I blinked my eyes to shake that image from my mind.
I missed Dada. Resting my head on his lap, which had the lovely comforting fragrance old people wore, of age and termites. I still recall him slipping money from the folds of his kurta to me, under my father's very nose, for buying my books. Papa adored Dada, he could never say no to anything he said.
So, even though nothing would really happen, It's still fun to share some secrets with your grand dad.
My eyes were watering now. But real men don't, rather can't cry. So, we disguise our pain into strength, and continue taking the world by the storm of progress. But nobody really understands the fact, that God created tear glands inside our eyes to release suppressed emotions, and sometimes, men need that more than anybody.
Have you ever been a source of constant hope and admiration for someone, and then completely shut out because you didn't turn out the way you were expected to be?
That's what happened with me and Papa.
Often when I was a baby, I didn't get everything I needed. So learning from experience, I used to wail my lungs out, until my ayas got sick of me and handed me the damn thing they were refusing. But the minute I got hurt, or really upset, the first person to leave everything he was doing and run to console me, used to be Papa.
He used to sit with Daadi and make her bless me. Take me to school in a royal jeep. Clean my vomit. Change my diapers. But the day I came back with a bruised nose, wailing "Papa! They hit me!", its as if he gave up on me.
All his efforts to make me a strong, able, athletic man proved futile. He took out all his frustration with that leather strap he used to wear around his waist. Little did he know, that there was a fine line between defending and bullying once your arms gained some extra muscle, and bullying was one thing I would never do.
Don't get me wrong. I learnt many lessons on my hard way, the most prime being that trust and love hurts more than a thousand glass shards plunged deep into your heart.
And also, like all special people, I ramble.
I also make bad, evil plans of revenge. Like right now, standing in front of Papa's study door.
The great oak wood door swung open on me giving it a hefty push. The shelves were lined with books of all kind. Oh, the irony.
I picked up a sheet of paper, crisp and clean, and his favorite fountain pen. I found some glue, opened his drawer, took out a small, passport-size photograph he kept for emergency, and stuck it in the center. I watched as a drop of ink went ploink! on his face, and using my index finger, I drew a cross, as if eliminating his existence in this world anymore. Because the word "death" stings too much to use.
Then I started drawing arrows from his picture, and all the reasons why I detest him poured out. A broken heart, a bloody waist, a scarred face, a dead rabbit, a torn book, and....a crying baby.
I had enough to fill a whole sheet, and it wasn't something I was happy about.
The door creaked, announcing perhaps the arrival of a currently unwelcome presence.
It was Ma. I folded the paper into half, but not before scribbling one last, frustrated thing at the bottom of the page. She stared at it curiously.
"What is it that you're doing here?"
"Nothing..I came here for some paper."
"Why would you need paper?"
"Because I..." Moms are worse than the Delhi police. "was getting bored."
"What has paper.."
"Oh God! I just wanted to build something!" Terribly frustrated, I used my fingers to fold the paper as I was accustomed to since childhood. "Into a....into a....."
I looked down to the not-so-uncommon creation on my desk.
"I just wanted to build a paper boat. You know, its going to rain, and I wanted something to stick in my scrapbook to commemorate the day."
Ma looked at me, sighed. " You could've asked me. I would have given you newspaper or something. Why waste you Father's office paper for a boat?
Father's office paper. Even paper. Some people just manage to own everything, don't they?
Tucking the paper boat into my pocket, I walked away.
................
2bC
I missed Dada. Resting my head on his lap, which had the lovely comforting fragrance old people wore, of age and termites. I still recall him slipping money from the folds of his kurta to me, under my father's very nose, for buying my books. Papa adored Dada, he could never say no to anything he said.
So, even though nothing would really happen, It's still fun to share some secrets with your grand dad.
My eyes were watering now. But real men don't, rather can't cry. So, we disguise our pain into strength, and continue taking the world by the storm of progress. But nobody really understands the fact, that God created tear glands inside our eyes to release suppressed emotions, and sometimes, men need that more than anybody.
Have you ever been a source of constant hope and admiration for someone, and then completely shut out because you didn't turn out the way you were expected to be?
That's what happened with me and Papa.
Often when I was a baby, I didn't get everything I needed. So learning from experience, I used to wail my lungs out, until my ayas got sick of me and handed me the damn thing they were refusing. But the minute I got hurt, or really upset, the first person to leave everything he was doing and run to console me, used to be Papa.
He used to sit with Daadi and make her bless me. Take me to school in a royal jeep. Clean my vomit. Change my diapers. But the day I came back with a bruised nose, wailing "Papa! They hit me!", its as if he gave up on me.
All his efforts to make me a strong, able, athletic man proved futile. He took out all his frustration with that leather strap he used to wear around his waist. Little did he know, that there was a fine line between defending and bullying once your arms gained some extra muscle, and bullying was one thing I would never do.
Don't get me wrong. I learnt many lessons on my hard way, the most prime being that trust and love hurts more than a thousand glass shards plunged deep into your heart.
And also, like all special people, I ramble.
I also make bad, evil plans of revenge. Like right now, standing in front of Papa's study door.
The great oak wood door swung open on me giving it a hefty push. The shelves were lined with books of all kind. Oh, the irony.
I picked up a sheet of paper, crisp and clean, and his favorite fountain pen. I found some glue, opened his drawer, took out a small, passport-size photograph he kept for emergency, and stuck it in the center. I watched as a drop of ink went ploink! on his face, and using my index finger, I drew a cross, as if eliminating his existence in this world anymore. Because the word "death" stings too much to use.
Then I started drawing arrows from his picture, and all the reasons why I detest him poured out. A broken heart, a bloody waist, a scarred face, a dead rabbit, a torn book, and....a crying baby.
I had enough to fill a whole sheet, and it wasn't something I was happy about.
The door creaked, announcing perhaps the arrival of a currently unwelcome presence.
It was Ma. I folded the paper into half, but not before scribbling one last, frustrated thing at the bottom of the page. She stared at it curiously.
"What is it that you're doing here?"
"Nothing..I came here for some paper."
"Why would you need paper?"
"Because I..." Moms are worse than the Delhi police. "was getting bored."
"What has paper.."
"Oh God! I just wanted to build something!" Terribly frustrated, I used my fingers to fold the paper as I was accustomed to since childhood. "Into a....into a....."
I looked down to the not-so-uncommon creation on my desk.
"I just wanted to build a paper boat. You know, its going to rain, and I wanted something to stick in my scrapbook to commemorate the day."
Ma looked at me, sighed. " You could've asked me. I would have given you newspaper or something. Why waste you Father's office paper for a boat?
Father's office paper. Even paper. Some people just manage to own everything, don't they?
Tucking the paper boat into my pocket, I walked away.
................
2bC
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