November, 2008
I knew it would get ugly today. But I had no control over the choice of conversation. This was inevitable. It was one of those Sundays - the once in a month Sunday, when my father is not keen on reading his newspapers. He woke up at eight in the morning as usual, and then spent his time reading the newspapers casually with a couple of rounds of tea till I woke up. I usually wake up anywhere from ten to eleven in the morning, depending upon the length of the film I saw online the night before. My tea which was served hot to me, was left untouched for about an hour. I had almost forgotten that I had to sip it in between dialogues.
As soon as I sat on the sofa with my tea, my father who was reading the newspaper saw me settle down with the corner of his eyes, and then turned to me and said, “How long will you carry on like this?”
“As long as I don’t figure it out” I said. I already knew what he was hinting at, there was no need to ask. I had graduated 4 months back with a Bachelor of Science, general degree, and had been home since then. I was extremely unhappy with my choice of subject for my graduation, hence I was quite certain I wasn’t going to continue with the same stream. But I really found it hard to put my finger on anything else.
July, 1994
We had been sleeping all day to be prepared for the night. As a 7-year old boy, it was hard to stay awake at night, but thanks to the summer vacations, my parents were at-least not stressed about my going to school the day after. So permission was easy. Also because it was the World cup Final!
I wasn’t regular at following the championship throughout, but I was updated with stats and information regarding what’s what and who’s who about the major teams by my elder brother. Ironically enough, he was taking his cricket coaching classes in the day. He was equally passionate about football in the night, at-least during the World cup. But I later realized it is very Indian, to practically seek a sport which is so coveted in the country, but to cerebrally be fascinated by the most popular sport in the World, but not here.
Brazil was facing Italy in the finals, and as a seven year old boy, I knew quite a lot about both the teams. I was also very good with names. I knew the names of the players like I knew the names of my classmates. I knew Roberto Baggio is Italy’s superstar, and the danger man too, if one is supporting Brazil. Romario on the other hand, was Brazil’s trump card, and was in exquisite form throughout the tournament. But during the match, I spotted another player, who took my breath away. Bebeto, was a revelation, at-least to me. I’m sure South America was aware about him, but at the World stage to emerge like this was quite something. His goal, and then his celebration, swaying with his shirt, is unforgettable. At that age, when I honestly wasn’t sexually aware, I think I had a man-crush on him.
The next few days went in convincing my father that I want to play and learn football, or learn and play football. Whatever! It took him around two weeks to buy me studs and a ball, and a Bebeto jersey from Palika Bazaar. I wanted to be a footballer. I wanted to score a goal and celebrate like him, with the world at my feet. I wanted to be Bebeto.
July, 2000
The queue for the booking counter was long. My brother though, was always a patient boy, and took the onus of standing in it. Amitabh Bachhan’s son Abhishek Bachhan’s launch was the talk of the town, and my mother and I were extremely excited to see him in a film made by the same man who had made “Border”. My father would largely opt out of mainstream commercial films, so my mother and her two sons decided to go on their own for this film we had been looking forward to, called “Refugee”.
As much as I try and remember the film now, I hardly have a few scenes in my memory, but what stood out were the songs. I went crazy listening to them every day after I bought the audio cassette. And it was not just because of the melody, but also because of the playback voice behind almost all of them. Sonu Nigam had sung them like it was honey mixed in milk. He had sung popular songs earlier too, but with “Refugee” I really took notice of his prowess. His voice quality seemed unparalleled, his expression exemplary and perhaps the adequate amount of technical ability. He had age on his side too, with all the contemporaries either not so good, or older at-least by a decade.
Sonu Nigam became one of my idols. He made me want to sing. I felt I would only be happy and content if my voice sounds like him. I spent a lot of time in my room, locked from inside, appearing to be studying, but in reality practicing Sonu Nigam songs. It took a couple of months for me to realize that I had to get trained. I wasn’t sounding anything like him. I asked my mother if I could learn singing from someone. My parents seemed reasonably happy with this wish of mine, also considering there was no immediate expenditure to it. The guru they chose was someone who stayed in our colony, and had no great expectations regarding the fee. But while I was learning Hindustani classical music from him, my interest was in something entirely different. I wanted to sound like Sonu Nigam.
November, 2008
On listening to “As long as I don’t figure it out”, my father pounced back at me.
“You do not have your entire life to figure out what you want to do. You are 21. You think I can afford to keep you at home like this without any future? Is this a joke?”
