On being the Dumbest Different

Art by Franz Kafka found in the ‘Black Notebook’.

cd rowing up, I was always a hyper-reactive kid in my class, mediocre throughout multiple fields. I used to play footbal, playing multiple instruments. I was also quite good at studies and for the most part I liked reading our English textbooks which were not NCERT in my first school.

I studied from UKG to my 2nd Class in a Marathi School in Solapur, and then I switched to the new English school, “Podar International School” in the city. I did not even know how to read basic English words like prepositions “The” and etc. After 20 days of joining the school, we had a Dictation test. Till date, I remember those tiny drops of red ink collated together in the shape of a Oval Merry-go-round on my answer sheet followed by two underlines in a very finicky style. Out of 10, I couldn’t even get a single spelling right that day in the school. I did not feel humiliated for I was just a 7 year old scared boy.

Luckily, I had the privilege to sit beside “Sharav” one of the most talented guys in the class, whom I used to admire a lot. He was probably from a wealthy family, for he spoke English very fluently. Sitting beside him, for the first time I had come to know about the “Cursive” style of writing English. I wanted to learn that, hence I started looking at his book and trying to copy his writing style. The way he held the pencil “apsara those days” which had a perfectly precise sharpened point. I remember every time after sharpening his pencil, he used to point it out towards the window and look at the sharpness of the tip. Apparently, he noticed I was trying to learn it by copying him. After some days he started teaching me about how he stroked every letter, the way he used to write “A”, “P”, “p”, “f” and many others was very beautiful.

Teachers and many great people in the history always said that you should always have one person around you who keeps on failing. The group I was in was a mix of everything, 1 good scorer, 1 decently talented, rest being the ones who struggled at studies, while me being the mediocre at everything. Later in my days of schooling, I had to change my school to a Gurukul where other than me everyone was a Hostelite. Throughout those 2 years, I was always disconnected with my surrounding as well as myself. I did not like the environment. I used to sit alone on the last second bench behind three guys who were considered the Big-B’s of the class. No one was good at studies, some were good at sports but none of them certainly was good with behavior, manners or were nowhere near to intellectual in their nervous system.

Let me tell you a story of why I have set this absurd of a title for this essay.

During the mid of semester, the faculty hired a new professor to teach us History. He was originally a Bengoli but had migrated to Maharashtra and was staying in the school hostel with all the students. He seemed like a good person for the most part, certainly intellectual at about his views and perspectives. I could sense that he was at least somewhere different than majority of the teachers in the school. I had somehow got his attention because of being alone, and often times also being able to answer some of his question even when I never focused in the class or at his lectures. It was a late winter day, he was distributing our exam answer sheets and was discussing about the marks everyone had scored. If I remember correctly, I managed to score somewhere around 45/55 out of 70 in his subject. As always, I was disconnected from the class until I heard my name getting called while he was yelling at the three students in front of me. He called out my name and made me stand up. I was quite scared wondering what he would ask. But instead he pulled out my answer sheet and read one of the answers. I was not visible to the class because of the three tall guys in front of me. He compared my marks, my understanding and ability to study with those three other students. The only thing which was different were my marks, understanding and approach. He claimed that I was no different than those three other students of the classroom looking at how dumb I am. Somehow, that day, this comparison did not hurt at all.

6 years down the line, I still remember the day. That comparison has stuck to my mind like a leech. I don’t know if I want to separate this leech with salt from my head or let it devour my brain and replace with itself. Perhaps, I think I want to live with it. Year by year, as I’m growing, and I think of it, I see more proof’s or instances of myself being in a room where I am similar to a person who is failing and is no good at what they do. The only thing which I see separates myself from them is the little difference I manage to make. It is also hard to understand whether there is any or some originality in myself or not. It somehow feels a bit vulnerable while writing about this. I can’t collect my thoughts properly and clearly convey what I want to.

From the last 3 years, I have been wondering if there is anything original in this current world. There is always some influence or inspiration coming from somewhere. Surrounding plays a major role in this situation, I believe if there are any good/bad things happening in the surrounding that is where we inspire or get influenced. While, I was learning music I had this person in my music class who was playing good flute, and I felt like learning it. I heard about coding/programming from my sister and magically I am trying to learn it still even after 5-6 years after I heard about it. All of this boils down to the question “What does originality mean ?”.