Mitthu — Gunika Gupta
I had a pretty decent childhood. Nothing too dramatic, no soaring violin music or dramatic trauma montages. Just a quiet kind of happiness I can’t always remember clearly, except for a few core memories—The kind that shaped who I am, like soft hands pressing clay.
One of them is about a name. A nickname actually.
My family calls me Mitthu, after the hindi word for parrot. It stuck because I was always talking—always. I’d mimic things I heard on TV, copy conversations I wasn’t supposed to be a part of, and just repeat words with the energy of a five-year-old TED talk speaker. I didn’t really think about what I was saying—I just heard, saw, did. Kinda like a copycat, the kind that came with sparkly light up shoes and no volume control.
By the time I hit first grade, that parrot-like chatter turned into something new: a love for public speaking. I couldn’t tell you exactly what I said on stage back then. I just remember the feeling—the way the room quieted when I spoke. The way grown-ups listened. Like I was someone worth listening to.
My mum noticed. She signed me up for every school competition she came to know of. My school was full of them really—topics like “My birthday”, “our Prime Minister.” and “Save Water” became my little scripts. She’d write the speeches, I’d memorize them, and off I’d go. Again: see, hear, learn, do. No thought, just mimicry.
Then one day, our teacher announced a new contest—specifically, a dress up competition. The participants had to dress up like their favorite “superhero” and talk about them. Weird now that I think about it.
That evening I came home with the prompt scribbled in my school diary. My mom looked up from the dinner table and asked, “So? What superhero do you want to be?”
I had a choice this time. No script waiting for me. Just a blank page and a question.
I told her I wanted to talk about my dad.
At school, everyone else talked about Spider-Man, Wonder Woman, or some new Marvel character I hadn’t even heard of. Me? I walked up on stage and talked about how my dad was my superhero—no cape, no powers, just late nights, quiet sacrifices, and the kind of love that shows up even when it’s tired.
It was the first time I felt nervous doing something I’d always loved. Not because of the stage, but because I wasn’t parroting anymore. I wasn’t Mitthu. I was Gunika.
That moment cracked something open in me. I realized that speaking wasn’t just about being heard—it was about choosing what to say. And more than that, it was about claiming the freedom to be myself, not someone else’s echo.
Now, I still speak. I write my own speeches. I get nervous sometimes, sure. I’m older, quieter, more introverted than I used to be. But I still carry that moment—the little girl with something to say and the guts to say it—as a reminder.
That I am not just a voice.
I am the one who chooses what it says.
Gunika is a high school student passionate about music, design, storytelling, and the quiet power of metaphor. She believes in the beauty of voices, both loud and soft, and the stories they carry. When She's not writing, she's either busy inhaling chai or studying for various exams that come with being an Indian student.