I replied, “What do you want me to do then? Should I leave the house?”
My mother interrupted, “What nonsense are you both blabbering?”
“This isn’t nonsense at all. I have been forced to talk like this after so many months. I see no drive in him about anything. He has stuck to nothing in his life. Once he wanted to be a footballer, then he forgot about it in months as soon as the cricket season was on. Then he wanted to become a singer. He thought he would sit at home and become Sonu Nigam without continuing to learn and without practicing. Is this a joke?”, my father shouted.
I had to get back with a reply. Plain arrogance. I had no defense, but I could not accept defeat just because he had facts. I shouted back “Every kid and teenager has idols whom he wants to follow, that doesn’t mean I will become like them!”
“Exactly!” exclaimed my father. I was amazed, how did he agree to me all of a sudden. But then he continued, “Now that you have realized this, you must know what you will become. You have been given everything you have asked for, now what we are asking for is a very standard thing in every household. You have to do something with your career, do anything, but just stick to it and complete it. We don’t expect great things from you anymore.” He left after finishing his line.
He had broken me to pieces. There is nothing more painful than your own family not expecting anything from you.
Present Day
It is nine in the morning here. We are almost eleven hours behind Indian standard time here in Texas. But it is around 8-8:30 pm in India right now. This is the time we usually chose to Skype call my parents. My wife Nitya and I, leave for our respective offices around 9:30am, so this is the time we get at the breakfast table. I met Nitya during my MBA years in Hyderabad. My parents had loved her the moment they first met her. My father had always believed that South Indians are much more cultured and well read. My mother too, had immediately felt that Nitya is a simple girl, strongly rooted and without tantrums. This she told me later, but I had seen the approval in their eyes.
“Are you guys ready for office?” my mom asked as soon as the Skype call was connected.
“Yes yes, we are having breakfast, we will leave in half an hour” replied Nitya
My mom came up with another question immediately “How long are you going to go to work? Isn’t this your 4th month?”
“Yes it is, I will probably be home from next month.” Nitya answered.
“Be careful beta, is your mother going to Texas any time soon?” mom asked another question instantly.
“Yes, she is planning within a month. How are you and uncle?” Nitya smartly slipped in a question with her answer this time.
“We are absolutely fine.” My dad answered, standing behind at the door, smoking his cigarette. He continued “How is your job going?”
Nitya shifted the laptop a little towards me once she realized the question was directed at me. “It is alright... Nothing great.” I replied.
“Is that bothering you?” my father asked.
“Not really. I mean I was always told I was not meant for great things. So it is ok.” Nitya immediately looked at me after I said this. She understood my reference. I had obviously told her about the incident. But she realized my comment was uncalled for.
My dad slowly left the room, telling my mother to continue chatting till he comes back. My mother spoke for a little while more, mainly with Nitya. But post that, the entire day, I have been analyzing why I said that. I have done well for myself and I’m happily settled with a wife in United States. There was no reason for that sudden flip of temper. I’m not exactly very keen on apologizing too. But I know it was a mean thing to say, to your father. I mean I’m going to be a father in a few months. I have already started feeling the warmth and kindness you have for your child. And my parents feel the same way about me, I’m sure about that. It is just may be a mere choice of words sometimes that makes something extremely acidic. I had enough intelligence when I was growing up to understand that my father did not think of me very highly. But to put it in as many words one day, of not expecting anything great from me, was shattering. I’ve slept with those words for months. I also realized that may be he said it out of anger, and obviously not wishing any mediocrity for me. But in hindsight how do I even completely blame him? I have hardly been persistent with anything till my college years. That’s a major chunk of youth just wasted. Though after I went to Hyderabad for my MBA, I worked hard on myself. It is just that some people work on themselves a lot earlier. So yes, I wasn’t a genius. I wasn’t an extraordinary child. And I too now say things out of pure anger sometimes, as acidic as they might sound. I don’t think I’m frustrated. I’m just angry. Of-course at myself more than anything else.
But I guess this is what I’ve become. This is the man I’ve become. Not Bebeto, not Sonu Nigam. But someone a lot like my father, I guess.
I knew it would get ugly today. But I had no control over the choice of conversation. This was inevitable. It was one of those Sundays - the once in a month Sunday, when my father is not keen on reading his newspapers. He woke up at eight in the morning as usual, and then spent his time reading the newspapers casually with a couple of rounds of tea till I woke up. I usually wake up anywhere from ten to eleven in the morning, depending upon the length of the film I saw online the night before. My tea which was served hot to me, was left untouched for about an hour. I had almost forgotten that I had to sip it in between dialogues.
