Nice and empty

Its been almost six months since I moved to Seattle. A lot has happened since then. I have changed I believe in more ways than one. Living on your own makes you feel more confident and self-sufficient than ever. The fact that you're answerable to no one but yourself gives you a strange sense of power, weightless freedom and is equally nerve-wrecking at the same time. You feel like Icarus. You have wings that make you soar, but if you fly too close to the sun and singe your feathers, you have no one else to blame. You are the sole reason for your success. You are the only reason for your failure. Your world revolves around you, and only you. Its a free, independant, selfish, shackle-free life. A life you've always dreamt of having. Only once you have it, it seems like a vast expanse of emptiness.

My day starts with a steaming cup of coffee, in my favourite porcelain mug. Nice and strong. I relish nothing more. I walk to campus. A leisurely stroll. No running. No stressing that I'll miss the bus at eight. The air feels refreshingly chilly. The smell of dewdrops. I catch a waft of the incessant drizzle. I have my favourite song playing on my iPod. I can't help but smile. I go to work. The day goes by in a haze. A flurry of activity. Mindless conversation with friends in class. Laughing at a perfectly innocent question from an unassuming undergrad who happens to think I'm the most knowledgeable person around. Scratching my head over a problem set for hours. Getting together with friends to solve them, and getting almost no work done as the focus was not on the ridiculously hard problems but how unbelievably awesome pretzels are! Amidst a cloud of smoke and smelly chemicals, the lab suddenly erupts into a bout of guffaws the moment Justin Bieber or Rebecca Black shows up on the playlist. Before you know it its  a couple of hours past sundown. People start heading back home, cribbing about how non-productive the day was, like all other days in the week. Some light hearted humour. Some serious frustration. I walk down the stairs onto the street. The same leisurely stroll back home. The same song running in a loop on my iPod. The same smile escaped me. Dinner was a mix of rice and chicken I made the night before, all this while catching an episode of my favourite TV show. A day well spent. Or so I would like to believe.

But here's what really happens. My day starts with a steaming cup of coffee, in my favourite porcelain mug. Nice and strong. I relish nothing more except that I would have loved to have it in an unflattering, horribly stained glass, on one of those old, wooden mess tables. I wouldnt mind having some mindless conversation about how someone's hair, and the angle at which they stand up, or the colour of their eyes, gave more than a fair hint as to whether the person had a lazy or a rather 'busy' night. I walk to campus. A leisurely stroll. No running. No stressing that I'll miss the bus at eight. The buildings on my side are still strangely unfamiliar. No comfort of the red bricks I leaned on once for support. The air feels refreshingly chilly. The smell of dewdrops. I catch a waft of the incessant drizzle. But the earth smells different. A strange, foreign, distant smell. Nothing that has a history. I have my favourite song playing on my iPod. Except that its in Hindi. A song I once sang on stage with a thousand familar voices cheering me from the dark auditorium. I can't help but smile. I go to work. The day goes by in a haze. A flurry of activity. Mindless conversation with friends in class. Except that I dont remember a word of it a minute later. Nothing that resonates with my sentiments. Nothing that makes me miss the conversation while I'm having it. Scratching my head over a problem set for hours.  Except that I didnt want to care about it as much as I have to do now. Getting together with friends to solve them, and getting almost no work done as the focus was not on the ridiculously hard problems but how unbelievably awesome pretzels are! Except that pretzels or peanut butter don't hit home. Its sexy anda and Mississippi mudpie that still make my heart ache and my mouth water. Amidst a cloud of smoke and smelly chemicals, the lab suddenly erupts into a bout of guffaws the moment Justin Bieber or Rebecca Black shows up on the playlist. Except that I can't bunk lab more often than I made it to it, and catch a movie in a rundown theater instead. Before you know it its a couple of hours past sundown. People start heading back home, cribbing about how non-productive the day was, like all other days in the week. Some light hearted humour. Some serious frustration. I walk down the stairs onto the street. The same leisurely stroll back home. The same song running in a loop on my iPod. The same smile escaped me except that I want to sing it out loud. Dinner was a mix of rice and chicken I made the night before, all this while catching an episode of my favourite TV show. Except there is no conversation. Only a few printed words on skype. No waiting for anyone. No making a ruckus while eating. No walks down silent alleys to follow. A day well spent. Nice and empty.

