fuck the fig tree
no, seriously.
My pinterest feed is littered with analogies I wished I wrote, drawings I wish I had the time to recreate and books I wish I could read right that very second.
So when, a plate of figs, quite like the one above, showed up on my pinterest feed, with the very same passions that my heart longed to fulfill, I did burst into tears. Call me dramatic, but seeing the very list of passions I wrote down in the margins of my twelve-year old self’s diary, when I had gotten asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, showed me a reflection of what could have been; what could I have been like if I chased my dream to become an author instead of my dream of becoming a psychiatrist, what could I have been like if I studied the arts instead of the sciences, what could I have been like if I never had the looming weight of reality on my shoulders, weighing on every decision I made since middle school.
Growing up in a desi family, I had a laundry list of expectations. being the eldest daughter meant that I had to set an example, not just for my younger siblings, but also my numerous younger cousins. My parents, bless them, were on board with whatever we wanted to do when we were older; they strongly believed in pushing us to achieve our dreams (not what they had personally dreamt of us doing). But they were also realists — in an increasingly money-centered world, they encouraged us to choose jobs that would let us live a stable, yet happy life.
“I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
— Sylvia Plath
Me too Sylvia, me fucking too.
my ‘fig tree’
I still think about the day my sister told me, and I quote, “I think you would have been much more happier if you were working towards studying Literature at university” at the dinner table. You can imagine the uproar of horror the rest of the people at that table had when I silently agreed with her.
Becoming a doctor has always been the first thing I thought of whenever someone would ask me what I wanted to become when I grew up. I even show them pictures; pictures of me wearing my father’s stethoscope round the house, listening to the heartbeats of whoever was closest to me.
But, there was also a part of me that longed to write the next best classic novel.
I remember waiting ardently in the queue at my primary school’s tuck shop, eyes sparkling at the array of fresh notebooks on sale. I remember writing at least half a story by hand, then immediately losing that very same notebook. I remember the immense grief I felt. I remember crying over lost work.
I still remember the plot of the story. It was childish, nonetheless, but I was proud of it. I remember a group of girls crowding my desk at breaktime, begging to read the next installment of that little novel. Whether it was genuine or not, I loved the rush I felt when they would gape in awe at my words or smile and say that they enjoyed it. That is what most kids that age love anyway: praise.
And for a moment I thought I could make it as an author. I’d publish this big book series and earn millions.
I remember the rage that had settled into my bones the day my father told me to be realistic.1
fuck “being realistic”
That was what echoed in my mind that day.
And it is those same words that rest in my bones today, those same words that twist and twirl into my consciousness whenever I’d see another fig tree analogy post with the caption “I wish I could do it all”.
Not because I want you all to be realistic.
But because I want to know what’s stopping you. What’s stopping you from taking that ballet class? What’s stopping you from drafting a novel on a word document? What’s stopping you from self-publishing that said novel? What’s stopping you from making time for the major art idea you have in mind? What’s stopping you from creating that blog? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
So fuck being realistic.
Enough of sitting under that goddamn fig tree, starving because you have to choose one. No one said that you couldn’t choose them all and make time for every single one of them.
I applied to Med-school a couple of months ago, now, whether I can reach that fig or not, it doesn’t matter. As long as I make time for the each and every one of those figs in the basket I hold.
Make time to nurture your figs. Don’t wait for them to wrinkle and go black, because they are all you’ve got.
p.s. i was actually going to put in actual essay titles as options but there was a character count …
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to be fair to him, I was NOT doing well in English and English was not even my first language back then, but look at me now!
literature had always and would always been the fig that left rotten, not voluntarily but by the pressure of the world :/ my one ambition used to be a writer too
Sylvia Plath taught me to try my hand at EVERYTHING. Its better to have tried then lived with the regret of knowing what could have been, thats why i started writing on this platform to have a digital copy of my thoughts. Even if my aspirations have nothing to do with one another i think its important to try and see what “sticks”