Pick me up…

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… is what the very famous Italian dessert Tiramisu means. Don’t worry, today’s post in not about how you can make one. If you know me well enough, then you would also know that I am disastrous when it comes to cooking; though, when it comes to eating, I am worthy enough to get A+ (+).

Today’s post is about an incidence my soul anchored to when I was drifting in and out of sleep on Friday night. I had an unpleasant bout of cold, bad throat and body pains. Unpleasant is a pleasant term for a day that was spent clearing my nose, not so quietly, sleeping not out of choice but more so because the body demanded and the pains in parts of my body that I didn’t know could hurt.

The aforementioned incident took place when I was in Class VII (second year at Middle School or Junior High School) and a bunch of us were picked to compete in a Calligraphy Competition. This was the first time I was participating in such a competition and I was glad my best friend decided to participate as her presence helped me calm my fears.

There were 10 of us and we had to go to some different school where students across the city had come down. My friend and I were nervous; and our anxiety was further heightened when we saw a boy next to us writing beautiful on the assessment sheets the teachers had handed to each one of us. I didn’t care what anybody wrote, scribbled or doodled because I knew I didn’t have a chance.

During the prize distribution ceremony, my friend and I were cheering goofly whenever the winner’s names were announced. We were also laughing at the jokes I was cracking; I don’t remember the content but I am sure they were very lame. And then they announced the first prize winner in our category…. “And it goes to Anisha”. I had just written my first name, many mutilate (and continue to) my last name.

If someone were to ask me how it feels like when one goes into shock, I would say, “At that moment, you feel nothing”. When I heard my name, I felt no emotion; there was no surprise, no fear or happiness; my limbs just followed the command and I mutely walked towards the stage.

But it was while I was accepting the award, it finally hit me: I had been picked; picked from among the rest, deemed worthy and THAT, that felt wonderful. On Friday night, many years later, even though the body was wasting away, the soul held on to that feeling — the inexplicable feeling of being The Chosen One, minus the tragic and melodramatic turn of events that Harry Potter had to endure.

It feels good, doesn’t it? When the guy you like, likes you back… or the accolades that come your way when your work is good… or the importance one gets among your family, friends and even strangers. It’s a beautiful feeling, but only when it comes your way when you least expect it. Otherwise, it can feel like a burden; pinning for recognition that someone else gets, love that you felt was yours but takes a lifetime to your way.

If you think life, people or circumstances haven’t been kind to you and that you have often been the one left out, why not pick someone else up? By that I don’t mean that despite their firm protests you grab hold of them and pick them up as if they are little babies… no, please don’t, that surely can get you in jail.

Look around you and see, open your eyes to the ones who feel left out, unworthy, unloved… there should be many, there are so many… and be the one that chooses them, be the one that makes them feel they are worthy, be the one that builds them up, be the one that calls out their name when they least expect it… Because who knows, perhaps one day when they are tired and hurting, they might look back at what you did in their lives, and their souls too will linger on to the warmth that only true love and kindness can provide.

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