The Agony of Agonizing

It was all sunshine outside, but not an ounce of warmth seemed to be felt. My fingers were already numb from the less than ideal temperature. I rummaged through my tote bag to find my keys so that I could finally find refuge from the arctic conditions outside. As soon as I step into the house, the smell of sauteed garlic hits me like a ton of bricks. I make my way to the kitchen. My mother looks at me dead in the eyes and says, “Tumi ki esecho?” ‘Have you arrived?’ I always thought that was a weird saying. It reminded me of that one time my cousin saw me at the doorstep and had made the same remark. Her tone resembled that of one who had made a very astute observation. I stop myself from saying ‘no’ and instead choose to offer her a quick greeting. 

     My mother was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables like she always does when she’s stressed, her face tight with concentration. However, this time around I knew something was off. She didn’t usually talk about work when she was cooking, preferring instead to share some random anecdote from her day or go on about a new recipe she’d tried. But this time, as soon as I walked in, she dropped the knife onto the counter, wiped her hands on her apron, and asked, “Did I sound stupid today?” I blinked, caught off guard by the suddenness of the question. “What do you mean?” She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose, eyes downcast. “In the meeting. When they asked about the new plans, I said, ‘I’m planning to learning’ about the initiatives. Can you believe it?”

      I paused, trying to process what she was talking about. “Mom, you made a tiny mistake. Honestly, nobody probably even noticed.” She looked at me incredulously, like I’d just told her the sky was purple. “But what if they did?” I recognized  the weight of those words in her eyes. For me, fixating on the mistakes I’d made in my life was criminally easy. And here my mother was, asking me of all people for reassurance over a slip of the tongue that even I had to admit was barely noticeable. I took a deep breath, deciding to tread carefully. “Dekho, shobay kotha bolar somoy bhul kore: Eita kuno boro kotha na.” ‘Look, everyone makes mistakes; I’m sure it wasn’t even a big deal.’ People get so caught up in their own heads when they’re in a conversation. Half the time, they’re more focused on how they’re coming across than on what anyone else is saying. She didn’t seem fully convinced, so I went on. “And think about it—how many times have you heard people say things wrong, and it didn’t even faze you? It happens.” 

     She was quiet for a moment, her gaze still fixed on the knife as if it held the answers. Finally, she gave a little nod, still not entirely at peace with herself but somewhat reassured. “Na tumar kotha thickache….” ‘You’re right,’ she said, but her voice still carried a sliver of doubt. I knew it wouldn’t be the last time she’d second-guess herself over something small like that. It’s the way you’re wired—always striving, never fully satisfied. The more I listen to her, the more similar our predicament seems. “Aije! Dekho, ami okhane tumar jono fruit rekhechi.” ‘Look there; the fruit there is for you.’ As I started picking at the pomegranate seeds, I continued to wonder about the last time I’d ever taken someone’s advice to not lose my sanity over a small mistake. The seeds, wedged tightly in the pith, seemed to mirror that same frustration—a reminder that it had been a while since I let go of something so trivial.  Maybe this whole “stupid mistake” stuff wasn’t so foreign to me after all. I had my own things that irked me—like standing in front of a fridge full of options and still wondering if I should get Vitamin Water or Gatorade. See, it’s always about making the best choice.

     Of course, along with all the petty things in life, there’s existential dread. At our core, we often find ourselves entangled in a pursuit of perfection that is quixotic at best. The perpetual dissatisfaction looms larger than life, overshadowing our successes and amplifying our missteps. Did I articulate myself well? Were my ideas sophisticated? Were my words satisfactory? If they weren’t, why weren’t they? And if they were, why weren’t they profound? Obsess, obsess, obsess. As I’m writing this paper, I’m wondering why I’m having such a hard time getting halfway through this page. It’s a cycle, and it feeds on your insecurities and ambition for excellence while ignoring the intrinsic lack of linearity that comes with the process. The fact that I don’t feel productive now does not make me more inferior to the version of me that was productive. I guess that’s what it boiled down to: seeking perfection in a world that wasn’t designed for it—a world where flaws are as common as breaths and mistakes are merely a bridge for growth, however rickety the path to the other end may be. Before my mind could spiral further, I just let the silence settle between us, and the pungent scent of garlic continued to fill the space again instead of the previous tension.