“Baba, Macbeth porechis? Summer vacation ae Julius Caesar ta porbi.” That was Maa; asking the 11 year old me. The 34 year old I, now finds it perplexing when the same woman who introduced reading and the love for tragedies to me asks why I keep sad. She has a point though, she had asked me to read; to think deep was my choice. I wasn’t ever the idealistic son, shall never be. But, I hope I did make her proud when people would compliment her that I was well read, when I had trunks and suitcases full of books while most children of my age were into videogames.
While, I haven’t carried the burden of being abused as a child, but my formative years were spent in trying to live up to what was expected of me. To be good at academics, to read and to not get into fights with others. What seems to be so uncomplicated now, it was then a battle of restraint I fought within. I had always been asked to be happy, but at the cost of what? To choose mathematics over grammar? To give up Tolstoy for Newton? To part with literature for the sake of engineering? I did all that it took to live up to what was expected of me. I was well read, but there was a vice grip on my neck too. The fear of consequence and failure was so deep rooted that I had to choose the easy over what seemed right. Right for whom? I was never asked, except for once. I was in love then, the sign of approval and the validation took time; but then to err was human. Perhaps, I had the liberty to fail just once, my life; not my chances.
I was given the freedom to live my life, but why let a bird out of the cage after trimming it’s feathers? The fear of failure, the hearsay theories and the dogma of being ostracized; few things that held me back. The over indulgence and the presence of over protective guardians wherever I went, it did feel suffocating but I was conditioned to be that way. I did have my share of indulgences too, friends with whom I would go on to share a life, but then, people who grow up alone know deep within what it feels to be left out alone. Life seemed good, it always looks calm on the surface; right?
Parenting can be complex, although I have been blessed with the most wonderful set of parents; I guess certain things could have been better. There’s always room for some improvement, some communication maybe. But, protocols are for everyone to follow. Lineage, legacy and the burden of standing up to the achievements of people who shared the same gene. Boxes are to be ticked, the checklist they had prepared while my horoscope was being drafted at birth has to be neat, no criss crosses and no overwriting.
I was trained to be inquisitive, but questioning would brand me a rebel; I had to be the ‘Bhalo Chele’ and do everything that was supposedly ‘Bhalo’; and as I now stand at the crossroads of life, I wonder if being ‘Bhalo’ has come at a price? Yes, it has. To have parted with a part of my childhood, my teenage years and now wasting away all that I am left with; still in quest of living up to the standard protocol of being the ‘Bhalo Chele’. No wonder, I wouldn’t want to pass the mantle; and not carry on with what the cycle of my gene did to me.
She asked; “Why are you keeping sad?”; I wish; I were asked if I was keeping happy.
I wouldn’t budge still, I am a ‘Bhalo Chele’, you see.
abhishek purkayastha 