“Sign it,” he pushed the paper towards me and gestured me to pick up the pen from the table to get done with the job he wanted me to do.
I glanced at the paper. Tears came flooding my eyes as I couldn’t decipher the meaning of even a single typed line.
“Sign kar na. Sign it.” This time there was an urgency in his voice. In that moment, I suffered paralysis of the eye sight which got affixed at the space where he was pointing me to put down my signature and my right hand suffered jamming too. Sensing all the eyes around us were focussed on me, I let out a cry. Soon the soft cry turned into wailing. I wailed and wailed. What could have been a matter of just one minute had dragged along for more than 5 minutes by now. Unable to grasp what could be my problem, he tried simplifying it for me by telling me to write my name on the paper. The simplification did not work because I knew what a sign meant and I did not want to sign. I did not want to reveal my sign to anyone. How could I! My sign was the key to the umpteen secrets I was holding within me. One exposure and all those secrets which needed close guarding could have been extracted by the Bank people.
I do not remember if I actually signed the Bank form that day but I do remember my father dealt with me with a lot of patience. We never revisited this memory and today will be the first time in 35 years when he will read about that particular incident. It was mid 80s then and I was 5 years old.
I may be generous with lending my signature now but trust me I am still guarding my 5-year-old self’s top secret files within me without knowing what they were.
Linking this post with Monday Musings hosted by Corinne