Something of Myself
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Those Were the Best Days of My Life
How would it be if I were not put inside the jaws of struggle? How would it be if she had more faith in me than I had in myself? How would it be if I had not left dead bodies behind, and walked over them to arrive where I am right now? How would it be if I were not to submit and surrender every single idea that I thought could change the face of things facing me? Huh! It would be dull.
There is a part of that I discovered today. A part that usually lies dormant, and hardly comes to life. The part that was. The childhood days. School. SXC. 1A, 2B, 3C, 4A, 5C, 6B, 7A, 8 don't remember, 9A, 10C. The marwari guy who had loads of money and jackshit intelligence. The bong guy whose father had expensive cars to satiate his son's desire. The ordinary guy whose father sold meat, and who is now one of the leading engineers of the Microsofts of the world. The crack-obsessed guy who was perpetually drugged. Comfortably numb?! The guy who representated the minority and did not pass out even when I finished my Master's. The topper - forever being followed by the prettiest of the ladies. He was no book worm. Quite a contrast actually. He shared his first name with me. Short. Timid. But brilliant. Unlike me. I was the back bencher. Shy. Callous. Careless. The last two words kept surfacing in my report card, under the 'additional remarks' column.
It's been a long way since then. The chilly winds. The rain. The smell of foreign soil. The sense of being a foreigner. The exclusion. You are not one of us. Everything contributed to what I am today. And still they say, 'prove your worth.' It's fucking frustrating. It's like going into labour every fortnight and being accused of being infertile every now and then. It's worse. It hurts. But hell! Who cares?! Not me!
I miss those days. Naive. Irresponsible. Unaccountable. Homework and all. Evening games.
'Ma, please can I go out to play cricket for an hour? I promise no more than an hour.'
And then I would not return before two, three hours...Pele...nowhere to be found. Battling it out in some shady field in the suburbs of Alipur. Durgapur bridge was just under construction those days. The slums were full of folks who did not have a meal a day, selling their daughters for less than $5 a day. Dad was always apprehensive about them; he thought they were aggresive by nature and could do anything to get what they wanted. Unfortunately, the lunch or the dinner was elusive. Like Sukumar Ray's Abol Tabol. :-)
Only more tragic.
How would it be if I were not put inside the jaws of struggle? How would it be if she had more faith in me than I had in myself? How would it be if I had not left dead bodies behind, and walked over them to arrive where I am right now? How would it be if I were not to submit and surrender every single idea that I thought could change the face of things facing me? Huh! It would be dull.
There is a part of that I discovered today. A part that usually lies dormant, and hardly comes to life. The part that was. The childhood days. School. SXC. 1A, 2B, 3C, 4A, 5C, 6B, 7A, 8 don't remember, 9A, 10C. The marwari guy who had loads of money and jackshit intelligence. The bong guy whose father had expensive cars to satiate his son's desire. The ordinary guy whose father sold meat, and who is now one of the leading engineers of the Microsofts of the world. The crack-obsessed guy who was perpetually drugged. Comfortably numb?! The guy who representated the minority and did not pass out even when I finished my Master's. The topper - forever being followed by the prettiest of the ladies. He was no book worm. Quite a contrast actually. He shared his first name with me. Short. Timid. But brilliant. Unlike me. I was the back bencher. Shy. Callous. Careless. The last two words kept surfacing in my report card, under the 'additional remarks' column.
It's been a long way since then. The chilly winds. The rain. The smell of foreign soil. The sense of being a foreigner. The exclusion. You are not one of us. Everything contributed to what I am today. And still they say, 'prove your worth.' It's fucking frustrating. It's like going into labour every fortnight and being accused of being infertile every now and then. It's worse. It hurts. But hell! Who cares?! Not me!
I miss those days. Naive. Irresponsible. Unaccountable. Homework and all. Evening games.
'Ma, please can I go out to play cricket for an hour? I promise no more than an hour.'
And then I would not return before two, three hours...Pele...nowhere to be found. Battling it out in some shady field in the suburbs of Alipur. Durgapur bridge was just under construction those days. The slums were full of folks who did not have a meal a day, selling their daughters for less than $5 a day. Dad was always apprehensive about them; he thought they were aggresive by nature and could do anything to get what they wanted. Unfortunately, the lunch or the dinner was elusive. Like Sukumar Ray's Abol Tabol. :-)
Only more tragic.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home