The Difference I Make

With a warped perspective, no matter which end of the telescope you look through, you will see the same thing. That is why it took me so long to shed my belief that my existence was of no consequence to the world. It was my firm conviction that the gravity of whatever I did was lost to humankind because there was nothing to measure its worth with. No noble cause, no worldwide mission, no immortal purpose. Nothing. To me, my fifteen years had been as inconsequential as an hour’s worth of sitting at a train window watching the scenery fly past. Had I persisted with that frame of mind for fifteen more, I really would have become the failure I deliberated myself to be.


My mistake lay in the fact that I judged everything by extremes. All or nothing—the cutthroat-competition call. I looked to neverending oscillations in the fabric of time as the standard of a successful life, passing over the gentler ripples which matter just as much. Pinpricks of light enchant the night sky with their collective beauty, yet each is important. One gets so wrapped up in one’s own insignificance in the throng that one forgets one’s unassuming contributions towards a whole. You might say that depends on who one is. I say that at some point we all forget what it means to be human, and have to remember.


It was not long ago when I made this discovery within myself. The discovery of a truth which, being caged and fettered, had, in its continuous attempts to manifest itself, stirred up discontent that ate away at me inside. To put it in a rather inadequate nutshell, I had my hands full. At school, I was roped up in every conceivable inter-school competition, and I carried truckloads of homework home to plow through every day. My school life was flourishing, but a sickly emptiness plagued me. I knew something had to change—but what?


One day, as usual, hacking away at math, I became conscious of a persistent chugging which had been going on in the background for some time. As usual, I had tried to ignore it until it got on my nerves. As I stomped closer to the source of the noise, the sloshing and splashing of water chimed in. I reached the laundry and stood on the threshold. As usual, Mama was engaged in household chores which she diligently applied herself to after a long day of trying to inculcate some sense of language in the ten-year-olds at the school where she taught. Up to her arms in soap, she patiently coaxed the grumbling washing machine to accept another mountain of clothes, and then turned to smile at me. Her smile was never dampened by ceaseless toil. That smile struck a chord in my heart. A nameless flutter ran through me.


“Are you hungry? Do you want anything?”


Did I want anything? I wanted to die of shame. Those words should have been said by me, not her. With so much work behind and before her, she still housed concern to ask after me. Here I was, too cranky to care about anyone else even for a moment, not even to appreciate my mother for all she did for me. Those were my clothes she was washing. I wanted to break down crying but then a stronger resolve blossomed in my heart.


“Mama, I…want to help you with your work.”


Now, that was an unusual occurrence on my part, I must admit. Mama looked pleasantly surprised. I found a strange exhilaration in helping her. Whenever she smiled at me, I smiled back.


That was a turning point, a revelation. Gates of light burst open and sunshine streamed forth upon my cobwebbed mind. It set me thinking. Now I know my value and worth to the world—to my world.


The substance of my world is people. The people I love, the people who love me. My mother, for instance. I share all my joys, cares and worries with her. She confides in me. We are a source of strength for each other. It is not an exchange, it is a bond. I am her daughter. What I do and say affects her. I can be her happiness or her despair. I make a difference in her life.


My father. He likes to recall “the good old days” when I was small and would toddle to the park with him to watch the ducks and he would hoist me onto his shoulders. Now I am as tall as those shoulders, but that does not mean my significance has lessened in any way. Love takes on new faces with time and does not beam out with simplicity as it does from the face of a child. But it is still there. It does not diminish; it grows. The exhausted father, upon returning home, needs but a display of love to make his daily exertions worthwhile. Therein lies the importance of little things. Getting up to greet him. Fetching and carrying. Hugs. A goodnight kiss (never think you’re too old to kiss a parent goodnight). Walks. Board games. Conversation. Children spend time with their parents on these and countless other little things, nurturing the relationship. Otherwise there wouldn’t be any distinction between being a parent or being a bank account. I, as a daughter, make this difference.


There is something about people your own age adults cannot substitute. Naturally the word “schoolmates” springs forward, but a constant home-companion is something else altogether. My brother is a year younger than I am. We share work and play, but above all, we share home life. Just as he is many things besides brother to me, I am his friend, his teacher, his playmate, his pet-pest and his accomplice in building castles in the air. We frustrate and encourage one another. We have our ups and downs, but as a sister I am glad I can say that being a sibling means more than having the same parents.


As a schoolmate, I try to uphold the pillars of friendship, fair play and cooperation. My strongest friends are my schoolmates, as one gets a chance of being a friend every day, instead of once in a while. I always give a friendship all I have. The value of camaraderie is equal to the effort one puts into it. The fruit of friendship is immediate as well as prolonged. A real friendship, when preserved in memory, creates the same feelings brought forth by seashells kept to remember a seaside holiday, or dried flowers saved to recall the spring.


I apply myself as a student not only for myself, but for my teachers and parents as well. My certificates would be worthless if they were not a source of pride for my parents, teachers and relatives as well as me. Half the delight of winning a competition is the prospect of glowing faces afterward, the chance to initiate a circle of happiness that keeps rebounding like ripples in a pond.


Sometimes it seems that you’re just another face in the crowd, and because of that you don’t really matter to people. Especially when you’re one in a lot of cousins, and you think your uncles, aunts and grandparents just think of you as one of a batch of kids. That concept is wrong. Every grandchild, niece and nephew has a separate, special place. They are related to you through your parents, and their love for them is transmitted to you, giving birth to love for you as an individual, if you know what I mean. I appreciate that I matter to my relatives, and, of course, what else is practical appreciation if not returning love with love, and care with care?
I know the truth, and it’s the guiding force of my life. That truth is that no matter how much you are held in esteem by the general population or what your repute is, at the end of the day it’s the people in your life that really matter. I make a difference in people’s lives by caring for them and being cared for by them. By loving and being loved. The day I was born, the day when my parents first laid eyes on me, was the day when I started to make that difference.