Let Free The Fevicol

Sanam was pasting some pictures from the day in her scrapbook. She had gone out with some of her school friends after half a month of rigorous involvement in studies and preparation for exams. She was a science student and a poet at heart, which to her had started appearing as a trite combination.

“Every other person I see is a writer, a musician or an artist in some way or the other. I don’t know why being a science student and an artist alongside is hyped and acclaimed more than just being an artist”, Sanam told her mother.

“Would you like to reconsider saying that every science student is an artist”, Sanam’s mother told pointing at her dweeb son, who was elder to 15-year-old, class 11 student Sanam by four years.

While Sanam had the gift of the gab, Rishabh, her big brother, was a total nerd engrossed in inventions, whether existing or not. He lacked the sense of humor his Punjabi family naturally had. Many a time, Sanam would joke around saying Rishabh bhaia is not loyal to his genes. Rishabh would only grimace in reply as his mind was busy thinking about the tools he would require to device something new for the college project. However, unlike the hackneyed tradition of comparing siblings, or individuals for that fact, Sanam and Rishabh were never subjected to hold a candle against each other. They were both raised to be proud of who they were and are to become.

“The printer is again not working. Rishabh bhaia, please help me get these pictures out.”, Sanam said to Rishabh in her voice like that of a toddler.

“Technology does not stop working, our brains do. It needs a cartridge refill. I will fix it once I am back from college. I am already late because of you.”, Rishabh runs off picking up his bag and essentials. Sanam sees her project kept safely on the table of the drawing room. She had forgotten that she had to submit her monthly class project tomorrow but Rishabh remembered that she had ask for help a month ago itself. He had since been working on creating the solar energy-based project for Sanam.

“Now who on earth would believe that an 11^th grader could create a pen that does not require ink because it is solar-powered.”, Sanam yelled at Rishabh when he returned from college at 9 p.m. that evening.

“Aabhaas Sikka might. Search him on Facebook and ask if he does.”, Rishabh surprised Sanam and their mother with his first-ever shot at humor. “He was interning with Space-India when he made RamanSat 2 and he had a team of adroit scientists to assist him, so there is no comparison, first.”, Sanam reply had a touch of Rishabh’s tone. She continued, “I have just got in class 11 and I, someone who doesn’t even understand the concept of long-established solar cookers and likes to rather spend most of her time writing poems and consulting her classmates with their issues, is creating a solar-powered pen. Why did I even ask you for help?”

“Drop right now, sweetie.”, Rishabh’s last word before “Good Night” that night had a mocking stretch. It seemed like Rishabh and Sanam had stepped in each other’s shoes for that conversation. Rishabh was making jokes and Sanam was sounding serious. “What the hell did just happen”, Sanam’s father asked his wife after he came out of the bathroom.

Sanam, apparently, was a person who connected well with every kind of emotion. She read The Alchemist, The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, The Secret, As A Man Thinketh, and other motivational books time and again to connect to different theories of leading a solemn and stress-free life. She would go on to spread what she read and comprehended from the different ways of understanding and living life.

Once in the second period of their Wednesday time-table of grade 8, Priya, Sanam’s close confidant, was seen messing with a compass at the last bench. Mr. Batra, their Mathematics teacher, had asked the class to bring their geometry essentials for learning construction.

“Stop it, you will hurt yourself.”, Sanam warned Priya while sitting beside her.

“Who cares anyway?”, Priya defended while lightly scratching her finger with the compass.

Priya showed signs of depression and Sanam would always try to get her out of her negative thoughts. Her consolation was perhaps the reason why the compass strokes were soft.

“I care. There are a lot of people who care. Your parents don’t know you beyond your mark sheets and I would say it is just not their fault. You need to befriend them and share your secret talents the way you do with us.”, Sanam suggested to Priya.

“Easier said than done. I do not belong to a cheerful Punjabi family like yours. My parents are not as permissive as yours. They want marks, high scores, and a good academic reputation for me.”, Priya made a slight attempt at opening her heart out.

“Hey hey hey! It is not about the kind of family we belong to. We are all humans and we all have emotions. You always create a strict image of your parents in front of me, but wasn’t your mother crying in her vidaai picture that you showed me the other day from your parents’ wedding album. This proves that she has deep-seated emotions and she does know how to empathize as well. You must tell her what you plan for your future and she will surely help you make the cut.”, Sanam’s wisdom spoke up. Her wise words did not fall on deaf ears as later that day, Priya did explain to her mom about her dream to become a voice over artist. She gave the impressions of different voices, ranging from Misty and Nobita’s to Chutki and Tweety’s.

