, I wrote my name and hall ticket number on the answer sheet. I looked at the questions and calculated what minimum can I write to pass the exam? I was breathing my own stink, unable to concentrate. And just as I was piecing myself together, the inspection team had come!

Everyone stand-up, we will check your pockets – he said.

If ever as a child I wanted to end my life, that moment was it. I knew it would be the worst humiliation ever. I wanted to run away and jump off a cliff. On most winter nights, I would wake up in a dream of that day and moment. Again and again. I have relived that day a hundred times because of my nightmares. I wouldn't even know what triggers it till date. Oh, how the childhood scars us!

As I struggled to stand, the inspector looked at me with pity.

Ok sit sit, he said in a hurry as if I am an untouchable insect; I wanted to run to Amma and hide in her hug then. An yellow ball of crap had rolled down my pants. I put my feet on it so as to not draw any more attention.

Not one word on paper yet, except my name.

My stomach churned in pain again. Amma please, I screamed to myself, trying to remember some song.

Amma, I remembered then. She must be waiting at the gates in the Sun. She has hopes of me. She believes in me. I remembered. A surge of her memories calmed me. I should write this exam, a voice called out.

I opened the map-pointing section. I knew I could score some easy marks there. The maps would be given later, but I knew I could gain a score from there. Two strong answers and objective questions – it will lead me to pass the exam, I convinced myself.

So, with shit beneath my feet and in my pants, I began to write. With my thighs burning, body stinking, back paining, and above all, my eyes tearing up – I wrote two long answers in 45 minutes. I wanted an additional. But I did not want to ask as that means I have to stand. I narrowed down the last lines of the answer to fit the page I have.

All my hope was now on the objective and map pointing section. When the papers arrived, I saw the world map and the questions asked. I remembered Lucky Ali’s video songs, how he had shot in different countries – Cuba, America – and remembering where those countries were in the map. I remember the Titanic Movie and had tracked its journey, beginning from England. Regardless of the questions, I pointed out these places on map. I also named all the seven continents for myself, closing with ‘Antarctica’, a land I did not know I would eventually visit.

In 10 minutes, I finished the map questions. 15 minutes thereafter, I wrote the objective paper. I counted what score am I likely to get. 35 was the passing mark. I had attempted questions worth 36 marks. That is all I could do when the final bell rang. And the invigilator came to give the thread to tie the paper and collect it all. I handed the paper over to him, completely exhausted. The girl put the kerchief back onto her nose and was ready to run away and probably puke. I wouldn’t blame her. I myself wanted to.

When all papers were submitted, and the students began to move, I sat there. Tears were punching through my eyes again. They would never stop for years. My core would be overwhelmed by them forever. And as I attempted to move after everyone had left, an Ayamma had come into the room. She saw me and the floor. What I had done to the floor, the bench.

‘Chi’, she said, embarrassing me further.

‘Sorry’, I replied.

‘Jarugu po’, she retorted in anger and mouthed a few foul words, whose corrosiveness killed me further within. I stepped out with poop on my feet, my pants semi-dried, tears in eyes, and limping my way down to two floors.

As I emerged out of the gates, Amma was waiting. She saw me and in a moment understood everything. ‘Come here’, she said and hugged me. She wiped my face with the edge of her saree and gave me a towel to wrap around. Calling an auto, she offered me water to drink. I did not have the strength to lift the bottle. So, how was the paper?, Amma asked. ‘Super ma’, I lied not wanting to disappoint her. ‘I know you must have done your best’, she said. ‘I am very proud of you for trying’, she added.

I tried, and that try mattered to her. And it mattered to me that she feels good. Together, we left the place. She in hope. I in shame and scars.

Two months later, the results came. I had scored 36 marks exactly in Social studies. I passed the exam by one mark. But every mark I attempted, I had gotten it right. The intermediate colleges though, would not take me or give me a scholarship to study. With less than 62%, I was a loser by any standard. My neighbours and friends all celebrated their 90% and more.

