I was born during the spring season in a village so small even Google Maps probably gave up on it. Well, there was no Google Maps to begin with but you get the point, right?
My mom was 24. My dad was 31. I was their second child, but definitely not the one they were hoping for.
Of course, I don’t remember being born. But I do remember always feeling like I was some kind of factory defect. Like someone up there stamped “oops” on my forehead before sending me down.
Apparently, I cried non-stop for the first two years of my life. No, I wasn’t sick, or hungry all the time. Surprisingly, I was a healthy baby. But according to my mother, I kept crying day and night. For no reason. Constantly, like an emotional alarm clock that never turned off.
My mother said I refused to let her put me down. Ever! She’d cook with one arm while holding me in the other. A multitasking queen, yes, but also one deeply annoyed woman. Some days, she just left me in a room, shut the door, and let me cry until I passed out.
I didn’t know why I cried so much. Maybe I already knew I wasn’t exactly a welcome guest on this planet.
When I was 15 days old, we took a train to another town. My father had gotten a new job, so off we went – baby, baggage, and big brother (he was six). During the ride, a suitcase fell off the top shelf and almost crushed my tiny head. Everyone said it was an accident. Years later, I overheard something that made me think… maybe it wasn’t.
Anyway, I survived. We moved to that new town, and I stayed there for the next 11 years. That’s where school began.
I was actually good at school. Like, really good. Top of my class, teachers loved me, gold stars and all that.
But the other kids didn’t like me much. I always felt out of place.
The girls didn’t like me because of my dark skin. They called me names. Told me I was ugly. Never let me join their games. Apparently, I didn’t come with the right look or the right accessories.
So, I made friends with boys instead. They talked about cricket and cartoons, not lipstick and pink pencil boxes. I liked that better.
I even started walking like a boy, talking like one, sitting like one. Somewhere deep inside, I think I believed that if I became more like a son, maybe, just maybe, my parents would finally look at me the way they looked at my brother.
Speaking of him, his friends were kind to me. Some even said they wished I were their sister. I held on to those words like little medals I could wear on bad days.
Still, at school, nobody used my name. I was always just “so-and-so’s sister.” Like I didn’t exist on my own. Like I was a footnote.
Then came third grade. I got picked for a group dance. I was over the moon. Practiced every day. Borrowed an outfit from a friend. I felt… seen.
The big day came. All the kids’ parents showed up; clapping, cheering, taking photos. I kept scanning the crowd for mine.
They never came.
Still, I danced like my life depended on it. Our group won first prize. I ran home holding that trophy like it was the Nobel Peace Prize.
My mother looked at it once. Then at me. Then said:
“Dancing like a whore in front of people.”
She didn’t speak to me for 45 days. Not even a “pass the salt.”
I was eight years old.
After that, I never danced again (sober of course). Not even in my room. Not even when no one was watching.
priyakistoriyan 
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