Certainly Uncertain

Growing up, I internalized the notion of being in an Identity Crisis, as much of my childhood was enmeshed in one. At the tender age of five, I was whisked away from everything familiar to me; from the place I was born in and the place I learned to call home—Canada. After living apart for almost five years due to my father’s employment in India, my parents had finally decided that it was about time our family settled down in one place and this place just so happened to be the city of Mumbai in India. Not anticipating the enormity of the move at the time, I left Canada with my little box of timbits, a big smile and not to miss out, a very strong Canadian accent. Little did I know how problematic this "foreign" twang of mine would turn out to be.

It was finally the day of my admission process to the school in our new locality; a considerably big day that shall hopefully check off the looming worry of getting into a school. After several months of hunting for apartments across almost all of Mumbai, we had finally bought our own in a building called Avalon, and the school in the vicinity was the one I was about to apply for. With almost 20 schools sprawled across the suburb, it was essential for me to get accepted to this one as it was merely a 7 minute drive from my apartment building and the less the commuting time in Mumbai, the better.

Accordingly, said process actually involved an interview with the principal. What the school desired to "interview" a 5 year old about is still beyond me. Nevertheless, my mother had prepared me well enough for this interview by asserting simply two things repeatedly: a) be polite and b) smile wide.

As we lingered at the main reception in the grand school lobby, anxiety started coming over me. My eyes frantically scanned the long queue of parents and children waiting to be interviewed by the principal.

To distract myself from the situation, I began speaking to my mother regarding our next trip back to Canada. However, in the midst of our conversation, I realized that a lot of glances were being shot my way. Was there something on my face? Had I been wearing my shirt inside out? Why were people staring at me?

"Mom, why are people looking at me weirdly?" I voiced my concern in a hushed tone.

"They are probably just reading the notice board behind you," my mother brushed it off.

But the ogling did not cease. And soon enough with the ogles came suppressed chuckling. I think I even caught a—"She speaks so strange, doesn't she?"

I was so confused and troubled by the situation.

"Can we please just go back to my old school?" I croaked as vivid memories of my teachers and friends projected themselves as fleeting images in my mind.

"I promise we will be done in no time with this interview and I am sure you will love this school!" My mother tried calming my qualms.

Finally, after almost an hour of waiting outside, we were called inside the room.

“Hello. How are you today? ” A friendly voice ricocheted as we crossed the threshold into the principal's office. 

“I am good. How are you?” I piped up before my parents had a chance to respond. The warmth in the voice had promptly made me feel at ease, being the reason I responded as I did. 

The principal's glance immediately averted from my parents to me. "Wow, she has a really strong American accent!"She exclaimed.

"I am actually Canadian but I have a few American friends too..." I began rambling on with a familiar glimmer in my eyes, before my mother intercepted me with a slight tug on my elbow.

I immediately ceased talking.

The principal looked a little taken aback, as children in India are not usually very conversational with adults and the social butterfly act coupled with my hyper demeanour, oft tended to alarm those around me. 

My parents exchanged an uncomfortable peek and laughed nervously as my embarrassed mother handed the principal a folder containing the official documentations. 

We were seated and as the principal began perusing through the papers, she paused at one point and said, "Hmm..Canadian? Interesting...Okay, well there should not really be a problem with her admission to this school. Although, I hope she can speak Hindi?” She looked askance at my parents.

"Yes ma'am, we are..um...working on it." My father at least tried to sound convincing.

The principal, not very impressed, simply bobbed her head and after scanning through a few more documents, or at least pretending to do so, monotonously drawled, "Okay then, that is it for this interview. It was great meeting you. You shall be notified by the school in a week."

As we were about to leave the office, the principal fished out a candy from her chest of drawers and held it out to me. “Would you like some candy?” she extended her hand. Having learnt never to accept anything from a stranger, I politely declined her offer with a “No, thank you.”

That seemed to be the last straw. “Of course, why did I think she would like Indian candy.” She sneered scornfully.

I never got a call back from the school.