Not my best attempt

At the age of 13, I made the mistake of telling my Geography teacher — Maharashtra is a part of Mumbai. What followed was me being asked to repeat my answer louder and louder, with a few giggles and silent snickers from my sincere listeners. Eventually, I was corrected by my teacher but not before she called me a few harmless names.

Today, it's just an anecdote in my books that I proudly state when I want people to truly believe me when I say I have no navigational skills. Yet, something about those two minutes of my adolescent life stayed with me. Besides the obvious proof of my lack of geographical knowledge, shame and mortification, I now also carried the deep fear of making a mistake and ultimately, being imperfect in my work.

Obviously, that wasn't the only instance that led me to dig my heels into the delusion of perfection. It was the shame and mortification I found my peers being put through as well, that told me I couldn't be wrong. I can never afford to be wrong. It bred a deep fear in me that often stopped me from speaking unless I knew what I put out into the world is absolutely correct and perfectly articulated because it is incapable of being improved.

The educational systems I was a part of, often created a room where being stupid was taboo, a practice that could not be broken, and will be ingrained in you. It was a room that a lot of us often participated in most times, and fell victim to otherwise. These practices have given birth to a generation that has access to multiple stages to perform, and yet no patience or strength to be tolerant of output that will not be perfect. Who can forget a room full of people laughing at you? It's what keeps most of us up at night –– the cringe answer you once gave, that sewed your mouth shut after.

At 22, I am a writer who refuses to write unless she knows the words on her page can match the impossible standard she's already built in her head. At 22, I am a creator who will only create words once she's dissected them in her head for 120 days, until now.

The words you see here are the product of a 30-minute rickshaw ride that contemplated the text, "I hate that I have everything in my mind but it doesn't translate to paper," from a fellow writer for the entirety of my commute.

These unedited words have not been pondered upon (too much).

These words are my feeble attempts at gaining back the right to make my mistakes. The words are my puny revolts against several rigorous institutions of perfection and shame.

These words are not my best attempt — and I'm okay with that.