You. Are. A Very. Talented. Individual.

How my parents realized their six-year-old had been running a one-year-long con.

I can see the silence. And I’m waiting.

Waiting for the infamous sentence.

You. Are. A Very. Talented. Individual.

You might be wondering—What’s with all the periods?!

Well, they capture the punctuated dramatized delivery of the well-worn pauses my father injects into this phrase. Every. Single. Time.

Sometimes, I think he’s just waiting for the perfect moment to drop those words—like a carefully timed gut punch. A reminder. A callback to a moment I’ll never live down.

Trust me, it’ll all make sense soon.

I’m Sarah—someone standing at the edge of university life, with a camera, some scraps of inspiration, and a head full of stories. If you're into design, writing, or figuring things out as you go, I’d love your company (and your feedback!) on this unfolding journey.

It all began eleven years ago, when I got my first pair of prescription glasses at the age of six.

I hated them.

Not because I desperately needed them—I wasn’t wandering around, bumping into walls like a cartoon character. My little universe was still in focus. After all, how much vision does a six-year-old really need? I could see my classmates (who barely reached two feet tall), my crayons, and my snacks. Life was fine.

But those glasses? They were not fine.

They felt weird on my nose, like a heavy bug that refused to fly away. They made my ears sore. Worst of all? They made me look different.

I didn’t want to look different. I wanted to look like me—not like a librarian, or a scientist, or my grandfather.

They slid down my nose when I ran too fast. They smudged, and wiping them on my shirt only made things worse. And when it rained? I might as well have been blindfolded.

So, I did what any rational six-year-old would do.

I devised a plan.

Every morning, I’d get on the school bus, wave my mighty goodbye, and as soon as the bus pulled away from our gated community, I’d skillfully stash my glasses in my backpack. They lived in the very case my mother had given me to protect them during playtime—except, that’s where they resided for the better part of the day.

On the way home, just as the bus neared our stop, I’d pull them out, carefully unfold them, and place them back on my face. Like nothing ever happened.

Flawless execution. No one would ever know.

Or so I thought.

One fateful day, my father came for a parent-teacher meeting.

Except, when the meeting ended, he was waiting for me outside the classroom.

I stepped out. Saw him. Froze.

His eyebrow arched—just slightly. Too slightly.

In Urdu, he asked: “Where are your glasses?”

My heart? Gone. Evaporated.

The teacher, not understanding, turned to me. “What did he say?”

My father, ever patient, translated. “I asked her where her glasses were.”

The teacher’s eyebrows knitted together. She tilted her head slightly. “What glasses?”

Silence.

And that was the moment.

The moment my parents realized their six-year-old had been running a one-year-long con. The moment they pieced it all together—how, for the past year, I had been slipping my glasses on and off like a magician’s trick, living a double life, Clark Kent-ing my way through first grade.

And so, to this day, that moment lingers.

Whenever I slack off. Whenever I hesitate. Whenever an I can’t do this slips out.

There comes the familiar pause.

You. Are. A Very. Talented. Individual.

---

If you liked this, here are some other attempts at humour that you might enjoy:

• Run, Butter Chicken, Run!

  How One Dish Took Over the World While the Rest of Indian Cuisine Watched in Silence

• Unscripted: A Survival Guide to Indian Roads

  Part improv. Part leap of faith. Part street theatre.

• Sweet Chai O' Mine

  A Love Letter to Chai—Before the West Drowned It in Syrup

Thank you for reading all the way through—it means more than you know. If you felt something, learned something, or even just want to help me get better at this whole writing-and-designing-my-way-through-life thing, I’d love for you to subscribe, share a thought, or leave a gentle critique. Every bit of feedback helps me grow.