My head hurts...

"I have a math exam today. But nobody seems to care. I stayed up all night trying to cram integral calculus. But still no one seems to care. Mother didn't even bother to get me my cup of morning coffee. She knows how groggy and cranky I am without it. Yes. I can make coffee on my own! Thank you! But still. Where's mother? She's not even kept my uniform on my bed. I love it when she does that. The shirt smells of mild detergent and feels so crisp on my shoulders. And the note she leaves me on top of it saying 'have a good day son!'. I love my mother. She loves me too right?  If she does, why is she sleeping till now?! Mother!!!! I must go and wake her up. Mother!! My voice is sore with all the screaming.. Is she all right? I need to go and check on her now. Right now. My head hurts.. Mother!!!"

"I like to write poems. Did you know that I always topped literature class in school? Ya. I was good. People always told me I'll be a great poet one day. Some even called me "the Modern day Eliot". They ran a huge article in the Daily after reading some of my poems published in the school magazine. The State even gave me a scholarship to go to college and pursue literature. But I don't know why, I didn't like college too much. The kids were mean. They used to call me 'The Thinker' and laugh behind my back. I didn't care for them. I hated Shakespeare and they told me that I'll lose my scholarship and my place in college if I don't get good grades in Elizabethan Literature Appreciation. I didn't like the way they talked to me. I don't like being told what to do. So I dropped out. I can still write wonderful poetry without a college degree. I tried writing one today. Will you hear it? It's about the rain. Its called "Splash". Its wonderful. I just have to run down the corridor and get my fat notebook of poems. It'll just take a minute. Can I go? Please.. Please!! My head's hurting again...Why don't you let me go?!!

"I feel like a queen today. I spent a long time braiding my hair in the morning. The Prince is coming to see me! I have a strange feeling of uneasiness at the bottom of my stomach. This is what they mean by 'butterflies' I guess. The slightest mention of anything is making me blush. Roses, squirrels, the banquet in the evening. I'm being so silly. Almost like a school girl. But I've never been in love before. Its such a wonderful feeling. When I was strolling in the garden with my girls last evening, I couldn't stop humming. The world looked so much prettier all of a sudden. The trees in the garden , with their age old gnarled branches, the squirrels playing hide and seek, the canaries chirping animatedly to each other. Everything felt perfect. Mother never allows me to wear make up. So I secretly went to her room last night and stole some of her scarlet lip colour when she was sleeping. Shhh.. Don't tell anyone! But you know, some strange men came into my room today, wearing white. They took away all my hidden makeup. They said I look like a 'queen' wearing them. No. The ugly sort. The male sort. I cried. I screamed. I threw a fit. But no one listened to me. They locked me in the room and didn't let me out. I have to go meet my Prince. Please! I want to see my Prince! Now! My head hurts..."

"I don't like the look of that guy across the table. I think he doesn't like me too much. He keeps following me everywhere I go. He always has that sick smile on his face when he looks at me. I'm scared. I think he wants to kill me. I can't sleep at night anymore. I tried to tell a few about him, but they just laughed. They think I'm crazy. But I know I'm not. He wants to kill me. Sometimes I have this urge to grab that kitchen knife and bludgeon him till he can't look at me and smile that sick smile of his no more. I even tried that once you know. But then they put me in this jacket and tied my hands to the back like I was some animal. I fought. I screamed for help. But no one paid any attention. They didn't give me food for two days till I stopped screaming. I want to run away from this place. I want to go back to Mother. They say she's become a star. I stare at the sky for hours trying to find out which one of those million twinkling lights is my mother. Whenever I'm in my room I keep praying. Jesus will protect me won't he? I managed to steal a fork from the table the other day. I keep it under my pillow before I go to sleep each night. What if that man comes and tries to smother me in my sleep?!! Ughh.. My head hurts.."

A tale of two cities..

"A relatively large and permanent settlement" is how Wikipedia chooses to define a city. And a definition couldn't have been more incomplete. The rational mind will of course take offense to a statement like that. "Are you nuts? How else would one possibly define a city?" Well I don't know. But it's surely a lot more than a well organized cluster of high-rises and criss-crossing flyovers. It shapes the person you are and you hardly ever realize it.

