An End and A Beginning

"How dare they try and control me?" she hissed, the words a seething whisper as she stormed out, the car door slamming shut with a violent shudder that echoed her fury. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel, a raw knot of indignation tightening in her chest.

Six years. Six relentless years she'd spent clawing her way to the top of a consultancy in a cutthroat industry, forging a reputation as the firm's sharpest mind. It had come with a price, though. The chronic ache in her temples had become a constant companion, a stark reminder of countless sleepless nights and missed holidays. She was teetering on the edge, a nervous breakdown a looming threat, and the long-overdue break was her desperate lifeline. Even her notoriously demanding firm had reluctantly conceded to her request, not wanting to totally lose what they would term an ‘asset’.

Growing up as a girl in a conservative family, every step had been a battle. She'd fought to study beyond high school, to pursue engineering, to not getting married to a groom of parents’ choice, to leave the confines of home for an unknown city and a career. Each time, her parents had eventually relented – perhaps weary of her relentless arguments, or maybe, just maybe, a secret pride in her ambition had swayed them. She had believed, foolishly perhaps, that she'd finally earned their acceptance.

So, when she'd packed her bags from the sprawling city and returned to her small hometown, she'd carried a quiet hope. The first few days had been a balm. Her mother and younger sibling had greeted her with unbridled joy, applauding her decision to rest. Her father, however, had merely sneered, "What stress? What burnout?" The dismissive tone had stung, but she'd let it pass, desperate to avoid a confrontation.

By the fifth day, the air grew thick with familiar squabbles – the usual interrogations about her eating habits, her lack of "proper" rest. A week in, the skirmishes threatened to erupt into full-blown war.

"Why aren't you marrying?" Her mother's voice, laced with impatience, pierced the fragile peace. Her father joined the offensive. "Is there someone?”

“Why do you wear these kinds of clothes?” “Why don't you just relax instead of going out on late nights!"

"I am not a kid!" she retorted, her voice rising. "Treat me like a grown-up. Do you treat your son the same way?"

"Everyone your age is already married," her mother countered, as if stating an irrefutable law of nature.

"We are speaking for your own good!" her father insisted, his tone condescending.

"I know what's good for me, Papa. Let me be."

His next words struck like a poisoned dart. "If you knew what's good, would you have needed this break from work? Nor would you be complaining of mental health issues!”

She froze, a sudden, horrifying clarity washing over her. The battle wasn't just about marriage or clothes; it was about her choices, her independence, her very sanity. 

A volcanic rage erupted, and for several minutes, the house was filled with a cacophony of raised voices and raw emotion, no one truly hearing the other. The suffocating weight of it all, the fear of crumbling and appearing vulnerable, pushed her to the brink. She had to escape.

"Where are you going?" Her mother's question followed her as she stepped out of the house, but she offered no reply, only the deafening slam of the door.

She drove aimlessly, the familiar streets of the small town blurring past. Only when the frantic pounding in her chest began to subside did she realize these outbursts weren't new. They had been a recurring nightmare since she'd first dared to defy her parents' wish for a "Sanskari" life and an early marriage.

She pulled the car over by the lake on the outskirts of town, stepping out into the fading light. She found a bench on the bund and watched in silence as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and red. As the last rays stretched across the water, they seemed to cast an internal light too, illuminating a truth she'd always skirted.

A small, wry smile touched her lips. "I know I'm not wrong, and yet I am," she whispered to the twilight. Her agitation in these fights stemmed from a deep-seated desire to be accepted by her parents exactly as she was. The corollary, she now understood, was equally true: she struggled just as fiercely to accept them as they were – with their fears, their ingrained conservatism, their need to conform to the society they lived in. Was fault-finding the most valued pastime in most households, she wondered, a bitter legacy passed down through generations?

The road ahead wouldn't be easy, but this simple, profound realization solidified her resolve. As she drove back, 'Break the Cycle' played softly on the FM, as if the universe itself had finally heard her silent plea.

Rebirth Day

It is her birthday today. She hates it. Not because she doesn’t like to celebrate, but because of the ghosts of memories associated with it from another time.

She was twelve, brimming with an almost unbearable excitement. Today, she’d finally shed the last remnants of childhood, leaving behind the silly toys and pig tails to become a real grown-up – at least in her mind. For weeks, the house had buzzed with secret whispers and hushed plans, every deliberation over cake flavors and party games a promise of the special day to come.

Special it was, but for all the wrong reasons. Her favorite Ajji – Dad’s mother, the softest lap and kindest smile – chose that very day to die. Her father, who doted on his mother with a devotion that bordered on worship, was so utterly shattered he didn't even see her, let alone wish her. Mom, aunts, her brother – everyone offered sorrowful murmurs about her birthday becoming sad, promising a party on 'another day.'

