An Attempt at understanding the World and Adults for Dummies a.k.a. Teens (By a Dummy) This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

Custom User Avatar
More by this author
The other day was just fine-me,my pyjamas and Khaled Hosseini; just one of those days when you sit and conjure what the world would look like minus patriarchy and rape culture and what covfefe would taste like and how well the new Snapchat filter suits me,until mum finally coaxed me into cleaning my drawer in exchange of Nutella cookies and hot chocolate milk.
In a slip of fate wielder than you finding me awake on a Sunday,
I adventitiously stumbled upon a journal, a really serious one,with sincere efforts of 'trying to look cool' oozing out of every bit of it -

~Red in colour( because pink is too mainstream) -check
~Laden with puffy stickers -check
~Sparkles -check
~Cursive handwriting( a.k.a pretentious childhood calligraphy)-check
~Green and blue ink that once smelled of fruits/flowers- check

So,that,apparently,was considerable amount of effort ,I must say,by the standards of a nine year old.

The once red, now yellow paged journal was back from the simpler days in life in 2009, when I was 9 and the world was still rosy and romantic and Hannah Montana was still cool.
While callously flipping through all the Hannah Montana fandom, pink stickers,glitters and a random assortment of drawings of unicorns and hills, edgier than Miley Cyrus's songs will ever be,I accidentally stumbled (yet again) upon one of this dear diary note(with precision in format and style equal to what they demand in a CBSE exam),replete with confusion and delusion and a hint of outrage.
Turns out,the world wasn't as romantic from the eyeballs of a nine year old either and there was something that really bugged me at that time as well, so here is the note I wrote.

[Disclaimer: On finding the diary,ecstatically flipping and reading it through, I went over for my hard earned cookie break (remember the deal?),with the already tattered journal forgotten on the table, which on returning was found 'Dead on Arrival' due to choking by excessive water that my little sister 'accidentally'(what she calls it) spilled on it.
Since I direly wanted to share this piece with people around, I tried to reincarnate of what I remembered of the piece. Hence, the original journal piece has been abridged to my memory and has been glossed over to do away with some unnecessary details,cursive handwriting,a bunch of forced rhymes and grammatical errors.
Though tampered with,I attempted to maintain the quintessence of my nine year old brain. Any kind of unnaturally remarkable vocabulary is therefore purely incidental.
Kindly ignore some inorganicity ,if any.]

"Dear diary,
Adults confuse me.
Today,when I came across the idea that
guns and
missiles
and bombs
could buy a nation security,
It seemed so strange to me,
for the safest place I have known
are mummy's arms
and all the love they can give away
on
all the good days
and the not-so-good days
and the bad days
and the really bad days
and on neither good nor bad days,
in all the subtle ways
they make me feel that the world is perfect.

When packed in her arms,the world seems perfect
despite the fact
that a rat monster lives right under my
bed
and that I cannot not have all the chocolates in the store
and that Happy Meal does not offer my favourite toy anymore
and that I cannot both be Superman and Wonderwoman for the
school fancy dress
and that Barbie's hair is such a
creepy mess.

On days my little brain
can think beyond
Ruchi Ma'am's homework
and dark chocolates
and happy meals,
I wonder
how guns and missiles and bombs could cuddle me
and kiss me on the cheek
and whisper in my ear
and tell me like mum does,
"Don't you worry,honey! It is safe here.", because that's what safety sounds like,right?

If all this wasn't enough, adults call their weapons 'arms'
to add to the cheap hypocrisy of the circumstance.

Now tell me,dear diary,how on earth do those weird things with nozzles in weird places and handles in weirder places
qualify as 'arms' in the first place
when all that they can do is destruct
while all that arms are meant to do is construct;
construct love,
construct happiness,
construct warm hugs
And shield you from
black and blue and red
and all 5000 shades of dread
and tickle you death in the exact same breath.

Also, the arms they call arms can neither lift me up in the air
nor can they be my pillow for all the dreary nights.
Neither can I drool over them,
nor can I hide my teary face in them when upset.

Besides, the things they blatantly call arms,
you see,
don't smell anything like
cardamom tea
or garlic
or sweat
or a half-done document
or oil
or scars
or toil
or any of those things that smell of
love
and strength
and care
and life
and security.
Then,how on earth can bombs and missiles fetch people
safety
or security
or tranquility?
Tell me diary.
Find an answer till I sleep.
Goodbye dear diary!
-------------------

That was that.
A secret diary note.
A question mark.
A grammatically incorrect farrago of confounded thoughts.
A crumpled paper ball of ideas forced through the shredder of rational and critical thought.
A confusion amidst all the Hannah Montana and Happy Meal obsession,standing in a sea of childhood amnesia like an estranged toothbrush bristle or a lost hair strand, too bland to be remembered,too useless to be asked of over and over again,after all it wasn't in the school curriculum and there was Hannah Montana and Happy meals and fancy dresses and puffy stickers to obsess over.

