It was finally time for middle school...

As the school year starts, there was a ritual: gathering out every new pencil, pen, marker and all other pieces of decorative stationary buried alive in 2 months of enjoyment, rejuvenate them in under milliseconds and write the heading with intricate detail as- TIMETABLE.

When the paper wore out and I gave up on fixing it, it reminded me of a wasted Christmas tree- decorated for 5 days and then thrown away in its fullest state, replaced every year with bigger and more flashy ones.

But in my grandparents' small-town villa, in which they see every whereabout, the timetables are recited by the mind each day. It feels like an heirloom that expands in a ray with no shortcoming- and all they followed were the sounds of cuckoos and the calls from the nearby mosque. It was just like their Christmas tree, which was literally uprooted in their front yard and extends beyond the roof.

During my primary years, it was indeed where I always walked- complaining in my childhood years that it bores me daily to stare at the same yard and house, year after year. It was where I always fought with my cousins and siblings. and where I made flower potions with the same flowers, while avoiding the thorns that once pricked me- to a point where I steal away the bride's flowers in weddings just for a variety. It was not my fault that it was such an overfamiliar classic.

I found the need to research change during my early vacations; but it was only later when it all actually made sense.

All the fun I had was with my favorite cousin, whom I fought a lot with. All I really did was try to ghost my cousin when we fought over the pettiest of things, and the 'research' I tended to do was just fishing ways to blackmail her. I told her mother that she was a bad influence, I mocked her when her grades were low and ridiculed her for being a late reader. But in some way or the other, things tangled back together. It was like 'happily ever after', like 'snow white' and 'Cinderella'- the overfamiliar classics that shaped my cousin's life. Yes, she was silly, but memorable. Always read to give the same old hugs to every part of the family, even the grandparents that I ignored, almost always.

Now, for this mission, she was not my best cousin, but my apprentice for experiment. I used different dialogs on her, different ways to say that we're not friends. but she always ended the story with square one.

But it was all until one fine walk, during the autumn break, when I was 11...

While we walked, like every other day, my favorite cousin eyed at a rose flower, always like a bumblebee. But something attracted her more. It was somebody who pricked themself with the thorn of the rose and stared at the clot formed by the wound, like it was magic. Then, the person carved his head into an illusion of a 'perfect circle', eliminating his flaws instead of beautifying them. Why, it looked mysterious, synonymous to hiding from society.

Such things usually take light during our evening prayers, the heart of all peculiar boredom. It was like a white funeral practiced every day at 6. Every family member should report at the exact time, and even a millisecond of lateness summons a whole search party. Gossip is the medium through which every story unveils. This event looked very interesting, so I scanned every action from head to toe. Seconds turned into minutes as I inspected every pixel that my eye graphics could generate; and the rest of the time, I just pictured the conversation in my head, all the laughs that we could make and all the new, interesting and never-ending topics that we can dive into.

Yet in that course, I could have used my wandering thoughts to imagine myself in my cousin's shoes. But while I write, I believe that all the voices from all corners and sorts of fights came back up to her mind. "Come on", "You're a waste of time", "Change yourself" - my words must've crushed her soul at that subtle moment. But all I could see was her doing the same action, trying to change before I could really find it. She did not even suggest me to join. These events gave answers, explained the reasons of me feeling left out while talking to her, as if I were a pea that failed to fit in her pod.

It still scares me, like my outputs adopting the form of a judgmental elder, saying, “Are you happy now? Is this the kind of change that you worked years for?”

“You have killed someone with no weapon but change”

Obviously, I was not happy. I felt like a failure. But I yearned for better.

The shaping spread like a flowing trend- through bullies, societal images and friend groups that got their name through influence. Now, it was an apocalypse of people trying to mend themselves to fit the crowd, and I was trying to escape. But there was only one doorway, to copy them all.

At that time, every past memory of the Christmas tree, and how it felt weird to see how it was too tall for an entire covering was vanishing like dust from my photographic mind as I dreamt of cutting myself into the same shape.

In that dream, my 'quite iconic' lack of neatness in trimming met with major public consequences

Every little hill and valley was taken into account. With YouTube videos, patience also shortened; and with unevenly spaced trends, shapes and styles changed. It went from new, to old, to vintage, to nostalgic, to something completely ignored. I was improperly balanced with all the extremes that these trends showed me. I felt like how I used to see my grandparents' house, as an overfamiliar classic.

I felt that I looked bad, and I hated such a title.

I began to feel the wrath of my timetable and Christmas tree, and how It felt like a challenge to stay as one, iconic personality; without being an 'overfamiliar classic'. But the only progress I made was indeed blocking my cousin. I needed to make something of myself. I tried studies, sports, performing arts, visual arts, but I felt limited to a medal or stage performance.

