Desire to be Seen, Instinct to Disappear
It was 2011. I had just stepped into high school, trying to find a way around thicker textbooks and heavier expectations. It was also the year that marked the birth of quite an unpretentious notion – you need to catch up.
Catch up with the syllabus.
Catch up with the newfound internet frenzy.
Catch up with fashion trends I barely understood.
Catch up with the elusive cool quotient.
Back then, FOMO manifested itself quite differently than it does today. It didn’t creep in through unknown grids and looping reels. Nor did it find its way through curated ASMR videos of random strangers living thousands of miles away. It rather lived close to home.
Early 2010s FOMO looked like the pretty girl with shiny, voluminous hair who frequented the school corridor and walked like a shampoo commercial. Or the boy who made it to the teachers’ hit list by knowing every book like the back of his hand. Or the senior cum orator who delivered TED talk-level speeches with unnerving ease, and how!
I would often find myself in their shoes, extracting happiness out of imaginative instances – daydreaming about applause and admiration, yet falling flat while replicating them in real life. The girl in me dreamt of being the hotshot, even as I struggled to piece together my hair, face, and awkward presence for the world. Nevertheless, the stories I made up in my head gave me a fabricated sense of self. A secret high I needed to sleep with a smile on my face.
Over time, I came to realise that not every shoe is supposed to fit. Somehow, oscillating between the desire to steer the hotshot wheel and fading into the background, I found my safe space. I found comfort in the background. And that’s how I built a home behind the scribbles of my notebook.
I still remember those times. Our English teacher from the eleventh grade was quite fond of my essays. I gave it all, even though I struggled terribly. My vocabulary had been limited. But I worked my way by avoiding jargon and scribbling what felt real to me. ‘Shorter sentences. Words that felt like actions.’ – I would tell myself. That’s why I absolutely sucked at argumentative essays. I remember attempting them once or twice and regretting midway – “Why am I supposed to argue at all?” So I stayed with stories: more imaginative plots, dialogues, and pieces that made me speak my voice out in non-existing circumstances. And I would be so proud of those write-ups. In fact, I still remember our English tutor personally calling me to the staff room to remark – “I read your essay. It was so good! Loved the story”. And that was when I felt like a hotshot in my own novel.
The seed for storytelling was watered throughout high school. And by the time I had entered college, it had started to grow roots. When I stepped into university, I had built myself a permanent nest on the roof of my house. Kolkata summers really surprised me. It would be extremely humid throughout the day until evening, and then suddenly, like clockwork, the evening breeze would greet us. It was enough to excite the venturer in me, and I made my way to the roof every day, barefoot, without fail. Most days, the moon would play peek-a-boo as I glanced at the passing clouds. That was all I needed to invoke the storyteller in me. I would read musings over the internet, and try to find parallels in my own writing. Unlike my failed attempts at replicating the hotshots, this felt real. Finding a space among people who are lost – overthinkers, nomads, and the quietly intense. This felt honest. This felt like me. Under the fluffy clouds, I would read, write, and wonder.
The seed for storytelling was watered throughout high school. And by the time I had entered college, it had started to grow roots. When I stepped into university, I had built myself a permanent nest on the roof of my house. Kolkata summers really surprised me. It would be extremely humid throughout the day until evening, and then suddenly, like clockwork, the evening breeze would greet us. It was enough to excite the venturer in me, and I made my way to the roof every day, barefoot, without fail. Most days, the moon would play peek-a-boo as I glanced at the passing clouds. That was all I needed to invoke the storyteller in me. I would read musings over the internet, and try to find parallels in my own writing. Unlike my failed attempts at replicating the hotshots, this felt real. Finding a space among people who are lost – overthinkers, nomads, and the quietly intense. This felt honest. This felt like me. Under the fluffy clouds, I would read, write, and wonder.
And as I lived through my ritual every day, I would realise –
I wasn’t meant to catch up.
I was meant to look around, sit still, and scribble things down.
To notice people in active pursuit of their aspirations;
To find meaning in the passive, depth in stillness;
To greet the evening breeze every day, like a friend;
To embrace the quiet light on the moon.
In those quiet, unhurried moments, I realised-
A life lived as a narrator,
Is no less than a life lived as a protagonist.
