|
|
Overcoming Fear
How I became a pole-vaulter is a long story. But I’ll make short of it. Ever since I can recall, I have been scared of heights. When other kids my age were climbing trees or crossing canals filled with water, with long bamboo poles, I would seek refuge behind my mother’s enormous frame, paralyzed with fear that I might also be dragged into their game. “I don’t understand your son,” my 6’3’’, Herculean father would lament to my Mom. “In fact, I sometimes find it hard to believe I produced this mouse. Look at the wimp, he starts shaking like a dry, autumn leaf, even while climbing a few steps.” Dad’s words were harsh but they happened to be true. I was afraid of all tall things --- buildings, trees, stairs, vertical columns, hills or mountains. I was even afraid of taking the small flight of stairs to my bedroom. Every trip that I made was a nightmare. I had to pluck my breath in, count ten and go on in one rapid shot because I knew that if I paused even for a moment, or dared look down, I’d either fall or faint. The thought made me dizzy and cold. The worst thing was that nobody understood my fear. Not even my kid sister Swetlana. If there was anybody in this whole world, I would have gladly laid down my life for, it was Swetlana. She kept all my secrets, defended all my actions, fought all my battles and had bailed me out on so many occasions that I eventually lost count of them. But even Swetlana did not understand my fear. Although far younger to me in years, she once tried explaining to me that the world was not a flat pancake but rather like our grandma’s skin full of creases and folds. Nonetheless, all analogies failed to correct my equilibrium and she learned to accept me as I was. But not my Dad. For him, my irrational fears were a terrible disgrace. They were a severe blow to his macho image. For someone, who loved all kind of outdoor sports, this was a cruel joke played by nature. For him, who had nursed one fond hope from the moment he lay eyes on his infant son --- that one day, I would grow up to be a world champ, this was the worst irony. He was most unprepared for the fact that far from excelling at any kind of sport, I would in fact, need psychiatric care to lead a normal, happy life. Not that Dad did not try to help me. Sometimes, he would put me on his lap and explain that pole vaulting is not about heights. It’s about distance. It’s also about how much energy you and the pole can conserve to land farthest on the field. It is also about freedom and national pride. According to my Dad, pole-vaulting was a sport; Russians had an innate gift for. We had to excel in it. But reading the fear growing big in my eyes, as I listened to his talk and tales of his own exploits, he could not delve too deep into the subject with me. Once, I remember, Dad took me to watch a match. Before we left for the venue, Dad showed me a vaulting pole, taking pains to explain how it worked, the technique, the material from which it’s crafted etc. He also demonstrated how the pole bends by almost the same degree as the weight of the vaulter, before straightening out to throw the vaulter far off on the field. I watched him sullenly and said nothing. Then when we were seated at the pavilion and the match began, something got into me and I began to yelp like a crazed puppy. Everybody turned their heads in our direction. Irritated, my Dad brought me back and never suggested we go to a match again. As far as he was concerned that was the end of his dreams for me. Then one day, while Swetlana and I were alone in the house, I thought I heard a loud scream. It sounded like Swetlana’s. Alarmed, I dashed for the door and saw smoke bellowing out of her upstairs bedroom She was knocking madly at the door but it was jammed and she probably could not open it. Meanwhile, the room was up in flames. I reached for the stairs and just as I was about to ascend, my old fears returned. Briefly, I felt paralyzed. Just then, I heard Swetlana’s cry again and in one swift motion, I was beside her door, banging at it with all my might. It gave way and I swooped up my baby sister in my arms, tears welling into my eyes. Later that evening, Dad refused to believe my Mother’s account of the incident. Shaking his head violently he said, “Impossible. Not this boy.” he said. “But, Dad, its true. Peter did save my life,” piped in Swetlana, who was all bandages from the burns and put on the couch. The truth, I realized, I had not just saved Swetlana. I had also saved myself. The fear never came to haunt me again and I grew up to be a pole-vaulter. As you would all realize, some tales do have a happy ending. | |