Extraordinary

By Isha Purohit

HAPPY

was the word I pronounced

when they branded me a word as grand as extraordinary.

What a word, I thought.

So many vowels and constants,

they didn’t even teach us about.

I can do anything,

if they call me a word

as grand as extraordinary.

Sixty-six divided by 11

was what I solved.

Six! I cried, six is the answer.

What a mind! They said,

intelligent and shrewd!

She can do anything,

that she set her mind too.

Oh wow, I thought.

Am I all those things they talk about?

Words that are too long to memories,

and meanings too complicated to understand?

I can do anything, I thought.

If they call me a word

as grand as extraordinary.

Who can speak that shloka?

Was the question the teacher asked,

when my mouth ran dry.

It’s alright, my mother said,

Not everyone can be good at everything.

My snivels died down at the touch of her tender embrace.

It’s alright, I repeated her words, it’s just language arts.

But they called me extraordinary! Cried my inner self.

Shouldn’t someone who’s called a word as grand as extraordinary,

be capable of doing everything?

Eight was the answer I shouted

when the teacher asked,

The compound interest Ramesh must pay for his car

YOU’RE WRONG! He cried, NEXT TIME, THINK BEFORE ANSWERING.

The weight of the laughter behind anchored me to my seat.

But this isn’t language arts, the question circled my mind, how did I get this wrong?

I used the formula, did the calculation, and answered?

Where did it go—

Seven! Shouted another from behind.

Correct! The teacher said, extraordinary!

Extraordinary? My heart sank, wasn’t this what they said I was?

CHEERFUL was the answer I whispered

when the teacher asked,

What does jovial mean?

Correct, she said, this is where you shine,

people should stick to what they are good at.

What they’re good at? I asked myself.

I thought I was good at everything.

Sixty-six was the answer when I kept my lips closed,

It’s wrong, I thought,

Remember what they said?

You jump too fast and land too deep,

that’s how you end up in the heap.

Sixty-three was the answer they shouted from the heap,

Close enough! the teacher said, still extraordinary.

It’s not fair,

we share the same air,

why don’t I get called extraordinary no more?

I look around the room.

My eyes heavy with woe,

I saw it near the door,

my extraordinary

with his arms around the board

as it scanned the class list.

Don’t leave me, I beg as it chose the top three.

You were mine all these years,

give me a few more, I’ll get near!

Oh honey, you said, on your face a smirk.

Don’t shed tears

for I was never real.

You lie, I think as I wipe my tears.

All through my childhood you were mine.

When I didn’t study until the night before, you were mine,

when I got sick, you were mine.

All through Nursery, LKG, HKG, 1, 2, 3, 4 you were mine.

What did I do wrong?

To lose you like I did,

Where did I go wrong?

To make you chose from the heap.

Leaving me in the deep.

I’m to blame, I know

it’s all on me.

But though I'm all grown,

burdened by the weight of numbers I couldn’t write,

I'm still a child,

crying in an aisle,

begging for you to stay.

Every part of me wishing that you’ll come back,

to tell me that you’re still mine,

to tell me I tried my best,

to tell me that you’ll meet me again,

and that you’ll be mine and mine alone,

And this time, never leave me behind.

Silly girl, my extraordinary laughed, if only you try more, I’ll still be yours.

Try? I ask, try? All is do is try, try, and try.

How many more pieces of me should I tear?

One for the chair that’ll carve my grave,

two for the laptop, my one true bane.

three for the books that harm me every step of way.

Till when will I have to keep tearing myself apart day by day?

Until my legs atrophy and my back becomes battered and blue?

Until my voice leaves my throat and I can’t memorise anymore.

Who’ll be left to learn the aetiologies, physiologies, pathologies, pathophysiology, histopathology, of all the diseases that I am sickened with?

Will I be good enough for you then?

Will I finally be extraordinary again?

I pause as I take deep breaths,

expecting a para from you.

But you kept your word.

Silly girl, you had said, don’t shed tears,

For I was never real.

Then why do I see you wave goodbye?

From the window you once used to wave me hi?

And then I tried years to no end,

But I never heard the word extraordinary again.

Though I was a girl, as little as Stuart

I should have known.

A word as grand as extraordinary,

was never meant for someone as naïve as I.

By Isha Purohit