A long time later, it was summer before high school, and the need for a better form of ‘change’ grew rigid. Among the trash bins and the collections of old newspapers, I saw ripped patches of the remains, trying to form a puzzle of tastes. It was my daily adolescent cycle of overthinking that kept me locked to this subtle image while summer cleaning. I was not focused on cleaning, but in admiring the contrast between the clean piles set up by Amma and my little sister, and the unique mess that defined, with every sparkle emoticon, who I really was.

I was the elaborate mixture of my ripped away timetables, piled up and unfulfilled goal sheets, my old binder of stories hidden with embarrassment and rough work, the many lives and deaths I've given to my blog, the tears I shed, the money I falsely spent, the lessons I forgot and even the stories of my life, and more! This was me, the complete meaning of who I was and who I will be...

Until it wasn't.

The definition was not complete. it needs a link. All my thoughts just wander. And when I just tell them out, it felt like pure blabbering. I wanted to show people how I could be iconic without being an overfamiliar classic.

And of course, the dreaded question that always stumped me, froze me and made me stutter with every reply.

"What's the difference"

I needed help, help I usually did not take as I took critique as an insult. But with all my courage, I came up to my mother and finally asked her opinion of what I thought of myself

And this was her reply.

"If we look at the total composition of this definition; it is approximately made up of paper, computer data and storage, wasted energy, lacrimal fluid (tears), anger hormones, stress hormones and rumination. Even as a compound, they float in water and fly away with the force of the wind, just like how the mind of mine flies with a still image or a butterfly at daylight whispering by, like unseen threads...

But these loose threads in which you see yourself actually form a beautiful pattern, a pattern able to carry the weight of all the stories from my earliest past and ideas for the future. This architecture was only part of the pattern, with proper foundational engineering in genes and a distinct spot for infinite extensions.

You could not picture the entire image as you did not create it"

"But then who is the creator, if it was never me. All you do is stare at the computer and a huge salary is credited to your account. There is some kind of force behind this", I retorted like my usual self

"You require discipline. Learn it this summer when we go to your grandparents' place or else I don't know what I can do with you. Your future is unstable if you cannot see it, despite us paying hefty sums for your annual eye treatment"

My parents were not of any help, and they made me circle around an obvious place, the house of my grandparents. But the only twist was to look at them from a different angle, rather than the angle where the television or internet was placed. There, I could not believe my eyes. I saw the heirloom timetable as more than just cuckoos and mosque calls. but as a never-ending work schedule, more like a labor unit that I seem to see in industries.

My grandparents were the primary, and in most cases, the only workforce present. They strictly followed this schedule with no day off, as if there is a loss to their unpaid work. The pattern flashed me back to the patterns of roots that I saw in my 3rd grade textbooks, and the reflection of the strong barks of the Christmas tree. This scene was heart touching, moving me towards them to enquire them on this matter.

I think they were expecting me to ask this, as part of their heirloom. As soon as I approached them, with my face pointing out that this was not an absent- minded visit, they started with the answer before I came up with the question.

"Dear, you may not understand, but even with generations apart, we too felt the same pain of change. At that time, there were no gadgets to absorb pain, so I too was trying to escape, but I was forced to prick myself too as society was not developed. This was not for my gain, but I had to make a way to absorb this pain, by creating more wounds on other parts of me so that this wound did not feel severe.

This was through my studies, and efforts to become a teacher in a land that I have never known. to many students and children of our own. I was forced to personally shape my children, because it was the only way I knew in which I can make them show me a new phase of the world through you. I found myself in helping you to read your first letters, eat good and sleep well so that one day I can relate to you."

I felt shocked, a spot landed into my heart, "Is there anything that I can do to help you?"

But my grandmother continued, " It was my only hope that one day I can see the first flower of the tree I've grown with love for years, facing me and not clinging to a screen. One day you would use those words to know how I feel and see me not as a laborer or a devotee but the friend who once related to you, who was once ready to help you or hear you, the one I lost through change..."

My eyes and thoughts can finally co-ordinate with my left and right brain, as this whole conversation happened as I see fresh fruits and my untouched lunch, on the table in front of the television...

Even as a highschooler, my thoughts still wander, but I found out that not everything is answerable, and that every unique, iconic changemaker is always regarded as an 'overfamiliar classic' and vice versa.

I finally put a full stop, to this story, but not to my growth. I now see myself as the purpose for the survival of my parents, grandparents and many more, the purpose of being an overfamiliar classic the timetable and Christmas tree; and I could say, this was the best change.