I was born in Calcutta ( yes it hadn't been renamed then ) and for a significant amount of time the city meant  nothing more to me than my house, my school and a bunch of other addresses which came in handy during letter-writing assignments. A typical day started at six in the morning and somehow making it to the bus stop by six twenty, with granny limping behind me with the lunch box, shoelaces running haywire, socks in hand and bag open with text books spilling out. Once in the bus, no time was spent before we grouped ourselves for a relentless, ruthless game of 'Stone, Paper, Scissors'. Heated discussions on who was in form, and who emerged as the undisputed champion for the third day in a row, went on well past the morning assembly. The rest of the day was majorly drowned in sleep. Be it History or Physics, I failed to notice any difference in the basic treatment of both the subjects and often wondered why our teachers were not professional lullaby singers and were languishing in some private school, frustrated and underpaid. Lunch breaks were more of a relief though and all that sleep surprisingly made one hungry. Before I barely managed to open my lunch box, the food just seemed to disappear amidst a flurry of foreign hands, making it almost impossible to answer Granny back home, whether the curry had less salt or not. School was mostly followed by a string of more soporific tuition classes, the ones I seemed to detest going to initially. I loved to sleep in the afternoon you see. But things changed once I started going to them on my own.When I was fifteen, Ma thought I had grown up enough to not get lost in the city, be able to read bus numbers correctly, and not pay the conductor extra before getting off. That's when I first got to explore the city and discovered how beautiful Calcutta really is. Tuitions ceased to be centres of study and ended up being non-virtual versions of present day social networking sites. Classes were always followed by an hour of random strolling on the streets, couples making excuses and leaving, eating croissants and pastries at Flurys', digging into chicken tikka rolls at Badshah and catching that random evening show at Priya. It was a carefree life I led back then, where all I had to worry about was to get back home in time so that Dad will spare me a volley of inconvenient questions and I could make it to the bus stop at six the next morning. The most stressful times were during term tests. They seemed to be life changing then and I always managed to be under-prepared for every exam no matter how much effort I put in before. To see your own brother emerging from the next room at dinner with not even the faintest sign of worry, exuding confidence about next day's paper, didn't exactly help. Ma was mostly baffled by the difference in our levels of preparation and resulting confidence. She kept telling me, "Can't you learn anything from your brother?" To be honest I really tried. But he seemed to be born with that Midas touch. He was good at whatever he tried his hands at. He aced exams, topped classes, sang well, played the guitar, won essay and table tennis competitions with equal ease. You try living upto that man! I did my bits in school too, but they always paled in comparison, and being taught by the same teachers and judged by the same set of parents and relatives wasn't particularly easy. So to say that my self-confidence was on the loftier side would be wrong. I had days of unmitigated self-doubt, when I couldn't see myself going anywhere and dreaded the prospect of my remaining the underachiever in the family. All I did at times like these, was to open the window and feel the soft spatter of rain on my face. It made me forget everything. The houses in the distance were just a haze. The air was filled with the muffled din of rain lashing against the asphalt. It lulled me to sleep.

I was happy.

Things changed when I moved to Delhi for college. Stephen's gave me a sense of pride and all that apprehension that once clouded my mind day and night seemed like a distant memory. I turned a new leaf. I distinctly remember the first day I spent in Residence. Ma had left for home a couple of hours before and I suddenly realized that I wouldn't see her for at least three months. My first time staying away from home and for so long. All on my own. No one knew me and I knew no one. I bolted myself in my room and tears rolled down my cheeks. I had never felt so abandoned and lonely in my life. I wanted to be left alone then. Just then there was a knock. I opened the door to an unfamilar face, six-foot tall and a booming voice. He asked me for my 'Intro' and then pointed to a pile of tin trunks, a mattress, pillows and a couple of huge bags which could hold nothing but stones, I thought. I was expected to carry his luggage to his room. A first year's initiation into the fold. I wiped my face and walked out. Walked out into the world and never looked back.

