During the Monsoon Season

by Schanelle Saldanha | 2018

     I remember walking home from the bus stop during the monsoon season in India. I was a timid, yet vivaciously enthusiastic child who was constantly encouraged by the love from her grandparents. My grandmother would always pick me up from the bus stop. I can vividly picture myself jumping off the bus and into her soft, warm hands. I never lost the excitement of that moment, even though it never strayed away from the same scene. At home my grandfather would be seated on his famous wooden rocking chair, sipping a piping hot cup of tea. His charismatic eyes would be the first to greet me at the door; eventually making their way over to the television where the tennis match was being aired. It was aired twice daily so naturally he watched it both times. Beside him lay my glass of milk with a piece of my grandmother’s famous marzipan cake. This scene could have been a painting, each stroke meaningfully arranged.

     There was something about that painting that told a story greater than any Mona Lisa could; maybe because it was my story. The story of a little girl who couldn’t muster the courage to raise her hand, who simply believed her voice was nothing in this world of echoes. She was the girl who was told that her intellectual capability would always remain subordinate to those of her peers – those destined to become CEOS, piano prodigies, or the Yale business men who would one day walk on the streets of New York with their grey suits and rhythmic steps. I saw that girl every time I saw that painting framed firmly from my bus window. However, the painting slowly began to change. It was the same scene, but the characters transformed – I transformed.

     The day that little girl was told that she would never be successful by her teacher was the same day that my grandmother’s hands felt softer, felt warmer, and felt needed. It was the same day that I sat on my grandfather’s rocking chair with him and watched the tennis match, (twice I may add), all the while successfully eating my marzipan cake. But, as the words of my teacher sunk in, I couldn’t help but suppress a tear. This tear was seen by those charismatic eyes and was quickly wiped away by those soft, warm hands. My grandmother proceeded to tell me that “what other people think, and what you believe are two very different things.”

     You see, my grandparents never allowed me to yield to the sorrows of life even when the seven year old me desperately wanted to hide in the cracks. They never once let me feel bad about my intelligence or my decisions. I was never permitted to substitute my intellectual inadequacy in place of excuses. Instead, they taught me to transform it into motivation to only work harder.

     Needless to say, I now do not take any opportunity for granted. I have learned that intelligence may get you far, but you need hard work to finish the rest. I now work not to prove that teacher wrong, but to prove that little girl wrong. My grandparents taught me to finally have the courage to lift up the brush and compose my own masterpiece. Although they may live thousands and thousands of miles away, what those eyes and hands have done for me… now I see that every day!