Edited by: Deshna Maheshwari
It was in the third grade when I learned I was a pea. Our daily round of cops and robbers through the dim halls of our school courtyard came to an end when the class bully stepped on a line of ants, causing the eight-year-old nature lover to break into a fit. Dispersing into our smaller cliques, we discussed the situation and arrived at a consensus—the nature lover was simply being dramatic, and the class bully had done nothing wrong. Maybe I felt it then—my pea heart shriveled because the nature lover in me somewhere was screaming in silent protest, but I knew I had no spine to disagree. I was a grain of rice in a sack—bland, unoriginal, and obediently identical. I let this thought float a while till the next agenda of the afternoon nudged its way in—choreographing a dance for next week’s open-floor assembly.
The girls and I gathered in our group of nine—four were being trained in Kathak, three had joined a contemporary dance workshop, and two of us were left skill-less in comparison. I’ll admit I didn’t have a flair for movement, but I loved it nevertheless. As children, we’re deeply impressionable—actions stay with us, words echoing through our heads. That lunch break in the third grade, the four Kathak girls made me question if it was alright to love what I didn’t know and to do something I was average at. Maybe it’s unfair to blame them for the endless number of times since then that I’ve held myself back from things I secretly enjoyed but wasn’t good at. But maybe if that one lunch break had unfolded differently, and I hadn’t been further pushed aside in the following days when the girls practiced, I would have been a carrot or maybe even a bell pepper—bright and cheerful. But for the time being, I was a pea. Thankfully, I had my other pea—an average dancer, cast aside too, but we knew that the potatoes of the class would always outshine us, and that perhaps we might never be enough.
Three years later, I’m seated at the dinner table with my family. There is a heavy silence among the four of us, and I’m trying to understand why. I shift in my chair to the discomfort and eat my boiled peas, carrots, and mashed potatoes quietly, bracing myself for what might come next. Sure enough, a heated argument ensues across the chicken steak and garlic bread, between the two hotheads of our family—my mother and my big sister. I guess we’ve always known that they wore the pants in our family dynamics—the countless slamming doors and ‘I hate you’s were evidence enough. I adopted my father’s qualities for the most part, becoming the other level-headed member of the Kapoor clan and keeping peace when war tore apart the household. It was difficult being soft, sensitive, and easily displaced all the time. More often than not, I found my fingers searching for my father’s—familiar and tight. We went on night walks—he and I, my favorite two peas in a pod. He understood what it felt like, and I knew he felt it too at some point—existing on the fringes, easily overlooked, rolling into conversations unnoticed.
Do you ever feel lesser than a pea? Small, lightweight, there but not really adding any flavor, avoided and pushed aside on a plate by a little girl, left behind when the meal is over? Do you ever blend in? Lost amongst a pile of others just like you—interchangeable, indistinguishable, plain? Mashed into something better just to make you more palatable? Your presence becomes more of an afterthought than a necessity. Soft, but not in a sweet and comforting way—rather, in a way that makes it easy for others to push past you without resistance. Maybe sometimes you’re sweet, unexpectedly pleasant, but even then, it’s fleeting—a moment of surprise before you’re swallowed and forgotten entirely. You’re there but never the main ingredient, maybe tolerated but never craved. No one builds a dish around you.
Potatoes, on the other hand, are the centerpiece of it all. They’re solid, filling, and comforting, taking up space—especially in conversations, friendships, and the minds of others. Their presence lingers, wanted everywhere, sought out by the little girl. They hold things together—forever needed and wanted.
It’s daunting, don’t you think? To see yourself in such a raw light. At the mere age of eight, I understood the difference, and I knew I was a pea. I’m nineteen now, and while I may have imbibed the qualities of a potato somewhere along the way, at my core I’ll always be a pea. For now I’m a mix of both, summed up all qualities into an evenly spaced, well-flavored pulao. My mother’s recipe has peas written in bold, just like the potatoes, carrots, and beans. “It’s a necessity,” she tells me. “Without it, the dish would be incomplete.” In my heart, I translated this, learning that being a pea of a person isn’t all that I thought it was. There is strength in softness. We can be easily adaptable without demanding much space; we blend in smoothly, making it easier to observe, listen, and understand. There is a special kindness and subtle warmth that doesn’t overpower, and we bring something delicate yet meaningful to the table. We thrive in pods and bring cohesion to the things we are a part of.
While peas may not be the loudest or the biggest, we are, in fact, quietly essential.