The next six years went by in a blur. All those countless hours I spent at Barista, ordering a single Cappuccino to escape ragging, tiptoeing back into my room after dinner, only to switch off the light and sit on my bed in the darkness silently, to give wandering seniors in the corridor the impression that I was asleep and not available for 'entertainment'; all those walks around the Vice Chancellor's lawns animatedly discussing a Scorsese movie; all those trips to Kamla Nagar to hog on momos, skipping inedible Saturday dinners in the mess; conversations with all those special people over 'Maggi' and a cup of 'badi chai' in the cafeteria; all those impossible Rahman songs we tried and messed up royally on stage; all those victories; all those heartbreaks; all those choices; all those surprises and all those unexpected disappointments. They all seem like a mashed up, hazy continuum to me now. But I was settled.

I was happy.

And just when I thought I could live like this for the rest of my life, snuggled up in my comfort zone, it was time for me to move again. And this time away from everything I ever knew. Amidst a myriad of freckled faces I'll keep looking for the ones I knew and grew to love, the words that kept me sane, the laughter that reassured me and made me feel lucky. I would have to get accustomed to sorting my problems out on my own. People might not have the time and patience to hear me complain, a lot of which I had almost taken for granted till now. A part of me says life is unfair. The other reminds me that it was a choice I made. I was born in Calcutta. I was reborn in Delhi. And what Seattle will be like, only time will tell. But I hope to finally grow up there.

Just Another Someone..

It's strange how you always realize how much you love someone, only when they're not there anymore. It's not just strange. It's unfair. You always feel that you could have made so many more memories with them, spent every minute of your waking hours with them. But it's almost always too late, and that nagging feeling keeps nibbling your inside.

I lost my Granny last week. I knew I loved her, but I wasn't sure how much until last week. She was ninety five. And she was technically not even my own grandmother. Everyone would say, "Well, it's good she didn't have to suffer any longer." Those would have been my words of comfort for someone I didn't know. But when it's someone you do, it's a whole lot different. Your brain switches off and all you feel is your bleeding  heart.

When my aunt sent me a text telling me about her deteriorating conditions, I was strong. I knew I had to be strong for my cousin. She passed away next morning. I called my cousin. I could only hear broken words on the other side of the line. I told her to be strong and that I'd be there for her through it all. I paid them a visit next morning. I was rehearsing my lines in my head. What could I possibly say to her in times like this? I decided on some words that seemed pretty reassuring then. But when I met her, it all got muddled. She was smiling and joking like nothing happened. She offered me tea. And suddenly I felt weak. All that strength had just slipped through a treacherous pore inside. I went to Granny's room. The sheets were unruffled. It was like she had gone on vacation. Her crutch was lying untouched in the corner, the one that resembled a Queen's sceptre, I had jokingly told her once. Her favourite pink striped night dress was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Everything in the room looked exactly the same except for that empty void on the side of the bed, where she used to sit amidst a mound of disarrayed blankets, her bent broken back propped up by pillows, and arms outstretched waiting to feel my hand, her blind eye twinkling. Her withered palm felt like wrinkled parchment, so delicate that it might crumble to dust at the slightest touch. I could not enter her room. I stood at the door for a while, probably waiting to catch that familiar dragging sound of her flip-flops from the balcony. But there was nothing.

This was how empty I felt only a week back. I thought life would come to a stand still after this. But I was wrong. The daily monotone of life sucked me in even before I could resist. And before long I found myself laughing at the same jokes, stressing over late night labwork and making plans with friends over the weekends like nothing happened. Which makes me wonder. Do I not miss her? Has her throbbing void been filled already? In seven days? I think not. Maybe Life just walked ahead carrying me with Him, leaving that lonely  void behind. He has no time to wait. She was MY granny. I knew her. I loved her. But for Him, she was just another someone...

No wait.. I'm the judge!

"You know that guy we met the other day. God! He's so full of himself! All he ever talks about is Shakespeare! Imagine! And it does not stop there. He manages to traverse the entire breadth of English literature from early eighteenth century to contemporary works of fiction all in a matter of minutes! It's such a pain talking to him. He makes you feel like literature is the only thing in this world worth investing in. Apparently he also knows Russian and French! How pseudo!"

