Sanity & Insanity

My name is Aashitha. Yes, Aashitha with two As. I guess my parents wanted me to be first in everything and two As ensured that mine was the first name to be called out in every line, every test and every single place I go. Oh, how I hated my name as a child. Apart from those fun facts, I am quite a normal person. Maybe a little eccentric to some people. But that might be because I think a little different or maybe because I paint pictures that nobody understands. But I think I am a very sane person, more than them for sure.


I don't remember exactly when people started calling me crazy. The first time I remember, was when I told my friends that I don't know who Aashitha is. Tell me, do you really know who you are? People know me by my face. I know myself by what my parents chose to call me. But who knows the real me. I don't own all my thoughts, I don't know what my emotion will be the very next moment. I am not even fully honest to myself. I am scared of my innermost feeling, I hide them even from myself, my deepest thoughts and worries are buried in me. I truly don't know who I am. Do you know who you are? Have you understood yourself 100%? I know you don't. Then why do people call me crazy?

Another reason people find is my paintings. My earliest paintings were colorful scratches on the walls of my home. My Dad used to shout at me for spoiling the walls. But I couldn't stop it. I had to draw. No one gave me prizes in painting competitions. No one understood my paintings. The teachers in my school were all figurative painters. They never tried to understand the abstract in my paintings. Neither did my parents. They wanted me to study science and maths. But all I could do was scratch an image of a spiraling circle or a five pointed star with an elliptical center on the corners of my maths note book. I didn't want to know why earth was round or how many apples are left in the basket after eating two. I was interested in shapes, in colors, in the surreal world which was beckoning me. I couldn't stop painting. I had to draw. My pictures where like a particularly stubborn vomit that had to get out of my throat. I often felt my hands had a mind of their own. My parents never understood it. They shouted at me, beat me, locked me in room for days. Did everything they could to make me stop scribbling and scratching, as they call it. But I couldn't. Finally, I chopped my right hand off. I thought it will make my parent's happy. Now, I won't be able to draw. My hands can't control me. I thought my parents will be happy. I thought they will finally smile at me and say, 'Good girl!'. I was happy even through the pain as I thought of my parent's smiling place.

But I was wrong. They called me crazy and locked me in this cell. But its alright. Nobody calls me crazy here and I have learned to write perfectly with my left hand now. I can even draw perfect circles. I hope my parents are fine with me drawing because my hand has started taking control of me.. again.. Hope they are not angry at me. Hope they won't start calling me crazy..again..