‘Seri paravalla, you tried’, my father said that day, seeing my score. His kind approach to my mere trying brought me more tears. I felt I failed him. My mother. And my sister.

I tried. Yes, I did. And on most days, that is what counts. But I wanted more. Seeing my parents sad, I really wanted to be go back and write that exam with all the true knowledge I had of social studies. I did not care for any more shame. I wanted them to be happy. I wanted to top my state. I knew I could. I knew I would.

Looking back though, I am glad my shame prevented me from moving away from that bench and giving up that day. On many days even now, I wake up in nightmares about failing that exam. I wake up in tears, sweat, and it would take a few seconds for me to realize it was just a nightmare. Cornered to the extreme on a wall, I let my shame drive me to persist in that exam and just survive to excel on another day. And each time thereafter, I knew I just need to survive sometimes. Most times. And my day to shine will come.

Nothing thereafter – not even topping the state in Engineering EAMCET, topping CBIT with great percentages, Acing GRE or GMAT, Winning Torchbearer award and Merit Scholarship at ISB – nothing could ever normalize me or make me happy. The shame of that day, the fall on the steps, the girl’s handkerchief on her nose, the inspection, my feet on the poop, the mental image of my mother waiting, and the sheer disgust of myself is what I carry at my core. And oh, those songs of Lucky Ali continued to play in my mind and life forever after. Forever after.

Yet, those songs, the desire to survive, the humiliation of it all is what I internalized. And when I look back at it all today, I remember only powerful moment. The very image of my Amma waiting at the gates helplessly and full of hope for me. I know that for most people, on most occasions – helplessness, humiliation, and disgust is what it all feels like. Just surviving in itself is a challenge. And it is ok, if that is all you do then. Hold onto one image in your head. Any image. Some song. Because when you survive, you live to fight another day. You live to win another day. You live to be proud of your scars. And you live to experience joy. However, impossible it may seem at that moment. Eventually you will be who you are destined to be. You just have to survive until then. 

That little bit of truth !

A little bit of truth. Nothing has hurt lives more than that "little bit of truth". Have you ever wondered, how when two people argue, each believes passionately in their view because of that "little bit of truth".

You are a good person, yet I want my daughter to be happy. And how can she be happy with your problems that she cannot surmount? – said a Mother to me. She had a little bit of truth.

You deserve to study, however I am a person with limited financial means. I have to take care of the whole family also. Think beyond your own selfishness – commented a father in front of me. He had a little bit of truth.

A belief in God gives me peace. I do not care whether God truly exists, but if God isn’t there, I want God to be created even as a lie – stated a friend. My friend too had a little bit of truth.

I have often seen how that small fragment of truth – that little sliver – strikes people’s lives harder than any lie ever can. We often surrender our dreams, hopes, beliefs, passions, and even our whole life to that truth. We use 'Sacrifice' as a word to give into that truth. And when I think of it each time, it is remarkable how something so small of a thought with the mask of wisdom and truth can carry such weight, how it can hurt and divide people and how people refuse to see beyond their own reality.

Looking back now, my life has been dedicated to fighting such small truths in each phase. No, I deserve to be educated – I told my family. No, I can travel till I faint of exhaustion – I told my neighbours, who queried on my abilities to live or travel independently. No, I will go to the ends of earth just to experience the beauty of life – I told myself when I doctor aggressively suggested me to have one leg amputated, rest for a few months, and not risk further infections.

Each time, I stood up for myself, I received resistance from others. From people speaking their perspective. Rather 'their truth'. And when I defied their truths, they were quick to judge too. 

But in those moments of defiance, I wish I could say I discovered something greater: the strength to live on my terms, to carve my own path, to refuse the limits others would place upon me. I wish I could share that inspiring line. However, in those moments of defiance, I discovered not that inspiration, but something darker. 

I have come to realize through my life that our life’s realities will be shaped by the truths we choose to accept and the ones we dare to challenge. But then, our own inner peace, confidence, happiness, and all other good emotions are often shaped in those silent nights, where our spirit places doubts on our true nature. In those dark ungodly hours, our conscience questions each moment of us and we turn vulnerable. We feel stirred, trying to silence questions on who we truly are! I realized the truth that - Choosing our own path makes us feel lonely. No matter how many people surround us on the journey.

