A GIFT LOST AND FOUND!

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I stood on stage, tongue-tied and dry-mouthed, as a whole host of eyes looked on at me, waiting to hang on to my every word. I had begun Mark Antony’s famous speech with gusto, my “Friends, Romans, Countrymen…” ringing out, full-throated and compelling. Not for nothing had I spent days memorising every powerful word, while my ever so patient grandparents took turns to mentor me and encourage me. I knew the speech backwards, or so I assumed…

Till that fatal moment when, after four lines which flowed smoothly, my fluency dried up, and my mind went blank. Mark Antony had lost his tongue this time to Brutus’ fluency. Shakespeare would have turned in his grave as I fumbled, trying to find light in the darkness that threatened to surround me. As a ninth grader, standing before a whole school of different graders, I wished the earth would open and swallow me whole.

It took me less than a minute to rush off stage, tears rolling down my chubby cheeks. I had been slated to win the prize for English recitation, and there I was, stumbling down the steps, not even willing to tackle my Hindi recitation which was next on the agenda. My friends tried to stop me, but I was beyond redemption.

Back home, my grandfather patted me sternly on the back. “Don’t worry, child! You did your best!” My grandmother bought me the soft cupcakes I loved, trying to stem the storm of tears that seemed endless.

However, a sense of guilt overtook me at my grandfather’s words. I had not done my best. I had bungled it all up and now, I was not ready to face any of my friends.

“I don’t want to go back to school,” I wailed. “I have made such a fool of myself.” Of course, the next morning found me “creeping like a snail/ Unwillingly to school.” I kept my head down, expecting my classmates to laugh at me, but when they seemed to have forgotten the whole incident, I felt better and was soon back to my old happy self.

However, that one incident had a deep impact on my psyche. All though the rest of my school life and the whole of college, I took part in everything – literary events, dance and music, drama and even politics. Everything but public speaking! I could not envisage standing before a crowd and speaking. That was an art that I would never be able to master.

Or so I assumed…

Twenty years or so after the Mark Antony disaster, I was sitting with a whole host of Army ladies discussing an important Ladies’ Meet that was to be hosted by us. The chief guest was going to be the wife of a senior Army dignitary, and discussions were going on in full swing. After an animated session where all of us gave our opinions and the items to be put up were decided, I suddenly got the shock of my life.

“Deepti, I would like you to be the Emcee of the event!”

It was the Commander’s wife, a lady who had known me for years, a mentor I deeply respected. I nearly went through the floor.

“Oh, no, Ms. N, you have the wrong person in mind. I am not a public speaker,” I said desperately.

“Well, you are going to do this, because I know you can do it.” Her verdict was final and my despair complete. That afternoon, I went home and scared my Army husband almost out of his wits.

“I want to go home to my mother right away!” I wailed. “I do not want to speak before a crowd.”

Slowly, my husband got the whole story out of me. He calmed me down with a cup of tea. Then he slyly whispered, “Maybe this is a chance for you to prove yourself. I also feel that you can do it.”

The next two days were spent in a flurry of tears and tantrums. I threatened and cajoled, and my husband kept calming me down with cups of tea. The die was cast, and I was trapped like a bird in a cage, because I could not even run away from the dire situation. That was when I decided that, come what may, I would have to try, and if I did make a fool of myself, I would suffer the consequences.

From that hour onwards, I began to write my script, honing it for all I was worth. I put my flair of writing into it, padding it with jokes, especially at myself. The next part was learning the whole thing by heart and every morning and evening, I would stand before the pitiless mirror and rehearse, word by word.

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The day came when I had the whole script in my mind, so rehearsed that I could say it in my sleep. My husband applauded my efforts, rewarding me with samosas, and of course, the inevitable cups of tea.

On the day of the event, I had butterflies within my stomach, and as I watched the first lady walk in, my heart was in my mouth. Once they were all seated, the spotlight fell on me, and I began to speak, softly, nervously, and suddenly I found myself flying, as the words came out in a flow that took me by surprise. After the first few minutes, I found the audience laughing at my first joke, and from then on, it was smooth sailing. I found that I was enjoying myself. This was not too bad!

Today, when I speak in school, or at a function, the first thing I do is send a mental message of gratitude to that lovely mentor of mine who forced me out of my self-enforced shell and made me aware of my flair for public speaking. It was a gift that I had lost in the ninth grade, but when I did regain my confidence, it was like being reborn. As a writer, words have always played a vital role in my life, but as a speaker and orator, they took on a greater significance in my life.

Maybe that is why, in school, when I see children who are terrified of being onstage, and of addressing crowds, I tell them my own story. They listen wide-eyed, unable to believe that I too had butterflies in my stomach like them, and believe that there is hope for them as well. That, I reckon, is the difference between empathy and sympathy.