Spring 2023 Contest — Finalist
A Sneak-Peek Behind the Veil
All about a bunch of grade cards and photographs.
Surrounded by the sea of belongings, I sat on the floor of my room, dusting and sifting and sorting. We were about to shift to a new place, so I had to decide what I wanted to carry on to the new home. After hours of throwing a bunch of bills and notes into crumpled balls, I found the transparent pack of my grade cards from school. It had been a while since I had looked at my old academic records and reminisced about how much my childhood centered around them. Like any untouched and ancient object, the report cards’ colors seemed dull, and the corners had started to curl.
The most amusing part of reading through my grade cards was the teachers’ comments on my behavior — especially the ones from the time of kindergarten. The kindergarten grade card had small smiley faces drawn towards the end of every comment box, in which my teachers consistently complained about my silence. They softly reported my shyness and reluctance to be socially active or initiate conversations with other students and them. Especially them. I smiled slightly while reading the comments and thought about how old they were and still very relevant, if not wholly.
The comments made me rack my brain and try to recollect the memories of kindergarten shyness and silence. But alas, I couldn’t remember anything, not even a glimpse of being a four-year-old or a five-year-old. Although a few more minutes of racking brought back a more recent silent memory from when I was perhaps ten-year-old.
I found myself standing at one edge of the school playground, with tears rolling down my cheeks. While on the other edge, my friends played merrily. I had been berated by one of my best friends (then, not now) for telling the correct total of my marks to the teacher and being praised for it with joyous applause from the class. The catch was that the correct total was less than the teacher’s calculation. So, reporting it showed my sense of integrity and sincerity.
In retrospect, the matter was small and didn’t need any applause or beratement. My friend was angry that I was publicly honored for something I had done only because they had known the correct total. They said I would have happily accepted the extra marks if they hadn’t known. I’m unsure about my nobility, but being shouted at after losing the undeserving marks wasn’t expected and wasn’t fun. So, I stood, at one edge of the playground, not playing, not retorting, but crying in silence.
Holding the kindergarten report and thinking of primary school, I tried talking sense and courage into my ten-year-old self. But I equally understood facing the rapid verbal onslaught and the fear of losing friends. I understood the numbness and the passivity. With numbness slowly coursing through my card-holding hands again, my memories started to grow more recent.
In this memory, I sat in a chair near my friend (the same as above) in the classroom. I was consoling them as they were upset about scoring less than they had anticipated in an exam. My stupid attempt to cheer unintentionally involved mentioning the happy coincidence that we both had the same and decent marks. The friend, for obvious reasons, grew more irritated and declared their case was different.
I wondered what made them think they were different and why they wouldn’t be happy to achieve decent scores — and also pondered if I was any different. I concluded silently that maybe I was different too, perhaps even special, as I preferred not to strut around declaring it. I sat silently by my friend’s side until they refreshed their mood.
While blowing off the dust from my grade sheet, I mused how the stories are not that different in adulthood, except that adults are a little more diplomatic. This reminded me of a fellow who drew parallels between my silence, unintelligence, and lack of knowledge, considering me a human unfit for talking. Not that I was interested in talking to them or that I knew everything, but the fellow’s perception drew me back to thinking about the “difference” and strutting around.
Keeping the kindergarten grade sheet aside, I picked up some end-of-the-year class photographs and started dusting them. I first picked the one from my first year of high school and let out a small laugh while looking at myself — courtesy of my teenage years. Then a memory flash from high school reminded me of a more laughable matter.
I was walking down a dimly lit corridor in the school and was called by a few seniors on the way. They sniggered at each other whenever I looked at them and continued intermittently calling my name when I looked away. This teasing went on for several days and in several different forms. Until I lost patience and thought to unveil the silence. I heartily remember scolding one of them, the leader, who had a startled expression, perhaps a bit of confusion too. Maybe they didn’t think I could speak. I like to surprise people that way.
I chuckled, thinking how only a few words saved me from more annoyance. But also worried a bit about how long the teasing would go on if I had been silent.
I returned the high-school photos in a separate packet and picked up the others to clean. I realized that even in college and office, my silence more generally and effortlessly attracted people who liked to influence others’ lives powerfully. They had pompous directions for my life, of course, in the form of care or under the prejudice that I was meek. I always relished biding my time and slowly opening up. Like my high-school seniors, my opinions, even though sometimes it was only about me not liking tea, baffled the “caring” people. As for the prejudiced ones, even a slight opposition or the presence of thinking capacity caused great difficulty, leading them to flee immediately. I guess silence was all they wanted. Pity, I had so much more in store.
When I was almost done dusting and repacking the grade cards and old photographs, I suddenly remembered to take a picture of the comments on my kindergarten behavior and send them to my favorite people. I sent the clicks and thought back on their first narrations of expectations from my silence while waiting for a response.
Their narrations of mystery and a greater possibility behind the veil. Narrations of mischievousness behind the smile and in the glint of my eye. Narrations of adventures and grand stories and possible laughter. All this, with the acknowledgment and acceptance of the veil of silence.
A reply with “hahaha” and laughing smileys pulled me out of my reverie. The response also had a contemplative comment on the long-standing wonders and woes of silence. I smiled genially and kept the phone back, reverting to more sifting, sorting, and dusting.