She cried. Not just because her balloons lay deflated and her cake uncut. A sharp, ugly shard of hatred pierced through her for her beloved Ajji, for choosing this day. And that feeling, like a stubborn stain, never faded. Year after year, her father's birthday wish was an afterthought, delivered through a fog of his own maudlin grief for his dead mother.

It has been ten more summers now, each one a heavy weight marking the somber anniversary. Her real birthday remained shrouded in an inescapable gloom. But she couldn't endure it anymore. She wanted it all to change.

Desperate, she called her best friend's sympathetic mother. She, a formidable bureaucrat, was her godmother; someone she looked up to for encouragement, support, and motivation.  The second mother, without hesitation, offered to help. "We'll change it, officially," the woman had said, her voice firm and reassuring. No more trauma, no more drama on her special day. A crazy, freeing thought even surfaced: perhaps she wouldn't feel so bitter about her Ajji anymore.

But then, the thought of her father solidified, unyielding. No, she wouldn't forgive him. The acidic taste of bile rose in her throat, a familiar, burning reminder that some wounds, no matter how much you try to redefine them, refuse to heal.

Daddy’s Day Out!

Mom’s day out too, but she’s more a spectator, than the one causing incidents and drama!

Every time Kumi  (my younger sister, for the unverified) is in India, she loves to take parents out for coffee, snacks, a major meal (usually associated with her shopping trips). She generally bristles that I don’t take initiative and make efforts to organise that (which is also a fact). I have my own reason (call it an excuse if you will) too for my reluctance.

Usually, my dad is very critical of every restaurant we go to eat at. I do not remember if he has approved of the food at any place we have dined at, in the last several years!  He invariably slips into a distant past and reminisces memories of having dined at some quaint eatery - those tastes still linger both on his taste buds and his memories. That both amuses and irks me. Also, I am not a foodie - if the food is edible, I will eat, and be done with. I rarely remember the signature dishes of various exclusive restaurants that I might’ve visited with different people. 

But, dad loves to be indulged, especially by his daughter. He loves his coffee with a blueberry muffin, from Costa (but, sadly there are not many Costa outlets). And,  rava idli from Shiv Sagar off Commercial Street. But, he also prefers to explore newer places beyond these. This time, since she was in town for a shorter duration and had many other engagements to deal with, she suggested we step out for breakfast. I readily agreed. And, for a change, looked out for a restaurant nearby and made reservations too, using google and Swiggy. She loves taking them out, each time she’s in town several times.   I reserved a table at the Grand Mercure Bangalore. Chose it since it was closer home, and easier to reach in morning traffic. 

Parents didn’t like the food one bit (not surprised at all; nothing new). Nor did we siblings. However, we were made to remember Shakespeare. It was King Lear style cuisine.  The place loves salt, and wants us all to appreciate it. So, we had salt in various flavours - rava dosa, masala dosa, idli, Wada, and sambar. The only dish not made of salt was omelette! May be they ran out of the main ingredient by then and had to substitute it with eggs! 

The service though was impeccable. They were suitably apologetic, and offered to replace dishes and make them afresh, but the main ingredient levels stayed the same. It appears they had a secret listening device and learnt my sis was having sudden Issues with a dip in her blood pressure. Voila! Now, after breakfast, her weeklong headaches have vanished!

Now, the BP apparatus at home is finding it difficult to record the readings of the rest of us though!

Tailpiece. 

Dad as always had a sneak peek at the breakfast bill. He berated us for wasting away good money on such terrible fare. “For a fraction of this money we could have had great food at home itself. And, the rest of the money could have been donated to people who need. But, you guys don’t have such generous streak in you.  You’d rather waste precious rupees at such places…”, on and on his rant went! 

By the time my sister visits India again, he would promptly forget all this and be ready for another outing. “Hmm! Where are we going this time?” And yet another rant, post food! 

Love Is A Four Letter Word

It was raining in the afternoon. The pitter-patter on one of the windows made me notice. I stepped out of my office cabin into the balcony, with a piping hot cup of tea in my hand, wanting to access internet and watch it rain. The signal is feeble inside the office, plus internet on PC for personal purposes cannot be used, thanks to the sensitive work. I read the WhatsApp messages, and one message in our school group by Sheela, my friend and classmate in high school stood out. It stirred emotions and nostalgia and I thought I should jot my thoughts down and share. 

I had shared the story I wrote to celebrate Father’s Day, in the group. Having read it, Savitha sent a comment. I am pasting it here verbatim. 

“Loved this article, Sudhir! Made me think - do kids still get asked 'who do you love more, mom or dad?' 