"Did you see the girl who came to the party last night wearing that canary yellow salwar suit? Man!! I almost died laughing! and did you notice the sandals she was wearing? Yuck! Must be off one of those road side haunts in Janpath. Ugly flat footed yellow sequined sandals! Who on earth would buy that? She would! It seemed like Madame sunflower had walked in to illuminate our dreary, dark lives! And all that flab hanging around the waist in tyres?! I know. Someone should introduce her to the concept of a gym or at least a diet! God knows who even invited her to a high end party like that! I would rather be dead, than be seen with her! What a Behenji!"

"You know Pavan? From class! Guess what happened yesterday. We had planned on going pubbing on saturday night. And guess who joined us there. Mr. Pavan Kumar himself. And you know what? He wouldn't have a drink! How ridiculous! Why did he have to come to a pub if he wouldn't drink? Its so stupid! Was he planning on discussing our physics assignment there? I was disgusted. He kept telling me not to drink cos its bad for health or some shit like that. Like I was missing my dad there! God! Then he started his whole discourse on smoke, and dope and what's right and what's wrong. Who gives him the license to tell me what I can do and what I can't. If he wanted to remain in loser's hell all his life, I don't have to go down with him just cos we were friends right?! I wanna be cool like the rest of them. I don't even know why we're friends in the first place! God! What a sissy!"

"You know Meghna. Yes. The one who thinks she's Miss Universe! Yesterday she was telling me stories about her and her boyfriend. God the things that they have done. I felt like puking. Who does that? and apparently she doesn't even like him that much any more, and has her eye on someone else in class. I bet she'll go sleep with him too soon. Has her parents taught her nothing? God! What a s**t!  And you can't even trust her with anything you know. The moment you go tell her something and tell her to keep it to herself, well that's her signal to go around telling everyone exactly that. Such an incorrigible blabbermouth! I hate her! Oh and by the way, don't tell this to anyone. It's our secret."

"You know Mrs. Khanna from opposite the street? Well don't even get me started on her now. She's so busy obsessing about herself, that she has no clue what her children are upto. Her son comes home late at night, day in and day out. I won't even be surprised if he comes home wasted. Her daughter frequently brings home this strange guy when she's out, probably busy getting a facial done in some fancy parlour. That household seems to have no discipline whatsoever. I tell my children to come back home before sundown. I call them up frequently in a day to know exactly what they're upto, and they never lie you know. Such sweethearts! I mean I gave up my job to raise them. They have seen their mother sacrifice. No wonder they love me and listen to me even now. They are both toppers in school you know! What has Mrs. Khanna ever done for her children? All day long she's busy with god knows what. Kitty parties, pedicures, driving lessons and workouts. That's all. She's so shallow! Such women don't deserve to be mothers I tell you. Exactly. That's the word. Incompetent!"

You know the one sitting in that corner with that plastic smile pasted on his face 24*7? He seems to have no friends whatsoever. Poor guy! Ya. You're right. He's the new judge.

Going 'Bong'kers!!

In Calcutta, I was Bengali. Delhi preferred to call me 'Bong'. Pretty derogatory, I thought at first. The only thing I was reminded of when I heard that term, was that recurrent, resonating sound made by Kung-fu Panda's titanic, wobbling jelly-belly when he took on his adversaries. I hated it. Period. But man is a slave of habit, and before long I found myself mouthing that name with reference to me and my extended brethren with ease. Weird or what?!! It was much later, that I came across 'Bong' as a reference to a fascinating dope set-up, complete with half severed bottles, bubbling water, and lots of mind-boggling physics supporting it. I finally said to myself, 'Ha! It is cool after all!'. There ended my strife with the name. Adjusting with the rest wasn't so simple though.

My first nagging issue was my name. To fully comprehend my predicament, you need to understand the psyche of Bengali mothers in general. They love their sons/daughters to pieces. That's obvious. That often-stifling, all encompassing, singular love first manifests itself at the time of the baby's naming. They know their child is special. They're sure about it. So special that he, at no cost, can share someone else's desecrated name. If they do, it quite understandably, serves as a major source of maternal heartbreak. And boy that's bad! In the search of that elusive rare name for their oh-so-special child, they spend nights going through voluminous, dusty, weathered dictonaries. Weeks of no sleep, no food, and a countless unheard-of words later, they decide on the name. And it more than often turns out to be an archaic, redundant disaster!! not to mention more than half the planet can't ever pronounce it currently. The parents are thrilled by their achievement. They go about announcing the name of their new-born to their neighbours and distant relatives, oblivious to the disdain on their faces. Thus marks the beginning of an endless ordeal for the child. The child, who has to learn to wage war before he managed to master walking. "What's your name boy?"."I'm Oshontushto Gongopadhyay". "Osho what?!@#$". And the embarrassment has just begun.

