Dreams don’t occur naturally. They have to be dreamt. Yet,
are we allowed to dream?
Meet my friend, Abhijeet Shedge. He joined my school,
Crescent High School when we were in 4th standard and used to wear
that blighted yellow half trousers as uniform to school. I tend to call it my
school because I was already a veteran of 8 years in the school when this
little fellow trudged into my school. He introduced himself with his name and
history of having studied in a nearby district, the name of which my ageing
brain cells fail to remember. His eyes seemed to have shrunk from some severe nonexistent
drought which immediately earned him one of his nicknames that would haunt him
forever during his school life. Nepali was one of them. Butka was another because
of his dwarf like height and Shegdi, which meant a cooking utensil in Marathi. The geographical intimacy of our homes and
the fact that not many people in our
school rated the area we live in of any great standard, we immediately hit off
as close friends. Soon, it was lunch with him, wada pav with him. Lots of
teasing, fighting and even physical assaults. We once bit each other bringing
out the innermost Tyson in us.
Tonight,
he reminds me of a deep malaise which I am guilty of. Of which the society
should be guilty about. While I agree to be every bit of douche bag that I sound,
I have always managed a better score than this lad. Even better in Marathi, his
mother tongue. And the chap used to study, and study. Unrelenting. Inspite of
the poor marks, inspite of the many times the teacher has been unfair and
awarded him less than what he deserved. His notes always showed the wear and
tear that accompanies incessant dwelling with it. Textbooks bore the valiant
marks of studying and struggling with a language he and his mother fought hard
to understand. Unlike today’s age where you can know the current prime minister
of Scandavania, if that is the most obscure country, within seconds, those were
the days when you kept newspapers as archives for future reference. He scored
well, just not as much as me. And my mistake? Teased him over studying a lot
and yet scoring less. It is always a romantic idea of the last bencher not
studying and yet acing the exams. Yet, we are celebrating a man who has not
discovered his potential. It wasn’t about teasing him about the lesser marks. A
number of students scored less. But, they never cared. They never studied. But
the subject of ridicule was studying “pointlessly” without results. That stud attitude on my part! The only days
I’ve seen him playing with abandon was the day the exams got over. Or a day
after. A day after he has got enough
sleep post the stress of exams. I’ve ridiculed him for this and much more. While my evenings were spent trying to
emulate Rahul Dravid, the young man was honing his preparation for the exam.
For a
long while, till today, I thought he was perhaps a loser. Worked hard without
results. And then the epiphany stuck me. He indeed could be a loser. Yet, he is
a hero. Our society has mistaken winners to be heroes. Heroes are everywhere.
They might lose our exams, their girls reject them. Yet, these fellows dreamt
more than their allowed quote. The rebels of our age! He dared, dreamt beyond
his natural and latent potentialities, if that is the word to use. Punching
above one’s weight or even daring to think about punching above one’s weight is
what makes a hero. And then, the cliché about failure not really making losers
out of men suddenly made sense. Failure implies your ability to think beyond
what you can achieve. And that is victory in itself. These are the small thoughts that lift you
when you are stuck in the dark abysses rejected by the world.
Abhijeet,
you are a hero. You make me feel a hero too.
Let the dreams continue.
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