Back in my 70s Gen X days, no one asked, and honestly, I wouldn't have known how to answer. Love wasn't something you put into words - it was like a forbidden word :(

 Looking back, it's such a tough question to ask kids - each child loves their parents in their own way, for their own reasons. Every kid's bond with mom and dad is unique. Plus, as time goes by, those reasons might change, and what matters most at one age might shift as they grow.”

One couldn’t express so many things so succinctly and in so few words as Savitha had done (I am verbose, and garrulous). Yet, I wanted to go behind those thoughts and explore the ‘Why?’ Hence, this write-up.  (It’s not easy anymore for me to type on the phone - failing eyesight makes it harder to notice the typos. As I still await for my new large screen desktop to be delivered, I have little choice but type on the phone regardless of errors). 

Back in our childhood days, we didn’t clearly know the concept of love. None around us said, ‘I love you’ to each other. Be it parents, siblings, friends. There weren’t any lovers to be seen around - except on the big screen and they did express their love. So, love was a western construct yet. People sneered at the word love, and it extended to people who fell in love. ‘Agency’ was not a word that any understood, because almost none exercised it. 

I don’t think back then husband and wife expressed their love in words. Any physical proximity even between wedded couples was hardly ever noticed. Children never assumed or imagined that their parents could love each other and grew up with the notion that these relations were essentially unromantic. 

It was not like love didn’t exist. It was construed (or painted) more as a responsibility. Of parents towards children, and vice versa. Of spouses towards one another. Love was affection, care, and concern. But love wasn’t exactly said or treated as love. Anything but love. Parents strived hard to send their children to best schools, educate them, and ensure their needs were fulfilled, and believed that was love. Children learnt to respect their parents and thought (or, were rather taught) that was integral to love. Love took the meanings of responsibility, respect, reverence, concern and care. 

Love was a ‘four-letter word’. Something dirty, something not to be said aloud. Invariably, even as kids back then, we thought it indicated something between a man and a woman and it wasn’t ‘clean’. This was when we had no knowledge of sex. I remember an instance from my Class 8 days. A classmate of mine, in the middle of English class, asked me, ‘Do you love anyone?’ I took offence and complained to the teacher. The teacher said, “What is there in it? You tell him you love your mother!” I don’t know if I was convinced, but the boys in the class were all laughing and the classmate had broken into loud sobs, because suddenly he was an exposed villain who said ‘love’! 

The teacher - the late Mrs NV Anasuya - possibly understood how love was vilified. She, a Brahmin, had committed the crime of loving a non-caste person and marrying him. She had lost contact for long with her family thanks to her ‘folly’. Since my aunt was a teacher in the same school and I had free access to the lady teachers’ staff room, I also became privy to some of the stories and gossips over the years, but I prefer to keep them to myself. What I can definitely share is this: while Mrs NVA was liked and respected, her husband was not. Their love was not acceptable either. 

I also remember back then loving oneself too wasn’t liked. A classmate of mine (during my post-grad days) was ridiculed for filling the column, ‘I love….’, with the answe, ‘myself’ in someone’s autograph book (yeah, it was still a rage in the 90s; today’s generation may smirk at such ideas). ‘How could she write she loves herself? Such an egoist!’

Love today though finds more visible expression. Between parents and children, between lovers, between friends and siblings. But, one may also wonder if love has become shallow with time, as we may associate love with the benefits it might bring. And, self-love as a concept has gained much ground. 

And, coming to the question if we (or children) still are asked who they love more, yes it still prevalent. And it does take many hues too. Which friend, which colleague, which movie/sport/music star, and so on! We have always lived in a world of comparison - especially Indians. Our parents compared us to our classmates, cousins, and others. “Look at them…” was a refrain that was often heard (and is still heard in almost all homes). Our performances are compared, salaries are weighted, looks are put to test, and so on. We are still a long way from not asking such questions. 

Also, love changes with time. The intensity changes, the expression too changes. Just like how we change. And, with all that, expectations change. 

Yet, some loves continue to be stigmatised. Inter-religious, inter-racial, to begin with. Inter-caste is still not accepted so easily. Not an older woman in company of a younger man. Khap panchayats and ‘honour killing’ are common and find considerable support too. Same sex is stigmatised too. These aren’t loves that one voices out loudly. One dirtier than the other in the eyes of people we live with. Even when we commit ourselves to any one such love, we suffer from guilt - even when we know there’s nothing wrong or unnatural or sinful about it. 

Love by itself is beautiful, pure, blissful. But, the way we and the world see it makes it difficult, ugly, and dirty. 

And, thank you, Savitha, for making my brain cells think beyond weaving mundane stories. This post is for you!