[It dont matter if] you’re right or left(y)?

“Left-handed, eh !!”...a young sales clerk uttered what seemed like a surprised and amused expression as I signed the credit card receipt at a Bengali store. This is not an isolated occurrence, and the tone of the expression varies as much as the person saying it.

It would not only be an over-exaggeration but whining of enigmatic proportion if I were to go ahead and state that growing up left-handed had been difficult. It has, however, been an interesting experience, one that I am sure I share with all left-handed people to some degree.

My very first memory of me being “not quite right” is of vague recollections of various relatives talking about my “condition”. Discussions would ensue about whether or not it was a good idea to try to get me to use my right hand more. Apparently no drastic measures were taken. That is, until one morning, as we were having our morning meal, my mother looked at me with eyes full of love mixed with a bit of sorrow, and foremost, unconditional sympathy. With complete understanding for my “condition” that might or might not have been beyond my control, she pleaded me to try to change one tiny part. She wanted me to eat with my right hand, for reasons obvious to everyone around, for one could tell that everyone was thinking the same thing the moment they saw me eating with my left hand. Of course, it wouldn’t be easy. I was to have her full support, and that would be the only task I would need to perform with my right hand.

Thus, with utter difficulty and one awkward handful of food after another, I began the process that would eventually result in my purification. It felt impossible at first, but like everything else in life, I eventually came to terms with using my right hand. Thus, good riddance with the disgusting habit, and all was good from there onwards.

Just…not quite. They do say good ideas come to you in the toilet, and likewise, in the same spot I had an epiphany, as I picked up the twak (mug) and reached for my behind. To the horror of horrors, I realized that it was with my right hand that I was reaching to do the cleaning part with, as my left hand was comfortably, and cleanly, holding the jug of water. Now that I saw what was happening, it made perfect sense—if right-handers instinctively used their left hand for cleaning the particular area, it would seem only logical that left-handers used their right! I felt betrayed and pushed to such a humiliating status. I had officially over-taken the father and son who had tried to carry the donkey to please everyone, and by trying to please my parents, had ended up being the boy who ate his own poop.

I stared from one hand to the other, and as I had no other choice, began, yet again, the pain-staking task of learning to use the limb that didn’t come naturally to me. It was harder than learning to eat with the “right” hand. For, without the watchful eyes of my mother (fortunately), I would, at times, forget to use the “wrong” hand.

As dramatic and as exotic as I would want to make my left-handed-ness to be, the extent of my “misery” due to that fact pretty much ends right there. Other than being jabbed at by somewhat academically enthusiastic classmates because my left elbow was hindering their right ones as we both tried to write on top of the small elongated desks, and hearing vague curses for having to sit next to a lefty, everything else has been smooth sailing. Oh yeah, the nickname, Lefty, I didnt mind having that; could’ve been worse. And it seems like right-handers can know only one primary left-hander  at any point in their lives. To my class, I was that one. There was one other left-hander in our class, but since she joined later than I did, I held the title. Every once in awhile I run into people with left-handed people close to their hearts, fondly or otherwise, and soon as I start using my opposite limb, something along the lines “oh, you’re left-handed, hmm, so is my …"follows. What amazes me isn’t the attempt at the very vague connection; it is the fact that people are so quick to take notice of the face. When I’m observing a person, what arm one is using is the last thing I tend to notice. The expression on the above mentioned sentence depends on the type of relationship they have, and at times, I can all but hope that the left-hander wasn’t her jackass of an ex-boyfriend .

The degree to which someone is left-handed varies, maybe due to social reasons, or perhaps biological. Some are almost ambidextrous. Most, like myself, have come to terms with living in a right-handed world with very minor, almost cosmetic, adjustments. We are the ones who rarely go around the classroom looking for that left-handed seat, but will sit on it if one is handy. And rarely are there the avid left-handers. I had the interesting experience of knowing such a person at my work. He was left-handed almost to a revolutionary degree. His mouse would be on the left side of the keyboard and the mouse buttons would be switched around. Every time he would pick up a pair of scissors or a screw driver or any other tool of which I had no idea could be left-or-right -handed, he would get on a tirade about the hardships of having to live in a world that was primarily right-handed. He would go so far as to term me a traitor for giving up to the other side, for not complaining enough, or for not having the buttons of my mouse switched around. I could almost imagine him taking up arms, fiery speech, revolting against the suppressive majority, fighting for the ease of use of his tools, a right he has been deprived of in a ruthless right world that considers the use of our wrong hand, well, wrong!

This blog originally appeared on paakhe.wordpress.com on November 18, 2007.