Life sucks. I am depressed. I felt the same -- unfeeling -- even as an important exam would close in, when I struggled out of my winter afternoon blanket. Just plain cream-cracker bored. I do not remember any of either panic or anxiety that my friends would report on the evening phone calls. With the finesse of a memorized answer, I would try and feel sorry for myself, but something inside of me refused. I tried my creative best to whip up situations which would allow me self-pity. Things life, "I can't concentrate; I don't like to be chaired to studies..." unfortunately, none of these ever affected me. I mean, it was natural, not to be interested -- I had just one attachment -- boredom. Who was I joking? I was far from depressed, and life was nice -- I didn't have any expectations from myself, and far too many people believed I could not do much good in life.
One such night, deep into the Symbols of Chemistry, I found out what interested me, momentarily. I opened the last page of my notebook and wrote down the phone numbers I could remember -- about six or seven, six digits each. And finally, I started adding some and substracting from another -- as if the result was a magical number, an assigned amount of love between me and my friends. Life was really easy, and interesting. There was nothing dark to write about. Nothing dark was right.
My Maths Sir once happened to open that page by mistake. Like a dentist with his torch, or a warrior and his sword, he reached for his shirt pocket, took out the red-inked pen, and circled a garland of reds around the results of love. What initially began as laughter, turned to disbelief and finally into a statement, which, I did not register. I was by then thinking about degrees of punishment and wondering why it was rated in degrees, like fever.
Later that evening when Sir left with my mother ruminating over his statements, I decided I wanted to become an inventor. "Who thought of Au as Gold? Or is it Ag? Why do we agree?" As I waxed out the candle, I thought of what other kinds of candle could be made. No. I cannot think of creating a candle. I will be punished for never becoming an inventor. I played with the digits again, adding substracting and making ducks out of the dashes. How to become an inventor?
I wrote a sentence: Six Digits of Shame.
One such night, deep into the Symbols of Chemistry, I found out what interested me, momentarily. I opened the last page of my notebook and wrote down the phone numbers I could remember -- about six or seven, six digits each. And finally, I started adding some and substracting from another -- as if the result was a magical number, an assigned amount of love between me and my friends. Life was really easy, and interesting. There was nothing dark to write about. Nothing dark was right.
My Maths Sir once happened to open that page by mistake. Like a dentist with his torch, or a warrior and his sword, he reached for his shirt pocket, took out the red-inked pen, and circled a garland of reds around the results of love. What initially began as laughter, turned to disbelief and finally into a statement, which, I did not register. I was by then thinking about degrees of punishment and wondering why it was rated in degrees, like fever.
Later that evening when Sir left with my mother ruminating over his statements, I decided I wanted to become an inventor. "Who thought of Au as Gold? Or is it Ag? Why do we agree?" As I waxed out the candle, I thought of what other kinds of candle could be made. No. I cannot think of creating a candle. I will be punished for never becoming an inventor. I played with the digits again, adding substracting and making ducks out of the dashes. How to become an inventor?
I wrote a sentence: Six Digits of Shame.
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