BeKhauf (Fearless)
The theme for our charity show was BeKhauf—fearless. One hundred and fifty ninth-graders organizing performances for three thousand students across four days, raising funds for orphanages and schools for disabled children. Months of planning, choreography, rehearsals, logistics. Everyone was spiraling about roles, responsibilities, what could go wrong.
I had questions. Not the nervous kind—practical ones. Why were we doing things this way? What was the point of certain restrictions? If something felt like it was impairing our ability to deliver, shouldn't we challenge it? The problem was, most planning happened in Zoom meetings dominated by a close-knit group of popular kids who'd known each other since prekindergarten. I was the American transfer student, barely a year into the school, having skipped a grade. I didn't have social capital. I had ideas.
The first few times I tried to interject, I got talked over. Not maliciously—just the natural flow of a group that already knew how to communicate with each other. I could have stayed quiet. Most people would have. I kept trying. Not because I was brave or socially skilled. Because the lack of progress was more urgent than my discomfort with being ignored. Each meeting, I'd wait for an opening, offer a suggestion, get drowned out. Then I'd try again. And again. Eventually, they heard me. Not because I wore them down, but because the ideas were good. We needed a better script selection process. We needed clearer role distribution. We needed to stop assuming the old way was the only way. Some of my suggestions got adopted. Some didn't. But the act of questioning—of not accepting "this is how we've always done it" as sufficient justification—shifted something. Not just in the planning, but in how I saw my place in the group. I wasn't trying to fit in. I was trying to make the show work. And that mattered more than whether people liked me.
Then came the Telugu skit. I was cast as Gokul, a domestic helper who gets scammed trying to buy a fake iPhone to impress someone. The entire script was in Telugu—a language I could read but barely spoke. Most of my classmates grew up hearing it at home. I'd taught myself the alphabet and spelling for competitions, but conversational fluency? Dialects? I had none of that. I should have been terrified. Instead, I was practical. I met with my Telugu teacher twice a week to work on pronunciation and dialect. I practiced the physical comedy—how Gokul would walk, gesture, overcompensate. I leaned into what I could do: humor, timing, dramatic modulation. My Telugu was rough, but I could make it funny. I could commit to the character fully enough that the imperfection became part of the performance.
My co-star had terrible stage fright. He knew the language fluently but froze at the idea of performing. We worked together—he helped me with lines, I helped him stay calm. We rehearsed until the blocking was automatic, until he could focus on delivery instead of panic. Opening night, we performed. The audience loved it. Not in a "that was cute for a non-native speaker" way. In a "this was genuinely funny and you fully inhabited the role" way. Parents came up afterward calling me Gokul. Some still do, months later. Meanwhile, several of my more talented, more fluent classmates underperformed. They had the skills. They played it safe or got overwhelmed by the pressure. I had neither the skills nor the pressure. Just the willingness to show up imperfect and see what happened.
Dance was similar. I'm not a natural dancer. My movements are clumsy. My coordination is fine for music but struggles with choreography. The hours of practice were hard—learning steps, staying in formation, not crashing into people. But I practiced anyway. Not to be the best, just to be less bad. When we performed, I went with the flow. I didn't worry about perfect execution. I focused on rhythm, on staying connected to the music and the group. I had a good time. The camaraderie was real. The movement felt good even when it wasn't precise. At the end of it, I didn't carry frustration from hours of imperfect practice. I carried the memory of moving together, of being part of something larger, of enjoying the process without needing to master it.
Music was where I felt most at home, but even there, I had to negotiate space. There were too many guitarists. Too many pianists. Everyone wanted to play lead. I could have fought for it—I'd been playing piano for years, had picked up guitar more recently, had the skills to justify a lead role. Instead, I brought out my recorder from elementary school. No one else had one. No competition. Instant spot in the rotation. I played piano one day, guitar another, recorder for two. I coordinated practice schedules, verified notes for three songs, helped organize the playlist. When I knew I'd perfected a song, I negotiated for lead on that one. The rest of the time, I supported. The result: I enjoyed every practice session. Renewed my connection with music and the band. Didn't waste energy worrying about status or recognition. Just played.
We performed for twenty minutes of planned music. Then someone decided to extend it by ten minutes. Money rained from parents in the audience—we collected a record ₹150,000 for our show. My parents had wondered what I was doing for so many hours at school, why I stayed late to practice if I was only on stage for a few minutes of dance and skits. The show answered their questions. I wasn't there for spotlight moments. I was there for the whole thing.
Looking back, the charity show felt distant and absurd at first. I was an outsider in a close-knit group organizing something massive with systems that didn't always make sense. I questioned practices that had been in place for years. I performed in a language I didn't speak. I danced despite being clumsy. I played multiple instruments instead of fighting for one prestigious role. And through all of it, I didn't worry about being good enough, about getting credit, about how I'd be perceived. Not because I'm naturally confident or socially fearless. Because I have what I call oblivity—a protective obliviousness that keeps me from absorbing other people's panic. It lets me ask uncomfortable questions without fear of rattling people. It lets me show up imperfect without the paralysis of perfectionism.
My oblivity is my default setting. It's also my gift. While my peers worried about being ready, I started. While they feared judgment, I learned in public. While they played it safe to protect their reputations, I delivered rough drafts and improved through iteration. I created an experience that was rich and multifaceted. I grew. When it ended, I felt satisfied—not because I excelled at everything, but because I showed up for all of it. The experience is sated. There's nothing left to yearn for.
I wish I could tell my sister—and my neurotypical friends—that it's okay if someone finds you imperfect. It's okay not to conform to standards that don't fit. It's okay to refuse compliance when compliance feels like fraud, absurdity, or plain stupidity. Ask the question, even if it rattles the room. You're not breaking anything; you're testing what's real. I don't go around looking for conflict. It's just my disposition. I'm built with enough head space to step into the uncomfortable, the unfamiliar, the uncertain—and stay there long enough to learn. What reads as indifference is often oblivity: a kind of protective obliviousness that keeps me from absorbing other people's panic. It lets me move forward when the script says freeze.
I know that isn't everyone's default. It just happens to be mine. And in a world that rewards performance over pattern, that oblivity becomes a gift. It keeps me honest. It keeps me curious. It lets me grow. The charity show was called BeKhauf—fearless. But I wasn't fearless. Fear just attaches to different things for me. Not to imperfection or judgment or being seen before I'm ready. To wasted time. To unexplored possibilities. To staying silent when I have something useful to say.
More people could feel this. I wish they would. Not fearless—just free enough to start messy, learn publicly, and grow without the weight of perfection holding them back. That's what I learned from BeKhauf. Not how to be fearless, but how to show up anyway.