As soon as I sat on the sofa with my tea, my father who was reading the newspaper saw me settle down with the corner of his eyes, and then turned to me and said, “How long will you carry on like this?”
“As long as I don’t figure it out” I said. I already knew what he was hinting at, there was no need to ask. I had graduated 4 months back with a Bachelor of Science, general degree, and had been home since then. I was extremely unhappy with my choice of subject for my graduation, hence I was quite certain I wasn’t going to continue with the same stream. But I really found it hard to put my finger on anything else.
July, 1994
We had been sleeping all day to be prepared for the night. As a 7-year old boy, it was hard to stay awake at night, but thanks to the summer vacations, my parents were at-least not stressed about my going to school the day after. So permission was easy. Also because it was the World cup Final!
I wasn’t regular at following the championship throughout, but I was updated with stats and information regarding what’s what and who’s who about the major teams by my elder brother. Ironically enough, he was taking his cricket coaching classes in the day. He was equally passionate about football in the night, at-least during the World cup. But I later realized it is very Indian, to practically seek a sport which is so coveted in the country, but to cerebrally be fascinated by the most popular sport in the World, but not here.
Brazil was facing Italy in the finals, and as a seven year old boy, I knew quite a lot about both the teams. I was also very good with names. I knew the names of the players like I knew the names of my classmates. I knew Roberto Baggio is Italy’s superstar, and the danger man too, if one is supporting Brazil. Romario on the other hand, was Brazil’s trump card, and was in exquisite form throughout the tournament. But during the match, I spotted another player, who took my breath away. Bebeto, was a revelation, at-least to me. I’m sure South America was aware about him, but at the World stage to emerge like this was quite something. His goal, and then his celebration, swaying with his shirt, is unforgettable. At that age, when I honestly wasn’t sexually aware, I think I had a man-crush on him.
The next few days went in convincing my father that I want to play and learn football, or learn and play football. Whatever! It took him around two weeks to buy me studs and a ball, and a Bebeto jersey from Palika Bazaar. I wanted to be a footballer. I wanted to score a goal and celebrate like him, with the world at my feet. I wanted to be Bebeto.
July, 2000
The queue for the booking counter was long. My brother though, was always a patient boy, and took the onus of standing in it. Amitabh Bachhan’s son Abhishek Bachhan’s launch was the talk of the town, and my mother and I were extremely excited to see him in a film made by the same man who had made “Border”. My father would largely opt out of mainstream commercial films, so my mother and her two sons decided to go on their own for this film we had been looking forward to, called “Refugee”.
As much as I try and remember the film now, I hardly have a few scenes in my memory, but what stood out were the songs. I went crazy listening to them every day after I bought the audio cassette. And it was not just because of the melody, but also because of the playback voice behind almost all of them. Sonu Nigam had sung them like it was honey mixed in milk. He had sung popular songs earlier too, but with “Refugee” I really took notice of his prowess. His voice quality seemed unparalleled, his expression exemplary and perhaps the adequate amount of technical ability. He had age on his side too, with all the contemporaries either not so good, or older at-least by a decade.
Sonu Nigam became one of my idols. He made me want to sing. I felt I would only be happy and content if my voice sounds like him. I spent a lot of time in my room, locked from inside, appearing to be studying, but in reality practicing Sonu Nigam songs. It took a couple of months for me to realize that I had to get trained. I wasn’t sounding anything like him. I asked my mother if I could learn singing from someone. My parents seemed reasonably happy with this wish of mine, also considering there was no immediate expenditure to it. The guru they chose was someone who stayed in our colony, and had no great expectations regarding the fee. But while I was learning Hindustani classical music from him, my interest was in something entirely different. I wanted to sound like Sonu Nigam.
November, 2008
On listening to “As long as I don’t figure it out”, my father pounced back at me.
“You do not have your entire life to figure out what you want to do. You are 21. You think I can afford to keep you at home like this without any future? Is this a joke?”
I replied, “What do you want me to do then? Should I leave the house?”
My mother interrupted, “What nonsense are you both blabbering?”
“This isn’t nonsense at all. I have been forced to talk like this after so many months. I see no drive in him about anything. He has stuck to nothing in his life. Once he wanted to be a footballer, then he forgot about it in months as soon as the cricket season was on. Then he wanted to become a singer. He thought he would sit at home and become Sonu Nigam without continuing to learn and without practicing. Is this a joke?”, my father shouted.
