Nights pass with serious sensations of having been
educated for no reason at all. And then a voice resonates about building up to
a fight and living with denials. I sleep deep, and wake up tired, feeling my
pulse which run to the chords of the inner voice, which keeps saying, 'You
can't teach, you can't be consistent, you can't read, be critical'. And then
the finality, 'You can't write'. I make myself get out of the comfort of the
blanket and force myself outside my room, knowing that voice was of course, a
part of my own, somehow conquering my mornings and allowing me the chance to
fight it, through the moments, until I fall asleep, failed.
I have not been able to address this most dangerous
self whom I smell, touch and feel enough to give it a name, but I won't. I will
avenge the disaster it has brought upon me. Well it says, 'There's trembling,
an earthquake and hence you shall not sleep, or, there's death in the other
room; You cannot teach.' But I move on, somehow, shadow punching it right in
its nose. The main weapon this voice uses against me is this image of myself,
decorated in perfection -- of writing, cooking, teaching, loving, losing,
living. Then there are rejections, with their own faces -- some puzzled in a
classroom when I try and elaborate a point, or wearing catastrophe in my
relationships. I reassure myself of remaining a liar, a hypocrite, trying to
project a 'best' version of me, while in my deepest core, I know I am actually
just a 'performer'.
I am average, at the most, above-average, without
much of advanced degrees or accolades, nor have any bestsellers crediting my so
called 'brilliant' writing. I have been teaching, all sorts, in my eighth year
now, and I am more honest than ever. I cannot attempt to contest the other better
teachers around me, I can only challenge myself to beat the teacher that was me
the previous day. Towards the end of a session, if one student has understood
any little thing I have tried to explain, realized the energy that goes in the
process, I am content, and to some level, confident too -- that I am better at
being a teacher than I was on the first day. I have done my best bit and must
accept this me has raised a notch higher and not be dreaded by the degrees of
the better others.
I am non-violent, a good, rather likeable soul, I
think. I love the mountains, good company, delicious meals, indulgent drinks
and colours. It is weird that grey is my favourite. But that nasty voice says I
am not at peace with these, that I should be aiming for greater parameters and
not settle for such meager satisfaction. I like playing with the clouds and a
perfect breakfast delights me, but that voice, that other me, says I am too
mediocre to be so complacent and kills me, oh so, softly. I keep trying, even
more softly thus. I try and be a better teacher. What remains are mere trials
and flaws. each moment is a trial and the other, an error.
I joined this job to sustain my soul with the
confidence, like food does to the digestive system and the taste buds. Facing
more faces, being active and responsible -- to be able to live it either with
tight grit or boundless joy. These faces face me too. And then the monstrously
effective voice which tells me all is a waste because I am a bundle of errors,
I am full of flaws. It deceives me into believing that I can only exist if I am
the best. Best version of me, stay reminded. It then continues to echo that
without being the best, I am but a nothing.
I rationalize, and assess if I am not something?
Anything? Someone who gets tired, someone who is reticent to fight, is
naturally unsocial. Another month is done, with another beginning. I just want
to end it by saying I am tired of correcting tangible errors, not untouchable
voices. I will hurl the hurt into a distant sea, rather than running away from
it. These voices shame me. They express my fears to others and they, in turn,
feed on it.
But as a promise to self, which I have been
continuing to maintain, I stay calm, and fight within my own precincts. I do
not give them the dignity of a social approval, when I muffle it down, or give
myself in. I'll work even harder, more regularly than ever. I will write, more
relaxed than compulsively. I'll keep myself from thinking, 'What after these
two years?' The voices have a limit, they command my best. But it is only me,
who actually, knows where my limits live. I offer a choice to myself, to run
away from the pressure of being the best and finish myself in the process,
because perfection does not really drop into the pocket like a sorcerer's
stone. The other choice, is, to face life and them voices on my own terms and
to make the best of the limit.
My first win is in getting this job, the second in
taking it up before the voices drowned my confidence saying I was not good
enough for it. The third in facing a class full of faces after a night of no
sleep and shaky nerves.
The final win, of course, is in writing about the
voices, and finally finding my voice. An audible, legible voice.
No comments:
Post a Comment