My next existential dilemma . How Bong is really Bong? Am I being overtly Bong or have I fallen below the accepted levels of Bong-ness pre-decided by the self proclaimed torch bearers of my community? One section of my brothers and sisters can't speak any other language properly but Bangla. That's majorly because a large portion of them have studied in schools where the primary medium of instruction was Bengali. In their cases, its understandable, and if I may add, unfortunate. However, if you have had the good fortune of attending an English medium school throughout and still couldn't manage to speak the language properly, without that heavy Bongified accent, then all I have to say is, " Eeiu aar ay Disgress!!" ( which means 'you are a disgrace!!' in normal English ) A lot of you out there might feel that I'm being too hard on them. Yes I am, and I'll tell you why. According to me, English is one of the easiest languages to master, especially if you have attended an English medium school right from kindergarten. And in case you have given French or German a try, you'll know what I'm talking about. The reason why they still fumble and often shamelessly is that, they are primarily lazy and their heads are full of a pseudo superiority complex that Bengali is the best of them all. Bengali is beautiful. I totally agree. But to call it the best is slightly ridiculous. Every language has its own little nuances which make them different, and not better than the other. India alone has over 50 different languages listed in its constitution. So calling one of them 'the best' just displays one's ignorance. What mastering English needs is a little bit of effort, will and respect for the language. But no. They will continue to bask in the glory of the language they were born to speak in. They are happy living in their little Bengali coteries, refusing to learn what the world has to offer, laughing at all the 'Non-Bengalis' at how stupid and useless they are, unaware of the fact that the world mocks them even more for their blatant ignorance. I've seen it, and it saddens me.

"You don't talk like a Bong?!" I get that a lot. So I ask, "How do Bongs speak then? In Martian?" and here's what I get to hear. Bongs are essentially loud, and by loud, I mean it literally. In a hall full of people, if four Bongs get together at one corner, you can hear high-pitched echoing Bengali words float across the hall effortlessly, interspersed by thundering guffaws. Ya I know. You guys are Bong. Great! Thanks for making your presence felt!! If you happen to know them, and want to be involved in their conversation, well, its time for you to stop day dreaming. They are NOT going to switch their medium of conversation to include a lesser mortal like you. Never! Not in this life at least! So much for Bong social courtesies. And in case one of them is slightly more accommodating than the rest, he gets the dirts and is made to feel abnormal! I'll go for abnormal guy any day! Ya, you can sue me now!

This brings us to the second half of the Bengali population. The ultra modern, ubercool, anglicized lot who would prefer the British raj even after 60 odd years since independance . Ya. I'm talking about the kind, who have been born and raised in Calcutta since their diaper days but still can't speak a word of Bangla without that American twang to it. They are proud of not knowing their mother tongue. They are satisfied with reading Tagore translations. They think they were destined to live in America and curse the twist of fate that landed them in Calcutta of all places. They're probably even more American than the Americans themselves! One tight slap! They should be lined up in a row and shot through their screwed up heads! They serve no purpose and they deserve to die! I don't mind bringing Hitler back to life only to get rid of these weeds!

Which brings us to which category I belong to. I like to strike a balance. Lets say I'm the borderline species. And its tough being on the border, trust me. While my loud-mouthed, Bong-lish speaking, 'Bongs are the best' propagating, communist brethren think I'm much too pseudo to be called Bong, the rest accept me and thank their lucky stars cos I'm hardly a typical prototype hailing from the east who treats them like 'Non Bengalis', which apparently, again makes me a Pseudo bong. Well I'll tell you what I am. I'm Bengali and I'm normal. I have read more Bengali literature than a lot of 'true' Bengalis out there. I speak perfect Bangla. I love Rabindrasangeet and hear them more often than songs in other languages. I know the history of my birthplace in more detail than a lot of them who claim to know it better. I'm proud to hail from Bengal. But that is not my sole identity, and I refuse to make it my only one, leave alone wearing it on my sleeve. I'm accommodating, eager to learn and am open to perspectives.

