MAIN QAABIL HOON ... I AM ENOUGH

“I’m so sorry…!”

If I gave you a rupee for each time I say that, you’d be a millionaire by now.  I seem to be sorry-ing my way through the day, every single day.   

I’m sorry for missing your mail, responding with delay, forgetting to stock my fridge, joining the meeting too late, wanting to leave too early, not paying attention to the kids, burning the rice, snapping at you -- the list is endless and I’ve not even begun.

I am a good girl, trained well to be convenient. Our kind is so well trained to please that even before we mess up, we apologise, just in case. We’re that well behaved. Because we’re always sorry, we’re also in a constant state of guilt. Yes, guilt follows me like a tail follows its dog. From Daal-mien-namak-nahin-hai to can’t-make-it-to-office-tomorrow I live with oodles of it.

Chatting with my closest of friends narrating an office catastrophe I casually mentioned how my day had been spent apologising for missing a critical email. It had been an exceptionally busy week. “I’m so careless and so stupid!” 

She firmly said, “Stop that. It’s just a mistake. Happens to many of us.” 

You know those horrendous serials that run on TV? Where well-meaning dressed-for-a-wedding women are standing in their kitchens prepping five course meals for the khandaan? Of course, when the first spoon of daal is eaten by the matriarch there is an earth-shattering declaration “Daal mien namak nahin hai!” “Nahiiinnn!!!” Hell hath no fury like a family served daal with no namak. The next half hour is spent blaming the quaking over-dressed and over-stressed bahu.

In my head, I’m that overdressed bahu, and my mind is my own matriarch. Me needs no one else for self-torture. Totally aatmanirbhar.

“It’s just a mistake. Happens to many of us” 

Simple words from a friend lingered on and made me think of my own casually self-depreciating statements. And of the many other wonderful women who spend their whole lives believing they were lesser than what was needed. It was like putting on my glasses. The vision had cleared and I felt almost embarrassed.

There is an ideal version of us, it’s called Sarvagun sampann. Google says it means one who has all good qualities in the world. I spent a decent number of years trying to be her. Then gave up reconciling that I was a classic case of “could’ve.” 

Could’ve looked better, could’ve organised better, could’ve driven better, could’ve kept the house better, could’ve managed better. Things would’ve been perfect if only I could’ve been as good as I should’ve been.

This ‘Principle of Could’ve’ takes us nowhere. But that doesn’t deter us from confusing self-depreciation for humility.  Look closely and we can spot them; those who keep living with no idea that something is inherently wrong in this dislike of ourselves.  They will reject a compliment, deride appreciation and accept criticism with baffling eagerness.  And we watch. Because we have allowed for this self-erosion without batting an eyelid. Because we are one of them. 

There is a song in an old, Hindi film. Very popular, it used to drive me mad with fury for many years --

"Aap ki nazron ne samjha pyar ke qaabil mujhe,

Dil ki ae dhadkan theherja

Mil gayi manzil mujhe.”

Loosely translated “You have considered me worthy of your love, be still my beating heart, I have found my destiny.” As the song proceeds the overjoyed heroine continues “I humbly accept your decision to love me.”  I understood my irritation to these lyrics a little late in life ironically as I found peace within myself. I really want your love, your affection, your recognition.  I will regard it and I will miss it, but I’m worthy even if I don’t get it.

Main qaabil hoon... I am enough.