I Stand Up For What Is Right by Sara Bhaskar

                    I Stand Up For What Is Right

What most people know about me is that I stand up for what is right. I don’t hesitate to speak out when I see someone doing something that fits into my definition of “wrong”. And let me tell you, I didn’t look in the dictionary. I cannot stand unfairness, and when people are being unjust I rush in my helter – skelter way to make things right. Good intentions nevertheless, I tend to blurt out complex ideas all in a jumble in less than 30 seconds, confusing everyone including myself, and making the problem, if not worse, certainly not better. But there are times when I’ve certainly improved situations by intervening. I am very protective of my friends and if anyone does anything to hurt them, I immediately jump to their defense. I know the difference between right and wrong, and not to cross the line. However, I cannot keep quiet and mind my own business – that’s the thing about me. Also, to me if you are my parent, teacher, friend, or sibling, if you have done something wrong it’s still wrong no matter what. There have been several incidents to prove I feel this way.

For example, just a few weeks ago I saw my friend being mercilessly teased by another person for absolutely no reason. In hindsight, it was my friend’s battle to fight and I probably should have let her stand up for herself. “Leave it Sara, don’t get involved,” my friend Reynaa advised. However, her words had fallen on deaf ears, and she knew this as well as I did. I marched furiously up to that person, and told him exactly what I thought of him. “…..and don’t ever speak this way to my friend again” I finished scornfully, dazed at my own daring. However, inside I was feeling insubstantial, as a wisp of smoke, so light that I might float away.  “You shouldn’t have done that,” rebuked Reynaa. Maybe I shouldn’t. But I felt I had done the right thing. Perhaps, I should let people deal with their own problems – but it’s not my nature to do so.

Another time, the big issue in our apartment was that the children had no place to play. Mosquitoes, the dark, rains, the lack of adult supervision, a fear of ghosts (long story there), strangers, fast cars and a strange musty smell ruled out the terrace after seven o’clock – the Multipurpose Hall and the basement. So, the corridor was our chosen place, the setting for our fun, noisy games. However, every day, an unknown aunty from the third floor hung over the railing, peering at us with short sighted eyes, and yelling at us hoarsely to keep the noise down. She went on about this until we were heartily sick of her. Once she even came down especially to shout at us. When she had finally departed, we decided that we would not stand for this anymore. I suggest we make a poster of protest and put it up on the notice board. My idea was met with eager agreement and everyone got to work. Armed with thick white chart paper and sketch pens, we vowed not to give up until we had a proper place to play. The poster, boldly titled in capital red letters “GIVE US A PLACE TO PLAY” was signed by all of us at the bottom. Very pleased with our effort, we put the poster on the notice board. The results of this “protest”? No one said anything, but the aunty refrained from complaining. It was understood, we had won. The corridor was ours now.

Sometime back, we children were having an argument in the corridor which was growing more heated and intense each second. One of my friends turned to me, her face twisted up, and her eyes swimming with tears. “Stop it Sara, you’re a home-girl and your Mother is so mean now, she does not let you play anymore.” A wave of anger crashed over me. How dare she? My Mother, I might add, DOES let me play. I can’t play so often because of my growing pile of homework (thanks, Inventure Academy.) It’s not because of my Mother. Nobody can insult her and get away with it, so I impulsively stormed to my friend’s house, simmering with barely concealed rage. When her Mother answered the door, I told her in a voice of icy calm, what my friend had been saying. “Please make sure she doesn’t do it again, Aunty, I don’t like it,” I said politely, forcing the flat sounding words out. Then I turned around, and walked away.

To conclude, I always stand up for what I think is right. I can’t be any other way - I guess I was just brought up to think this way. But I don’t mind a bit, of course. I’m sure you, the reader, can understand – it is part of who I am.