Stories help us find purpose

How were you in school? The facilitator of our storytelling workshop framed the question in simple words. “How did you survive? Did you occasionally thrive?”

Before the memories began to gain a form, I noticed a physical reaction to the prompt. I smiled, I shrugged; I felt a bittersweet rush of emotions. It has been decades since I was in school, but the visceral connection between my younger self in that white and green school uniform and who I am today remains strong and fresh.

“Write without giving yourself too much time to think. Let the inner work of the subconscious emerge in words,” our instructor said. “Allow yourself to be surprised by what emerges.”

I had my laptop with me but intuitively I decided to write with a pen on paper. The school-going me had trained to write at high speed. The muscle memory has remained strong in my fingers, despite the intervening years of little practice.

I survive and thrive simultaneously, I wrote. If I have to survive a situation that is oppressive; one that I am stuck in and cannot change, I will soon find myself thriving in it as well. This might be the superpower of children.

I didn’t like the environment in my school. It was loud, crowded and harsh. This did not stop me from enjoying myself. I developed a talent for staying alone. I gravitated towards friends who had rich, creative interests, who knew how to manufacture joy in the little things. I could enter and exit their world, according to the rhythm of the day, dictated by the school bell and the arrival and exit of teachers.

I remained consistent in my disapproval of school. I am not fickle or anything. I learnt to survive by choosing to thrive. My inner child got busy playing, even as the emerging adult in me learnt to firefight to persist.

School was a campus with constant diversity. You could be in the middle of noise, and mentally withdraw to the periphery. The busier the din, the quieter my inner world became. I was everywhere. I was invisible. There were many places to hide, even in broad view. Loud, crowded places have this feature inbuilt in them.

I spent six years from the age of 11 to 17 in the last school I was in. I nearly died there. I was popular. I was part of every activity that took place. I knew where to go when I wanted to withdraw. I was scared of teachers. Yet, there were enough teachers who looked out for me.

I was always busy. I carried two bags to school in my final year. I took some amazing decisions in those years. I was editor of our school magazine. So much to do, such little time.

The experiences came fast and quick. I cheated. I lied. I had crushes on unsuitable boys. I am lucky they didn’t return me the favour.

On the last day of school, a few boys blasted the window panes of their classroom on the third floor by bursting Diwali bombs. I was among the throng walking on the path below when the glass shattered and fell on the path below like meteorite showers in the afternoon. From another direction, a group began to sing, “We will, we will, rock you…” I joined them, becoming one with the voices that I had avoided in all my years in school.

My school was the most snobbish brand I have worn all my life. I never went back. Not even when they invite me to dinners, talks and reunion marathon runs. I remain connected to my teachers and cocoon of friends.

Maybe, I can forgive those walls and corners now. The callousness and neglect of those times. Maybe holding on to the anger is more useful. There are learnings there about individual will and power structures. Despite the distance in time, it remains an ongoing relationship. I haven’t entirely rescued all of me from the raging fire on that campus. Perhaps, now is the time.

Our facilitator interrupted the flow of words by asking us to pause from writing. It was time to share. “We use stories to form a coherent sense of our self, connect over shared experiences, say when we feel wronged, and even to sort out our thoughts and feelings,” she shared with us. “Stories help us find meaning and purpose, and establish our identity in a confusing, and sometimes lonely world. It is important to realise what stories we are telling ourselves, and others, when we talk about our lives.”

I thought about being a rebellious, undefeated teenager and thanked her for the role modelling she offered for the rest of my life. Visualising her adds a hop, skip and jump to my steps again. My inner world remains a place of refuge and creative rejuvenation, an oasis of calm that refuels my energy to negotiate the inclemency of the world outside. Revisiting the past offers a roadmap for the present, so long as we take charge of the stories that make up the mosaic of our life.

— The writer is a filmmaker & author

natasha.badhwar@gmail.com