On February 10, 1994, the adults around me were visibly nervous. I wasn't. I walked into the Chief Minister's meeting room at the Chennai Secretariat wearing a white full-sleeved shirt tucked neatly into green shorts.
I was in seventh standard.
My parents and elder brother were with me. The Chief Secretary of Tamil Nadu was there, along with a couple of other officials. I had not been coached on what to say. The only message from my family was to be very respectful, watch my manners, and remember where I was.
My father did not need the reminder. His nervousness was easy to see.
Jayalalithaa was standing near her desk when we entered, wearing the golden-yellow protective vest I had seen her wear in public. She smiled. We shook hands, took a group photograph, and then moved to the table. I remember none of the menace the adults around me seemed to feel. I remember a woman smiling at me and inviting me to sit.
The chair I took was directly opposite hers.
At twelve, in green shorts, I sat across from Tamil Nadu’s Chief Minister and spoke without fear. Seventeen years later, in jeans and a hoodie, I walked into a Citi interview I didn’t have. Both moments changed my life. This essay is about the version of ourselves that acts before fear, status and protocol have time to tell us why we shouldn’t.
She spoke to me in English. I spoke back. No hesitation. No searching for the safest answer. No awareness that I was supposed to be intimidated. Within a few minutes, everybody else in the room seemed to disappear.
My parents were silent. My brother was silent. Even the Chief Secretary mostly watched. It became a conversation between her and me.
Then she looked across the table and asked, "So what do you want from me?"
