Reading internship rejection letters hurts way more than you can imagine. 

Art

I was good at art.

My aunt is a professional artist, she used to churn out beautiful oil paintings by the dozen and my Grandmum would gift them all over. She would say I got my talent from her because the only drawing my Dad ever did was drawing future sci-fi cars on his engineering stationery.

I had a keen interest in art, I loved to draw. I hated to color because we couldn't color beyond the predefined lines. The teachers at my school would pester Mum at parent teacher's conferences to get me to make a chart for the class walls. Losing the cloak of modesty, I reckon I was an extremely good kid. I was good at art, I played the harmonium beautifully, I sang Hindi classical music and I danced rhythmically to all the Kathak beats that my teacher churned out. I was a straight A student and teachers would sign up my name for competitions before asking for my parents consent.

And then Class Six happened,

To be thrust into an entirely new environment with strange people from other classes was something my naive mind never comprehended. The student I was seemed to be a slight shadow of what I had been once and terrible thoughts accompanied me throughout the day.

I still remember the embarrassing things I did during class six, I do not think I could possible ever rid myself of the humiliation. I withdrew into a shell so tight that even my "passions" weren't able to pry it open. The only thing I continued to do was play instruments with a bunch of coming of age boys. My instrumental teacher considered me one of his best students but the rebuke I faced from my peers during the class who unfortunately were boys who had discovered the gender difference took a toll.

As for singing, my music teacher left the school and the new teacher fell for the charms of the "popular girl gang" who couldnt sing to save their lives.

We were always given a choice between Art and Instrumental and I never failed to chose the latter.
Instrumental became my escape, something I continued to choose over art or home science for which I suffered the ire of my friends. There were times when I was the only girl in the group of boy playing my xylophone terribly.

I did a lot of growing up during those years, waiting in the wings of the auditorium for the performance with a dozen boys. Perhaps looking back, I grew shy further, withdrew further, fell in love also but learnt to be on my own, comfortable with myself (because teenage boys will make fun of you till you cry).

I just need to close my eyes and I can feel the cold that permeated the instrumental room, the slight haze of cigarette smoke that hung in it through out the day. The funny smell of smoke and sandalwood combined, the dust that covered the smocks lying over the instruments. I remember how I used to hate taking of my shoes and putting them back on because girls could never just raise the foot onto the little shelf and tie their laces.I developed long lasting hatred and love in that room for some people. I still harbor that in the depths of my heart.
Unfortunately, the dance and the music room were located right next to the instrumental room and naturally the beautiful girls got the time.

Honestly it never bothered me till class tenth, when the object of my affections decided to grow up and get a real girlfriend. My girlfriends never realized the secret I kept. Even in class ten, I had a crazy friend, my partner who no one could possibly stand. Us and the couple that sat in front of us formed our own little world of private jokes. Class eighth to tenth was the best period of my childhood, I was a good student with the exception of math, my teachers loved me and one hounded me till the end of the year regarding a chart. I had girlfriends who were cool and I was cool with them. I was good at instrumental, getting comfortable in my skin, discovering my love for books and travelling.

And then class eleven happened.

It was class sixth over again except I never found anyone. My heart fills with pity as I look onto those years at the girl that I was because high school had finally caught me and it did not let go till it broke me down.

I left instrumental to choose art much to the heartbreak of my teacher. He clearly did not understand  my need to be part of something 'girls do' because I needed to make girlfriends. The place I loved so much, that little room at the end of the corridor became alien to me as I would bypass it. My heart yearned for it.
Until now, when someone smokes that brand of cigarette, it reminds me of Sir. His voice, his name-calling, his patience, his crazy handwriting and my cowardice : I never went back.

The only brush with art I had in the years through my middle school was winning the art competition that The Bengali Association used to organize every year at the time of pujo. Once they realized that I had won three times in a row and that I was a non bengali, the awards went to worse Bengali artists.

In class eleventh, I competed with people who had professional training in art and I couldnt keep up.
I have never taken it up again. I have pencils, brushes, paints and all sorts of supplies but the drive is gone.

This is what I wonder at times : When life happens how do you keep your passions alive ?

Art has now become something that I will pursue once I leave for my master's degree because I have tried to learn it but we all know how that goes.

I see sketches, paintings and pallets of my peers and there is an odd jealously. Odd for it is not their work I am jealous of but the freedom they have.