I was sitting at a bus stop waiting with Buddha-like calm for Bus No.214 to arrive when a mother and child walked up and sat down next to me. The boy, around 8 had beautifully partitioned hair and a permanent scowl. The mother’s cotton saree was commanded into severe, obedient pleats. They were in the middle of a conversation or should I say interrogation.
‘How much did Alok get? 29. Kabir? 27. And Shiv? 24’ and so on it went. At the end of a list of names she commanded with a scary intensity, ‘Next time, you have to beat Alok. I have spoken to him, he is not as intelligent as you.’ The boy kicked an imaginary stone and glared at a passing cyclist. Just then, my bus arrived and I left with the mother asking, ‘How much did Alok get in Science?’
On my ride home, I couldn’t help thinking that when I was a child I never competed with anybody. I can’t remember who taught me this, perhaps my dad, but the emphasis was always about competing against myself. To drive my mind, body and soul as far as I could go, to do things to the best of my ability.
Today, as a practising artist I find the concept of competition even more perplexing. How can I write ‘better’ than another writer when each one of us has an individual, different and personal style? It would be weird if my ambition was to use more ‘big words’ than John Banville or spend a longer time writing a novel than Donna Tartt (For those who don’t keep track of such trifling details, she takes ten years to write a book).
I know a set of twins whose parents encouraged them to vie with each other. They thought it was fantastic training for the dog-eat-dog world. Today, they are estranged and if one of them gets news of the other’s quantifiable success, the bile of jealousy raises its ugly head. If only their parents had encouraged them to be fierce friends instead of bitter rivals, they would have had a more enjoyable time in adult reality. There are always enough people to run the race but very few who will slow down and steady you as you trip.
I wish everybody could discover how much joy and freedom there is when you compete against yourself, when you push yourself as far as you can go and then push further. We all have only one chance to be the best we can be and that can’t be wasted in the pursuit of somebody else’s standards.
As these theories spin and spill, my thoughts turn back to that little boy. I worry he will grow up to be a malcontent mass of ambition. A person who is forever dissatisfied for there will always be someone out there with better marks.
Still Figuring It Out’ a funny, sad, questioning take on adulthood will appear every Saturday on newsable.com. Arathi Menon is the author of Leaving Home With Half a Fridge, a memoir published by Pan Macmillan. She tweets at https://twitter.com/unopenedbottle. The views expressed here are her own.