“Who from did you get this?”, Priya’s mother startled at her daughter’s gifted voice variations enquired, “Do you remember Dimple aunty? Her sister-in-law runs her own voice over institute but they require class 10^th as minimum qualification. So complete your studies and after that focus on becoming the best voice over artist. You are really blessed.”. A session of tears did follow the highly sensitive moment for Priya but it ended soon when her father ordered her favorite ice-creams.

This was the power Sanam held. She might never have had the power to create but she always had the power to console and cajole. She was never the brightest her in her class but she shone the brightest in her own world where everything was perfect because everything had a solution. But did Sonam have solutions to everything and every issue or was it just some past successful experiences where her friends heard her and followed her advice that led her to think that she is a healer?

“You know what if you smoke, your life expectancy is likely to decrease by a decade.”, Sanam taught to her three-year older cousin who was in the middle of completing her Bachelors in Mass Communication.

“Yes, I know. And do you know I am prone to a range of diseases like lung cancer, asthma, chronic bronchitis and others.”, Sheena said taking a drag.

For ten minutes from then, Sanam tried convincing her cousin against the act of smoking cigarettes. But no book she had read or no deep thoughts of hers about life could make a difference to Sheena’s life. That day, Sanam felt low on confidence, thinking if she is losing out on her healing capabilities.

Sanam opened her drawer and picked out her highlighters and pens of different colors.

“The world I created has started to collapse
I called for my will like a breathless person gasps
In this imaginative world,
Somebody please find a pad for my vision,
In my real world where accommodate my values,
I feel so crestfallen.
The gift of life,
they do not understand
The value of living
they fail to apprehend.
What do want to do is right,
What they don’t want to is wrong,
How do I make this world a better place
How do I bring the change I want to embrace.”

Innocent Sanam filled yet another page of diary with ink, feelings and water that dropped down her eyes. She was an intuitive soul who wished to touch every life with positivity and good values. But after she failed to convince her cousin for not smoking, she was crestfallen and fret giving advices or using her consulting powers.

“This just doesn’t fix”, Rishabh said surrounded with different engineering tools, thermocols, stacked and scattered books and notes, as he was engrossed in his college project. Sanam saw Rishabh work tirelessly and unaware that he hadn’t had dinner that night. He slept nearby his project only and had set an alarm to wake up early next morning.

The next day, Rishabh woke up to his alarm and massaged his eyes and facial muscles before putting on his fat specs. He fixed and re-fixed his specs, and squeezed and widened his eyes before accepting that his sister was using fevicol to paste one of his tools on a board that Rishabh was fiddling with in the night gone by. He stared at his sister for a while with a confused smile. He called for her.

“Sanam”, Rishabh started in a tone high enough to be heard at once.

“Sanam”, Rishabh tried at a higher tone when Sanam failed to hear to him.

“Sanam”, Rishabh was so loud that his parents in the next room had woken up too.

“Yea, what? Why are you shouting? I am not hard of hearing.”, Sanam said pulling out her AirPods.

“What are you doing with my project?”, Rishabh asked in a humble tone bringing his index finger to his chin.

“You are a dumb person. Haven’t you seen me pasting my pictures in my scrapbook? Would do I use? A simple fevicol. How could you not give a fevicol a chance to fix your thing?”, Sanam explained.

Rishabh guffaws. “You know what you lack?”

“What?”

“This”, Rishabh filled nuts and bolts in his hand, and showed it to Sanam. She responds with an exclamation mark present but not visible on her face.

“The practical facts”, Rishabh explained, “You have a wonderful heart Sanam. You want to help, you want to create a change, you want to spread positivity but you lack the practical fact. Come what may, the fact remains that a fevicol cannot glue or paste everything. Sometimes, we would need a tape, sometimes a glue or sometimes nuts and bolts to fix one thing with the other. A fevicol can paste things but not everything.”

Sanam welled up.

Courtesy: https://tinyurl.com/ubfj7bh

“I saw you writing that poem. Look Sanam, your values can change people but not everyone. Sometimes, even when you are right, you need to leave people hanging on their own circumstances and let them learn by their own experiences, just like you have. Give people a chance to experience and learn from them, instead of injecting your perspective into them. You can be a fevicol, you do you. You do your work. Keep trying but if things refuse to stick, you let them be. You need not turn into any other adhesive, rather find things that need a fevicol.”. 

Sanam, her voice breaking, said, “Do you also secretly write and read? How can you be this intellectual as an engineer?”

Rishabh smiled and called her for a hug. “We can’t help everyone, but everyone can help someone. Remember this quote by Ronald Reagan. Okay.”.

Sanam and Rishabh’s parents clicked their picture while Sanam cried embraced in her brother’s arms. Since then, Sanam has remained a fevicol that maintains its properties, or qualities, and doesn’t force its adhesiveness, or perspective, on others. Sometimes, it is good to let go!