I want to reach out to the world. If that makes me pseudo, then well, I don't really mind. At least that makes me normal. Thank God!

Hand in Glove...

...Should fit perfectly right? But why does that glove have to be someone else's? What if you find that glove ugly? What if it's little finger is too long? Does that mean you don't have the right to have a smaller little finger? Well apparently so. You need to stretch that little finger of yours, strain those joints almost to the point of snapping, till it fits that glove perfectly. Everyone's happy. You think you are too. But you just lost that hand you were born with.


Think about the number of times you made a choice according to what someone else wanted. You were in kindergarten and you made your first best friend. You come back home excitedly, throw your dirty shoes in the corner with laces still tied in a knot, and run to the kitchen in your soiled uniform to tell your mom everything about him. "You know mom. My friend D was standing on top of the jungle jim with hands held up in the air, for a good five minutes. Don't you think that's great? I wish I could be as brave as D". Mom says, "My god! This guy seems to be a daredevil. He's too rash for you. Don't mix with him too much from tomorrow okay? His parents have taught him nothing it seems." One act. A hundred judgements. You stop talking to him from the next day. What if Mom finds out? And anyway mom knows better. He isn't that cool after all. And just like that your tiny little brain invents multiple reasons to not like him, till the point you see no good in him at all. Just like that you forget the time when he gave you his apple when you dropped the lunchbox your mom packed for you, accidentally on the floor. And just like that you killed a part of you who wanted to be friends with a daredevil, and went in search for your mom's best friend.

When you entered Eleventh standard, you wanted to take up literature. Your engineer father tells you, " Son, humanities is for the brainless students. You're smart. You did so well in science so far. So why not Science? Then you can become an engineer like me or a doctor like your Grandfather later on. Your life will be smooth sailing after that, trust me. And we'll be so proud of you." You only realize later that there is nothing called 'smooth sailing' after all. And by that time it's too late. Your scientist uncle tells you, "Listen kid. Everyone in your family has done science. It's in your blood. You'll flourish in the field. Then you can become a scientist like me later on. And we'll all be so proud of you." And just like that he characterized your blood for you. It's a scientist's blood. You don't know it, but that uncle you meet once in two years knows for sure. And just like that you scratch out humanities and select science as your major. Just like that you crush your dreams of becoming a best selling author, and don your uncle's smelly lab coat. And just like that you killed a part of you who wanted to live a life of wordplay, and set out mixing pungent chemicals for a living instead.

When you entered college, you met a girl like no one else. She was an English Major. She laughed like she'd never known sadness. She painted with no inhibition. Free, bold confident strokes. She got absorbed in her canvass so much one morning, that in a distracted act of moving a strand of hair from her face, she smeared her forehead in olive green. She didn't even care to look into the mirror before she left her house. It was only when her friends in class pointed out the careless green smudge, did she realize how lost she had been all morning. But she laughed it off like she knew no bother in the world. You loved her. Your best friend told  you, "You love her?!! Have you lost your mind? Do you even know what love is?  And anyway she's far too immature for you. You won't be able to handle her." And just like that you let her go, never to meet her again. Not for once do you pause to think 'what if'. Just like that you killed that hapless child in you who never got to experience love.  And just like that you forget her, to make space for someone in the future, someone who your best friend approved of, only to find that the future had neither your perfect girl nor your 'best' friend.

And these happen to be only a few of your choices, which you thought were yours but in reality were someone else'. Everytime you set out to do something you want, your parents, your distant relatives who last saw you in the crib, your friends who conveniently forget you, your in-laws, your neighbours, your colleagues - all of them come to you and dump their treasured opinions on your head till it throbs and threatens to burst. The lines differentiating your happiness from theirs blur and soon the life you happen to call yours becomes theirs. And with every passing effort you make to please someone else, you kill a part of you until there is no real 'you' left. You die a silent death and someone called 'you' takes his place, and no one even sheds a tear for him. He dies like he never existed. And you still think you're alive? I'm not so sure anymore.