When one accepts making a mistake, there are a variety of responses. He can accept it, promise to learn from the incident; he can ignore it, forget that anything happened; he can justify it and make excuses, or he can deny it flat out, knowing fully well it does little but nurture his own sad vanity.
There are a number of grave ‘mistakes’ a 17- year-old today could be guilty of, but conveniently none of mine even comes close. So by mistake, I mean what we generally perceive among peers; seemingly unprompted, impulsive, human slip ups; a wrong judgment, neglect, a miscalculation, even an error in prioritisation.
Naturally, every one of us is irritated when our wrongs are pointed out by another. What I dread more, however, is the moment I realise how wrong I have been. Because at that moment, there is no means to refute it, no defence to plan and no means to rationalise it convincingly enough.
Now if you’re curious about what heinous misdeed of mine brings about this tirade of thoughts, I’m going to have to let you down. Because there’s this other thing you’re expected to do on realising that you’re wrong. Admit to it and deal with it. And evidently, I have before me an arduous way until I get there.
Just as I wonder what can be inferred from above, I make another realisation. Essentially, there are only two ways one can respond to having recognised one’s fault, action and passivity. And no great man appeased himself with the latter.
Mahathi K G, XII PSBB
