Sorry, Miss Sunshine…

Dear Miss Sunshine,

I just finished watching the movie “Little Miss Sunshine“. Towards the end of the movie, I was reminded of you. I (shouldn’t have, but) had forgotten you and the incident that brought me to tears that night. I was f****** helpless that evening.
I initially thought of writing a normal blog entry about the event, but then it somehow (I don’t really know how, but) started out as a letter. These crazy things keep happening to me all the time. Probably it was some stupid cell of the brain (or heart, don’t really know) that said that MAY BE someday, when you grow old… you’ll understand that I became weak… could not (or rather DID NOT) fight back for you.
Before proceeding, let me tell you what crazy things I was referring to. I have a strange feeling that at times He gives me signals to either teach me something, or remind me of something. Signals like the one I referred to in my essay on foeticide.
For quite some time He has shown me a number of signal on dancing.
1. Shammy sharing a pice of poetry on dance before posting on his blog.
2. A friend of mine performing on DD.
3. Shammy posting an essay on dance; quite unnatural.
4. Watching trailer of some movies, based on dance.
But I just couldn’t see them until I saw the movie.
I still don’t understand if these signals were meant for you, or you are one of them too. Let’s see. 🙂

It was December a few years back. Our college was hosting the NCSC (National Children’s Science Congress). It was big (no, not just big, HUGE) event. Not because it was some national event, but because the President of India, Dr. Kalam, was coming. [The designation and the name are mentioned in the order of IMPORTANCE.]
I, being one of the students actively active, was one of the (f****) important volunteers. The other reason is because there were not many final year guys left. We’d a sine die for two batches, but then that’s a different (and pathetic story) altogether.

I can go on when it comes to blaming the things related to the event (not that it didn’t have anything good; it had, but) I think I won’t talk about them. This letter id about you and me.

So comes DAY Zero.
Dr. kalam… sorry, the President of India arrives. All the children waiting are thrilled. I guess you felt the thrill too. You were somewhere between 5-7. That’s the age when happiness and sorrows, both are experienced completely disjoint… in their purest form.
There are a series of speeches by people unimportant to you all… and then comes your hero. He speaks, answers your questions and leaves. But you people won’t let him leave.
The president of India returns back for a while, walks towards you guys… unafraid of the elements he should be afraid of. That’s one of the several things that makes him your hero.
Isn’t it?
Same here. 🙂

However, the biggest surprise for me arrives as he leaves the place. Everybody; (most of) the college management people, the government officials leave the place with a SHOWY sense of relief, displaying SCENES pride and back patting. I say surprise because:
1. We still had a cultural evening with artists of national and international repute to perform.
2. These evenings actually are not meant for these artists but for the children… like you(No offences to them. I have been SPICMACAY coordinator). I, anyways, had to carry on because I was (supposedly) expert in handling such events. (if it’s even remotely true, it’s because of my amazing and lovely team.)
And you’d left too; probably practicing your dance steps.

One (of the several) things that really really pi****d me off was the treatment given to these artists. They weren’t even (officially) provided with water or coffee… and when I say THEY, it includes Guru Gangadhar Pradhan, the eminent Odissi dancer.
NO EXAGGERATION.
One f****** IAS, when I approached him, said it was not his job.

Anyways. So by the evening I came to know that the cultural evening is actually for all you little champs. But thanks to the amazing communication between the college management and the govt. officials, a scheduled was already chalked out. I couldn’t do anything for that evening, but anyways tried creating a balance between the two… and included as many performances as I could for other days.

Then came your day, which was (unfortunately) the last day of the performances.
I was busy scheduling, re-scheduling, re-re-scheduling, re-***** the schedules on the fly… while the performances were going on. [Thankfully, I had a few friends to help me with the hosting part.]
So as I said, I was inserting performances on the fly.
As and when the requests poured in, I tried fitting them in.
Some of your friends came and performed.
I was getting pressure to wind up as it was quite LATE.
… and after a while… we did stop.

The stage had to be made ready for some meet on the other day… tables were being set… the sound guy started winding his stuff… and then you came with your (typical loud Punjabi) teacher. You were probably from Delhi.

You wanted to perform.
You had practised for it.
You were practising and getting your steps perfect. Probably that’s why you’re late.

When I said, it was over… you became sad.
The teacher asked me… persuaded me.
Something touched me inside.
Probably, the feeling to do certain things… that I wasn’t able to… sing, play… laugh.
I shouted at my friends to remove the table… they ran and started moving them (probably you’d touched them too). I shouted at the sound guy… he started plugging things too. May be not because of you… but he did anyways. (Life isn’t like a movie where everyone feels your pain and happiness. But nonetheless, some do.)

………But then, she came
… and said it can’t be done. It was too late.
The real reason was probably that they had to see that the stage was set… and get back to get some rest.
I couldn’t do anything. It’s not always that I am weak.
I have fought back… always.
But this time, I didn’t. I might say that the FEELING of not being able to do things I wanted to, tried finding a shelter in your failure. But then that’s just a F***** refuge. Bottom line is… I DID NOT FIGHT BACK.
I looked at you….. You’re crying.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Sometimes I wish I could just erase that sight of helplessness from my memories.
But then the truth is, this event is one of the several events in my unconscious mind (or heart) that keeps the anger within me alive… pushes me for fighting for small things. (You wouldn’t even believe if I tell you the stories).

At the end of this letter, all I want to say (be prepared for lots of “ifs”), that if you read it sometime, and if you remember me and the event, and if you still feel something about that evening… I would like to say,
“I am both sorry and thankful to you beta. Sorry for not fighting back for you… and thankful for being one my several inspirations. As I TRIED to reply back to Shammy’s poetry, in a poetic manner :D,
Grief Has It’s Own Unsung Glory…
May be not for you, but definitely for me.”

Love,
Bips.

P.S. Never ever use the f* words. I generally don’t use it; in fact I’ve uttered the word only 4 times in my life… I guess those were the moments when I think I was very angry and frustrated….. ummm not really angry and frustrated… helpless I guess. Yes helpless.
But don’t you dare EVER use them 🙂