Chapter 2 : The Crown Of Praise

There was a time when I believed the world would move out of my way.

I was just a boy, not more than seven or eight, but something about the way people spoke to me made me feel… above it all. Not arrogantly — just with the unshakable confidence only children have when they've never known failure.

It started with little things. A worksheet finished before the others, a raised hand always waiting with the right answer. Teachers would smile. Neighbors would pat my head. My father would glance proudly at my report card like it confirmed something he always knew. I wasn't trying to impress anyone — but I liked how it felt when I did.

I began to expect it. Praise became a rhythm in my life, and I learned to move in time with it. The word "smart" followed me everywhere — on lips, in glances, written across the margins of my school notebooks in bold red ink. My name wasn't just mine anymore. It was a badge. A signpost. Something people pointed at when they spoke of potential.

I liked it. At first.

Being "that kid" meant I could skip the obvious. Teachers let me read ahead. I was allowed to sit at the back, near the window, as long as I didn't distract the class. No one told me what to become, but the way they looked at me said I could become anything.

And that's where it started to twist.

You see, when you're always told you can do everything, you stop knowing what you actually want to do. Every path looks lit. Every subject feels like something you're supposed to master. And when someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I gave answers that changed every week — scientist, writer, athlete, engineer — not because I couldn't choose, but because I thought I had to be good at them all.

At school, my friends were boys who laughed too loud and forgot their homework. I liked them — they made life feel light. But the more I excelled, the more I felt like a guest in their world. When they failed tests, they shrugged it off. When I scored less than perfect, teachers looked surprised. Friends joked, "Did you get lazy, genius?"

And I laughed. Always laughed.

Even when it didn't feel funny.

One day, we had an art competition. Something different. No marks, just fun. I painted a half-finished sky and got called to the front anyway. "Our little prodigy," the principal said, holding my name up like it was more important than the picture itself. I didn't even like what I made, but they clapped anyway. Not for the art. Just for me.

That applause stuck in my head for days — not as joy, but as noise I couldn't turn off.

At home, things were calm. Middle-class. Predictable. My parents never forced me to be anyone I wasn't. But they didn't have to. Their relief was loud in its own way. I was the son they didn't worry about. The one who'd "figure it out." My father once said to an uncle, "Arjun has something in him… he just hasn't shown the world yet."

I heard that line more than once. It stopped feeling like pride. It started feeling like a clock ticking somewhere behind my back.

Somewhere along the way, I began to avoid things I wasn't instantly good at. I didn't play sports anymore — not seriously. I didn't paint again. I only did what kept the image alive. I didn't realize it then, but the box around me was already forming. Made of compliments. Built by admiration.

The turning point wasn't dramatic. There was no shouting, no breakdown. It was slow — like watching color fade from a photo you forgot to protect. I remember sitting in class one day, answering a question without thinking, and hearing the usual, "Of course Arjun knows that." Everyone smiled. I did too. But inside, I felt nothing.

Not pride.

Not joy.

Just… emptiness.

It hit me then. I was performing. Not learning, not growing — just keeping the act alive.

And the worst part?

No one had asked me to.

I had locked myself into it. Somewhere between the praise and the expectations, I'd convinced myself I was this perfect version — always sharp, always ready, always moving forward — and now I didn't know how to step out of it.

The maze didn't appear overnight. It built itself around me every time I said "yes" to something just because I could, not because I wanted to. It grew tighter with every time I smiled through confusion, every time I buried a question instead of asking it, every time I chose silence over vulnerability.

People still clapped. They still nodded.

But I had already started to drift.

And no one noticed.

Not even me.