BORN TO SUFFER.

                I had a terrible childhood. (This explains my present grumpy   attitude and grotesque face.) First I was the second born to my parents. My elder brother used to get more attention and affection from my parents. Researchers recently concluded that the first born always gets 30% more quality time and more attention of the parents than others. I couldn’t possibly have known this as a kid and I used to hate his guts.

                As if that was not bad enough I was always given the hand me downs of dresses, books and all other materials partly used or discarded by my brother. I used to wear only the dresses that he had used and outgrown and carry dog eared books. All my classmates used to make fun of me much to my chagrin. I cannot be faulted to harbour a permanent grudge against him.

                This continued for quite some years and I used to pray to God to make me the first born at least in the next life. Either God or my mother must have heard my prayers when I was ten and I started getting new clothes and new books since then.

                Fortunately there was a redeeming feature in this bleak scenario   as my parents had lots of expectations of my elder brother and practically none of me. They must have given me up as a gone case and pinned all their hopes on my sibling. I was also spared the sermons to emulate my brother as good luck would have it he was no great shakes in anything not even games. Mediocrity ruled the roost and intelligence conspicuous by its absence was not even spoken of in our house. This eased off the pressure on me but also made me resolute to excel in some field and better my elder brother to get the attention of my parents, which I craved for badly.

                First I tried my hand at school work to get better grades but the bird brain didn’t oblige. I found to my horror that despite my best efforts my grades invariably fell just short of the average. The more I intensified my efforts the more disappointing the results were. I passed every year with grace marks.

                I thought that academics were not my cup of tea and shifted focus to other interests. When I drew the figure of a cat it left everything to the imagination of the viewer for it looked like anything else other than a cat. Even when I wrote a caption Cat above the figure my classmates didn’t agree. The drawing teacher proved to be of no help either. He advised me to start with drawing a straight line without using a ruler. When he saw the end product after a couple of months hard practice told me in not so many words  that my chances of becoming an artist or even a cartoonist bordered on zero and advised me to try something else.

                My next effort at games yielded even poorer results. When I bowled, the ball never pitched anywhere near the stumps and my wild shots with the bat produced nothing but a little swish of noise as the bat never made contact with the ball even once in a hundred attempts. The drill master of our school called me for a one to one talk out of earshot of others and said in no uncertain terms that Cricket and I were poles apart and I should try my hand at other games/sports. My attempts at soccer brought cheer for my classmates to have a good laugh of derision. Every time I kicked the ball I used to land on my bottom without disturbing the ball.

                Undaunted I tried my hand (instead of legs) at athletics and found my feet laden with plenty of lead had never gathered any speed at all. The same lead, ruled me out of long and high jumps. I often found my dad in despair for total lack of any talent in me. He put me to learn music for which I had neither the ear nor the voice. Whenever I tried to sing I used to find our street crowded with many quadrupeds in white braying to their heart’s content. All our neighbours formed a committee and prevailed over my father to take immediate action to stop me from exercising my vocal chords. The results didn’t show any improvement when I tried some musical instrument. Fed up of my intolerant and insensitive neighbours I used to go to a lonely spot on the beach to go through my paces in vocal and instrumental music. I was invariably shooed away from the spot by many young couples who used the same spot for some activities that I couldn’t fathom then.

                As I failed in every venture I lost my heart and resigned to my   fate that I was destined to live the life of a below average fellow in all activities. What bothered me more than my failure was that my brother no better than me in any way still hogged the attention of my parents. Disgusted with my lot, I sat under the Gulmohor tree which was in full bloom with colours running riot in sharp contrast to the gloom in my heart and soul. I felt certain that I was not cut for anything as the maker while making me must have forgotten to put any talent in me for reasons best known to Him.

                As I sat shedding copious tears our English teacher seemed to have noticed, came up to me and enquired about the cause for my angst. He also sat next to me and heard my tale of woe patiently.

                He then put his large hand on my shoulder in a reassuring manner and told me “I noticed that every time you came late for class you invented a new excuse. You have a great knack for telling lies, fabulous lies in a very convincing manner.  You seem to have a fertile imagination for telling lies and stories and it is likely to stand in your good stead. Do not worry about anything and keep conjuring up different kind of those lies, which you can use later to spin many a yarn. You stand a more than average chance of becoming a writer one day. When the other students   jeer at you tell them that you will become a writer one day.”

Since then I have been telling all my friends that a writer is lying dormant in me. Unfortunately he had not budged even an inch and had not shown up even after 50 years or so.