If you must know....

I was a fat child with pigtails and crooked teeth (well, I still am…but do I care!)

The mirror was never one of my best friends.
I shied away from having my photographs taken.
I was one of the tallest girls and was always made to stand at the fag end of the line during morning assembly. The teachers and nuns had some crazy hang-up about making the entire class stand according to their heights, with the shortest ones standing way out in the front.
I was always at the far end… well, almost! And the girl standing right next to me would always have this consistent fainting fits.

But that was only till we reached class 9. After that, suddenly all the tiny babies decided to grow up into lanky little women.

Yes, these are my earliest memories of the school I loved.
I was too quiet to be popular by a long shot. But that did not make me my teachers’ darling by any means!

You guessed it. I was boring with a capital B.
I don't really have any recollection of naughty pranks I played on classmates or teachers.
I dreaded the maths class – partially because I was poor at numbers, but largely because the saree clad, dripping-with-gold South Indian teacher simply loved to pick on me. Be it the class assignment, test paper, or solving the most difficult sum in the textbook – there was no way she would not yell out my name from behind her gold-plated spectacles.

Things were a little different at home though. But not much!
Being blessed with a quick-witted older sibling who could talk incessantly didn't help matters much.
My parents doted on me, like they still do. I was the little innocent lamb anyone could take for a ride.
Trusting strangers came easily to me. I had a ready smile for anyone on the street who'd care to smile back, the kids and the old alike. Though I have a hunch that my crooked smile really didn't melt hearts.

I was a happy child. Nothing bothered me except the occasional arguments with my sister I now so fondly recollect.
Making friends was never really my forte. Still isn't.

The child I was grew up to be a confident young lady. I think the first lasting friend I really made was after I turned 16.
I grew up to be a careful rebel. I learned how to work my way around things I didn't find favour with.
The first time I openly disagreed with people I always looked up to is probably the first time I decided to come out of my self-woven shell.

By the time I was 20, I learned to be confident about my looks, my opinions and my idiosyncrasies.
And that is when people started to pay attention to me.
Young love greeted me and I welcomed it in.
I never could be in agreement with the idea of "forever".
I realized there was more to the world than what I understood of it.
I started to read more, my hunger to know more led me to music.
There came a time when I wanted to scream out to the world what I thought of it. And so began my tryst with writing.

Of late, I have felt the childhood insecurities come crawling back.
And I don't want to let them in.
I remember how it felt to be inside that shell. It's not a sanctuary, it's a cage you build for yourself.
It's easy to find open windows when someone closes the door.
There are no windows in my shell. Just walls I can't make myself see through and go beyond.

I want to be the happy child again… sans the insecurities.