Yet, not choosing such a path would also fill us with regret. Now, I had also given onto and surrendered other people’s notions of truth frequently. I tried doing what other people's truths wanted me to do. And I have realized that each time I surrendered my own true, humanly desires for the sake of someone else’s truth, a small piece of my spirit decayed. I felt suffocated and defeated. I turned angry and resentful. And what I learned is this – living by the standards of others may bring temporary peace, but it is a hollow peace. It is a peace that fades quickly and leaves behind only the bitter taste of what could have been.

So, in a battle between any two truths then dear, it comes down to that fundamental question – which truth will you allow to define your life? Will you choose loneliness or a decaying spirit? I pray you can live with the hypocrisy that sometimes you chose yourself and sometimes others. Yet, it actually comes down to your instincts and people around you. Honestly, no one was born with a manual of how to live. And even if they did, I would want to toss that manual into fire as soon as possible! For why would I want to follow a wise book of instructions when I can write my own story in the only life I have ever got? In fact, why would I ever let someone else’s words fill my life’s pages when the pen to write my destiny is in my own hand? And even if such a writing were to actually punish me with loneliness, guilt, and hurt for the rest of my life, why should I feel that to be an unbearable burden? So, in the spirit of that thought, let me fill the page of my book's story say with this saying finally.

"My Dearest Sahana,

I was, by all accounts, born as an incapable, limited, and ill-suited individual for certain grand dreams. Yet, for reasons unknown to me, my heart cried out to chase those very dreams. Each night, my instincts, fantasies, and imaginations wept for those dreams with all the passion I could feel. And so, unable to bear that burden anymore, I chased my dreams eventually. In the prime of my youth, I committed to them. Each time. Every time. I defied my parents. I lived wildly. And, on most occasions, I failed. Miserably. I would feel the sting of my stupidity then and consider myself wiser because of the experience. I was also filled with loneliness on many days. I cried. I cried and cried in a small 6x4 foot room in three different countries. And then, when I couldn’t cry anymore actually, I began to write about it too. I wrote for myself initially and to you in later part of life. And through such writing, I also realized something significant silently. A thought has come upon me slowly. A feeling has overwhelmed me eventually that although I had failed many times in life, I have also lived authentically. I have lived foolishly dear, but authentically too. Also, I have not let the restraints imposed by others and the truth of the words of the others to limit the spirit with which I wanted to live. And as long as I live, I will never let that happen to me. Not only to me. But I will not let anyone, any word, or any feeling restrain you too or any other. No matter how thoughtless your desires are. Let me tell you my dearest, the two feelings – authenticity and foolishness –  may seem opposed to you each time you make a decision. The wise ones with all the love they have will warn you of the risks, even as your own heart dares you plunge in.  And when you confront such contrasting emotions within you, you must realize that the two opposing feelings have to exist together. Exist within you every moment. Exist every time you make a choice. And as you let them live within you for as long as possible. The two feelings must exist until they merge  into an honest foolishness. Only then you will begin to find your truest self. You will act with an unapologetic approach. You will begin to come alive. And as you learn to slowly turn a blind eye to embrace the world’s judgmental eyes on your foolishness dear, you will eventually let the spirit of your heart come to the fore to the fullest. And that is your purpose, my dear. A never ending pursuit to let your spirit live to the fullest. Generations of our family have come together to give this beautiful opportunity of life to you. So, embrace that gift and reveal who you are to the world dear. No matter how much it judges you. You were born in the world, not for the world. Experience it to the wildest of your capabilities and dreams. And when you do so, even against anyone's or everyone's wishes, be rest assured, I will love everything about you. I will love you with every little bit I have to my last breath and more. You are mine and will always be. Your spirit, your choices, and your joys is what I wish to see. So, do not let the world dim your foolish authenticity by any means. 

For you, Because of you - Sai Prasad Vishwanathan"