Writing paragraphs about ``What I want to be when I grow up'' was very much a part of our school curriculum. The copies kept safely as momentos of my waywardness reveal that I could not make up my mind. The first one was written when I could not even spell correctly. ``Pylott'', soaring high in the blue sky and protecting the country from the enemies with my dare devilry in my fighter plane. The next essay, written barely six months later, saw me changing course and going for a career that would brook no competition. I wanted to be an ice-creamvendor. I can't say with confidence but I have a feeling that the decision had much to do with my being denied the coveted ice-cream cone. According to my mother, I was developing a sweet tooth which could prove hazardous for my health. That made me waver and gave new direction to my thoughts.

I imagined myself donning a white coat and becoming a doctor. Stethoscopes hanging round my neck, doing the rounds of the wards. The life of dedication and devotion to the cause of national health would certainly reap a rich harvest in the form of awards. It would call for a mega treat in one of the best hotels. That put me on a different track. What could be more satisfying than feeding the hungry guests? A grateful smile from a gastronomically satisfied guest was a reward in itself. With a few strokes of the pen and an easy flight of imagination, I became the floor manager of a posh hotel.A summer holiday in rustic surroundings told me that the life of a farmer was also not very bad. Take your plough to the fieldsearly in the morning, waking up with the sun; just imagine the sweet chirping of the birds instead of the mechanical alarm clock. Having your curd and whey under the big neem tree on the bank of the stream -- a picnic everyday. The realisation that it's not always a pleasure to be woken up by the noisy birds withered up the budding farmer.

I thought I could have a field day as a cricketer. The glamour and hero worship that came along with the money was too great to be ignored. The fanfare attached to it made me enroll for the school team. I was out as soon as I was in. I was flatfooted.

Fickle-minded as I was proving to be, I was shaken out of my inertia when I realised I would be soon out of school. I looked around me and discovered certain professions to which I had not even given a thought. As I was not politically correct at any time of the day, I could not become a journalist. Nor could I become a manager, for a person who could not manage her own life could hardly manage a team ofsubordinates.

Having fallen from the soaring heights of fantasy, I landed firmly on my feet. I was poised on the brink of the dumps of depression. The realisation that it was an error of destiny did nothing to mitigate my misery. I felt that all my endeavours to prove my mettle would prove fruitless. My ambitions were curtailed in my mother's womb. I could have never flown, for I was born wingless. I was born a daughter to do as directed and clear the cinders.

The innumerable cards sent to me on the Teacher's Day by my students made me realise that I had found my true vocation and that I was playing a vital role in building the future of my country. It made me fly to cloud nine -- a wingless flight of happiness and satisfaction -- without any reservations.