No one tells you that being good at everything doesn’t fix anything. It just shifts the weight. 

If you do well, they expect better. 

If you do perfect, they expect you to never fall. 

And if you fall—well, then they just stare like you’re some tragic Shakespearean character who didn’t live up to her promise.

You know how it feels? Like you owe everyone. For their pride, for their expectations, for their smiles. And suddenly, you stop knowing who you're trying to impress. Them? Yourself? Your version of yourself?

I remember once, I had ranked first in a statewide exam. A distant uncle had come over—the kind who talks like his words are laws, and his opinions are stitched tighter than his belt.

He asked your grandfather how I was doing.

Your grandfather lit up. He said proudly, “She’s always in the top three,” like I was a mutual fund(a company in which we can investment our money(saving)) performing well.

The uncle laughed and said, “Ohh, so she must be the kind who cries for one mark even after getting 99.”
Then added, “My son gets 35 and dances with joy. Happiness comes when you’re content.”

He thought it was wise. It sounded like wisdom only if you didn’t think too much about it.

I looked at his son and asked, “Why were you happy with 35?”

He shrugged and said, “Because I expected 34, and I thought I’d fail.”

And that’s when I understood something I wasn’t taught in school:
It’s not about how much you score.
It’s about what you were told to expect.
And how loud those expectations scream inside your head when the room goes quiet.

I turned to the uncle and said, “It’s not about satisfaction. It’s about whether you meet the expectation or not.”

If you’re expected to get 100 and you get 99, that’s a -1.
If you expect 34 and get 35, that’s a +1.
Same numbers, different signs,different lives. Different weights on the back.

He blinked as I’d slapped him with a (simple/basic)math formula. Then tried to backtrack.
“No no, beta(child), I just meant—one should be happy with what they get.”

I continued to argue, “Uncle, this isn’t about being happy. It’s about the gap between expectation and reality. Between pressure and freedom.”

“Some of us grow up with our names written on boards in chalk. Others are written off entirely.
Both hurt. Just differently.”

And then, I made the mistake of continuing further.

“Have you heard of samavujji(equal match)?” I asked. “Balance. That’s what’s missing.”

Some kids are born to solve equations. Some for melodies. Some burn bright on a football field. But we’re all forced into the same mold. Only the ones who fits that mold survive. The rest get labelled—lazy, slow, useless.

Your son scoring 35 doesn’t make him a philosopher.
And me crying over one mark doesn’t make me ridiculous.
It’s not about scores. It’s about stories.
About what we were made to believe about ourselves.

Of course, he didn’t get it. People like him never do.
If they did, we wouldn’t have children with bruises shaped like expectations.
We wouldn’t have kids smiling all the time because no one allows them space to cry.

His son jumped in then. He said, “Toppers get awards. We get ignored. You don’t know what it’s like to be average.”

And I looked at him and said—
“You think I don’t know? Every time I sit next to a friend who doesn’t score well, teachers glare at her like she’s poison and I’m about to catch it. As if talent leaks through conversations. As if sitting beside her would make me unworthy.

I’ve changed schools. Dozens. And every time, I was the ‘average’ one again. Until I proved myself. Until I earned a number.

My friends got punished just for talking to me, just because they don’t score well in exams. 

And you know sometimes, I blamed myself. I wondered if I was the reason for that scoldings.

It’s not about who hurts more.
We both hurt.
Just differently.

But if you blame me, and I blame you, who are we helping?
It’s not a competition of greater pain. It’s a broken system.”

He looked like he understood, unlike his father.

I continued,

Because that’s what this system does.
It pits us against each other.
Makes us believe only one of us gets to hurt.
That if one kid is exhausted, the other must be strong.
That if one cries, the other should be grateful.

I ended the argument by saying 'The real fault is in this system it's not in you or me, so if you want or blame it or fight with it remember, your oppenent is the system, not your classmates or peers.' 

I thought I was done. I turned to your grandmother, expecting a small nod. Just a moment of recognition. I had poured my heart out. I thought that’d mean something to her.

No.

She said I had embarrassed the family.
Said I’d disrespected the guests.
That I was too sharp-tongued.
Too loud.
Too much.

Funny how “too much” just means “more than what people are comfortable hearing.”

We argued. Of course we did. I said, “You don’t have to approve of what I said. But don’t ask me to nod and smile when people belittle others.”

She dug up my past. Every mistake. Every mark missed. Every moment of my imperfections.
As if my flaws cancelled my right to speak.
As if being imperfect made me unqualified to point out wrongs.

She cried. 

I walked out.
I cried too. Quietly, in the dark.

Your grandfather came near me later—the same man who had tried to stop your grandma from cursing me during the fight before, but failed miserably. So maybe this time, he came to console me.

He said, “You weren’t wrong. But the way you said it—that provoked them. That tone doesn’t sit well with elders.”

We argued again. But this time, my opponent was my dad, not my mom. I didn’t want to hear what he pointed out. I wasn’t ready to understand anything he said. And the only reason for not listening was because he began the conversation with the words—‘You were also not right.’ That triggered me.

But while writing this letter, I realised how immature I was, Anveshna. Because tell me, if I myself wasn’t even listening to my dad’s words—not even trying to see from his perspective—then why did I expect my mom to understand mine?

Childish wasn't I?
But one thing that I love about your grandfather is that —he listens.
And also the only thing I’ve ever hated in your grandmother is that - She never listens.

But I don’t regret speaking.
Even if no one clapped.
Even if the whole room turned colder.
Even if it meant walking away.

That day, I said what I needed to say.
That was enough."""

I read this part twice.

Not because I was moved.
But because I was shocked she remembered the numbers.100, 99, 35, 34.
Even the word “samavujji.”

And honestly, I didn’t disagree.

She wasn’t wrong about the system. Or the comparisons. Or how people wear expectations like they’re tailored jackets and force you to wear the same size even if you’re suffocating.

But what struck me the most?

Not her “speech.”
Not her argument.
Not even that her dad listened and her mom didn’t.

It was that she walked out.

Even back then—she wasn’t waiting to be validated. She wasn’t trying to be good in their eyes.

She just… wanted to be heard.

And maybe that’s the first time I saw her.
Not as a mother.
But as someone like me.
A little too opinionated. A little too loud.
And constantly told—she’s too much.

Maybe that’s what scares me the most, coz i always knew the moment i start knowing her then i can't bring myself to hate her anymore, because she might be just as flawed human as I am.

Grandma once said she was rude too—just like me.

I didn’t expect that.

I mean, sure, I snap. But I don’t walk out on people. Not like she did.

I never expose someone unless the Topic is about her—my mother.

Because honestly, what’s the point?

There’s no use talking to people who (1) never listen, or (2) to walls.

And yet… she’s the one person who makes all my rules collapse.

Drives me insane.

Wait.

Why does that sound like a love confession?

WHAT. WHY.HOW.UHH...