I had to get back with a reply. Plain arrogance. I had no defense, but I could not accept defeat just because he had facts. I shouted back “Every kid and teenager has idols whom he wants to follow, that doesn’t mean I will become like them!”
“Exactly!” exclaimed my father. I was amazed, how did he agree to me all of a sudden. But then he continued, “Now that you have realized this, you must know what you will become. You have been given everything you have asked for, now what we are asking for is a very standard thing in every household. You have to do something with your career, do anything, but just stick to it and complete it. We don’t expect great things from you anymore.” He left after finishing his line.
He had broken me to pieces. There is nothing more painful than your own family not expecting anything from you.
Present Day
It is nine in the morning here. We are almost eleven hours behind Indian standard time here in Texas. But it is around 8-8:30 pm in India right now. This is the time we usually chose to Skype call my parents. My wife Nitya and I, leave for our respective offices around 9:30am, so this is the time we get at the breakfast table. I met Nitya during my MBA years in Hyderabad. My parents had loved her the moment they first met her. My father had always believed that South Indians are much more cultured and well read. My mother too, had immediately felt that Nitya is a simple girl, strongly rooted and without tantrums. This she told me later, but I had seen the approval in their eyes.
“Are you guys ready for office?” my mom asked as soon as the Skype call was connected.
“Yes yes, we are having breakfast, we will leave in half an hour” replied Nitya
My mom came up with another question immediately “How long are you going to go to work? Isn’t this your 4th month?”
“Yes it is, I will probably be home from next month.” Nitya answered.
“Be careful beta, is your mother going to Texas any time soon?” mom asked another question instantly.
“Yes, she is planning within a month. How are you and uncle?” Nitya smartly slipped in a question with her answer this time.
“We are absolutely fine.” My dad answered, standing behind at the door, smoking his cigarette. He continued “How is your job going?”
Nitya shifted the laptop a little towards me once she realized the question was directed at me. “It is alright... Nothing great.” I replied.
“Is that bothering you?” my father asked.
“Not really. I mean I was always told I was not meant for great things. So it is ok.” Nitya immediately looked at me after I said this. She understood my reference. I had obviously told her about the incident. But she realized my comment was uncalled for.
My dad slowly left the room, telling my mother to continue chatting till he comes back. My mother spoke for a little while more, mainly with Nitya. But post that, the entire day, I have been analyzing why I said that. I have done well for myself and I’m happily settled with a wife in United States. There was no reason for that sudden flip of temper. I’m not exactly very keen on apologizing too. But I know it was a mean thing to say, to your father. I mean I’m going to be a father in a few months. I have already started feeling the warmth and kindness you have for your child. And my parents feel the same way about me, I’m sure about that. It is just may be a mere choice of words sometimes that makes something extremely acidic. I had enough intelligence when I was growing up to understand that my father did not think of me very highly. But to put it in as many words one day, of not expecting anything great from me, was shattering. I’ve slept with those words for months. I also realized that may be he said it out of anger, and obviously not wishing any mediocrity for me. But in hindsight how do I even completely blame him? I have hardly been persistent with anything till my college years. That’s a major chunk of youth just wasted. Though after I went to Hyderabad for my MBA, I worked hard on myself. It is just that some people work on themselves a lot earlier. So yes, I wasn’t a genius. I wasn’t an extraordinary child. And I too now say things out of pure anger sometimes, as acidic as they might sound. I don’t think I’m frustrated. I’m just angry. Of-course at myself more than anything else.
But I guess this is what I’ve become. This is the man I’ve become. Not Bebeto, not Sonu Nigam. But someone a lot like my father, I guess.
Lovely :) really hope it is not an isolated episode but part of a larger narrative. Keep this going!
ReplyDeleteGood read....Relatable and loved the ending
ReplyDeleteI was telling ur mom that superficially it looks be a very simple story of a boy in our average middle class family with parents hereditary fear....but I felt it otherwise and u have given it quite a thought.
ReplyDeleteI have differed only at the outcome of the story from a dad's view point being a little sentimental...but I lauded it as a independent piece at the starting itself.
Very interesting. One is drawn into it right away. Seamless crafting. Imaginative because you did step out of your personal age and experience successfully. Dont want to give you a detailed critique. Its a story and you let the story find itself without forcing it. Keep it up����
ReplyDelete