After some zillion hours of sleep and about seven long years,
Dear adults,
You still confuse me and honestly, this weird question is still conundrum for me (and maybe for my dear forlorn diary that refuses to answer just like you adults.)

I am seventeen and after a few years of education ,a dose of a few news headlines a day and a gallimaufry of tweets and trolls hurled at me every millisecond, my teenage self,unlike the nine year old Miley Cyrus aficionado,does not really trust hands or eyes or legs or arms anymore,because that's what I have been taught,by you,of course.
Initially,I tried asking 'why?',but a little condescending raise of eyebrows,a cringe here and there,a label of 'fussing around',coupled with frivolous remarks of making mountains out of molehills and a threat of losing video games and puffy stickers was enough to crush the uprising.

But,now,dear adults, since I have this colossal social media at my disposal where I have perks like staying anonymous,being outrageous and still looking cool while also fetching likes and followers,I beg( since I am cultured) to demand (since I am sassy) an answer.

Why do you make us learn the good stuff
and then want us to unlearn the good stuff
to learn the real stuff- the bad stuff
and then condemn the bad stuff for existing and
instigate us to change the bad stuff and learn the good stuff
and live by the good stuff
but when we question the bad and the good stuff we are ranting and arguing and being snobbish because we already have a lot of bad stuff stuffed in ?
Why?
(I know this sounds like some spell from a Hogwarts textbook but this is how your skewed logic has always sounded to me right here.)

And since your answer to my question would be a counter question regarding why I need to know that,let me leave no room for imagination.
Here's my answer-it is FEAR-OF GROWING UP that impels me to question.The thought of turning into a legal (albeit not legitimate) adult in another two years gives me some serious chills.I feel this abominable pressure on my shoulders,similar to what helping mum with her humongous grocery bags every Friday feels like, because honestly,I do not want to be the kind of adult I have grown up seeing.

I do not want to hush kids up when they ask me why weapons are called arms,when arms are meant to be beautiful and end up asking them to unlearn the fact that there was anything beautiful about arms in the first place,thereby deftly evading the question.

I want them to question,crazier questions than I can think of or write about or Google can ever answer.

I want their Jack and Jill to go up the hill fetching not pails of water
but ways to harness hydroelectricity because the generations of Jacks and Jills before them have fetched enough pails of water already.

I want their stars to twinkle and let them wonder what they are.
What I do not want them to do is to end up comparing them to diamonds in the sky,because we have had enough diamond metaphors( similes,to be linguistically correct) already.
Also,since, apparently, with the given inflation and unemployment rates and stock market spiking,we will not be able to afford a fraction of all the diamonds they might talk of,we'll therefore choose to play safe.

You often ask me what I want to be when I grow up to be you and here's something I want you to know-I don't want to be you.
I do not want to write great peace poems or deliver a TED talk on peace with a million hits on YouTube or do something great enough to be featured in children's textbooks or for Google to doodle me on my birthday, all I wish for, is to break,not bones,but
delusions
and confusions


and hypocrisies.

I want to walk up to a nine year old and tell her
that not all arms destruct
that not all arms devour
that not all arms are arms(and ammunitions)
I want to
Teach her
And demonstrate to her
How some arms could be
Harsh
And harrowing
And devastating
like the ones she was conditioned to fear
And how some could be
Warm
And pacifying
And satisfying
And beautiful
like the ones she knows
I want to tell her
that she doesn't have to be another pair of eyes and hands that hide behind the tree,peering at people dying ,walk back home to share a condolence post on her social media and log out only to wonder what's in dinner for the day,
that she doesn't have to be that mouth that drives the car from the backseat,
that she doesn't have to be the vulture's claw hunched at the keyboard with a tongue of outrageous trolls that conveniently mock political circumstances
that she doesn't have to be me
that she has got arms,chivalrously so
And chivalry will be not a viral Facebook post
Or another like on a daunting political meme
that chivalry would be when she
Uses her arms to
fix the bad arms
heal the wounded ones
and create some really good ones so that there shall be no delusions or confusions or hypocrisies.

Alright, enough romanticism already.

Cutting straight to the chase,
For all of this to happen, dear adults, I need to have an answer (or an excuse,maybe?A logical one,preferably)

And,for now,since I still have the privilege of being snobbish and ranty and getting away with it on the ground of teenage hormonal imbalance and PMS, I demand an answer,dear adults.


Why do you call your weapons arms when arms are something,you taught us,were good things ?
Why the paradox?





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback