Possessive Parents And Their (Slave) Boys

'I don'no... what if she can't get along with my family,' 'what if she and my mom have a fight,' 'I dun'no... what if she can't adjust with my folks; and I have to make a decision between the two(?!) What will I do?' '... that's why my mom insists on searching for a girl from the same religion and caste for me, you see.' 

... These are doubts that I get to hear from 30 (plus) year old grown-up, soon-to-be married, eligible bachelors who are at the (arranged) marriage prowl these days. I was puzzled at first to hear and see so much of reservations and considerations that at times I wondered if these were just excuses to delay their marriage - probably because they were in a relationship that they couldn't reveal then. 

Seems like I was wrong until lately I discovered that these fellows who reserve their choices in their never-ending tireless quest for finding that perfect woman, found issues not in these poor unknown women they met but incidentally knew the unwelcome and hostile conditions that prevailed in their own homes way too well. These were fellows who were not confident of their own families and in that forage, attempt to find fault with other's, their families and ultimately end up questioning the other's upbringing - at a time when they should be questioning their own. Cognitive dissonance at its best.

I pity these midnight's children seeking brides or at least who seem to be enjoying the drama of bride-showcasing that seems to happen once in a while - when clueless parents parade their daughters before these boys and their parents only to soon hear that those paraded grapes are sour. These are hair-receding, pot-belly bulging, confused Indian boys stuck with their parents often out on this social exercise hunting for girls - who get to see water, water everywhere yet know that they will get not a drop to drink. 

Then there is the advanced level such families reach when they do find a girl 'fitting' for their son... Often after a certain age, every family has a victim-child - a child who turns out to be the driver, watchman, handyman, bills-paying delivery boy and who at times is also the wage-earner too that no parent can afford to give up so easily - definitely not to a woman or that child he manages to have who are seen as a hurdle to direct parental access.This is usually that same son of their's that decides to stay home dutifully 'to take care of the parents' with mounds of parental sentiments and displaced love misdirected and showered on him as a compensation for the offered services and rendered duties.
Ask the parent's and they will defend their child and his claim to (self) righteousness with their utmost might and claim that everything that could possibly be wrong are the wrongs of their bitchy daughter-in-law; who else could possibly destroy their otherwise abnormally 'normal' home?!
Ask the stray few who might defend these parents and they will quote this child and his reckless betrayal of his own family (his wife and child/ren) to nest his parents as a sacrifice beyond human imagination that needs to be worshiped and will add on that the Earth is in dearth of such kinds.
Trying to make sense to these people, is more like singing poetry to a scarecrow all day long when you are short of an audience to sway. 

Perhaps they do not realize that it reveals more than it covers how fragile and pathetic those parents who want to sacrifice a child as a means to fulfill their own needs and meet their own ends are... even if it means breaking the home of their own child to have their way. 

May such parents get well soon or rest in peace at ease... 

Types Of Children (including the Trophy and Token Child)

Recently I realized that children fall into at least four categories - depending on the reason why they are born or based upon the way they are parented later.

The trophy child like a trophy wife, is the child one has for the status it brings along. Much like how a just divorced and quoted to be impotent man or an infertile woman finds the fastest and quickest way(s) to have a baby... just to prove the point - nothing more and nothing else. For them, the child is nothing more than a showpiece - parents seem attached to this child yet more for self-obsessed reasons than anything else - to create envy among the snoopy ex and/or to shut slanderous mouths and as a proof for their own active sex life. These are children one 'has to' have.

The token child on the other hand, is more like a child/children one has for the very heck of it. Much like how one has one for the very reason that one 'must' have at least one; or when 'more the number of kids, more the verility', is assumed to be true by absurd personalities in some even absurd societies.
Here, it is all about the numbers. How many girls? - this in case it is in the North Eastern part of India, How many boys? - this applies to the rest of India. The token child in many marriages is just born out of no reason at all; with no purpose and of little value. It is like a token exchanged to evade the stigma it might bring otherwise. Born out of the duties performed connected with marriage (including having a child) and raised as a duty connected therewith thereafter. These are children one 'must' have.

The accidental child, like the name suggests, is born out of what the parents might see as a "mistake" including (yet not limited to,) a goof-up while trying to use protection or being too drunk and/or carried away to not use one. These are re-creations made by mistakes during recreations - a foolish one to regret for the rest of the life.
Or these could also be the ones a person is pushed to have not as a matter of choice yet one that rises out of force and compulsion like in the event of a rape or as a matter of tradition (like in the case of a child born to a Devadasi). These children carry the burns and scars and the damage more than the parents. These are children one knows not 'why s/he has'.

The love child on the other hand, is born out of love. A symbol of trust, care and respect that the parents have for each other. This child carries with it the genes and the energy that created it in the first place and enchants others with its very presence. Unlike the other two, these are passionate children who are easy to love and fun to be with. Not just made out of skin and bones, these are children with a heart and soul. Rare yet the most sought after.

Biblically, at least,  we are taught that we are born out of sin; Psalm 51:5 says, "Surely I was sinful at birth, sinful from the time my mother conceived me". This makes sex - a natural need according to science and a non-verbal form of love according to psychology, seem like a sin... if I were to believe it.
Perhaps this is just an(other) attempt by the church to make people feel guilty even from the womb so that they may establish their authority over them for the rest of their freakin life. Children are not conceived by sin, atleast in this category; they are conceived out of love, as they need to be. Love between the father and mother passed on to the child. Love formed out of trust, care and respect above anything else. These are children one 'wants to' have.

Having a job, is similar to having a child - nevertheless a want and never a need - some have it for the heck of it, some to avoid the stigma attached in the event of not having one, many have one by accident and very less for the fun of it.
We get stuck with jobs just because 'we have to' rather than take up a job 'we want to' - much like those arranged marriages many find trapped into which later one justifies to attain a state of cognitive dissonance to put up with it.
Very often, we are stuck with trophy jobs, token jobs and whatever other bastardly job comes our way in the event of not being able to find the true passion or love of our life that brings life and commitment to what we do. It is not just the person who suffers yet also a great deal of injustice done meanwhile to the job s/he holds as well.
Today, we all sell ourselves cheap. The mind especially, is always up for sale to the highest bidder. From becoming the 'other woman' in the white house to becoming a lot lizard for cheapskate punters during a hoe stroll, our opportunities seem limitless when we are not decided. Sometimes, it is not for us or for that money that we work anymore... it is perhaps just for the heck of it and for the fact that we have nothing better to do...          

Through His Eyes

They said I was special

“The first” they said

Even literature would be happy with the names with which they called me

Well, I wasn’t born then.

“Selfish”, “Scoundrel”, “Rogue”…

Few of the more sensitive words I get to hear howled around me every now.

Before I go any further, let me introduce myself…

I am just a child who still can’t speak - caught between parents separated

Imprisoned in my mother’s “care” (or so she wishes to think)

As a child stand I scared; crying my pain through speechless walls I stare.

Some see the tears in my eyes

The farthest they can possibly see.

What must be running behind?!

Would anyone dare to see?

“Selfish” he calls her, “Not-even-a-man” she calls him

Each ridicule the other with audience to gape at every rap

Not understanding the words yet understanding the running emotion

Unattended I ran-in between them-with nowhere left to run

The only spoof of their marriage remains in the engraved names of each other in their torso

Lest they forget the other’s

Each tore the other apart with words meant to rip one’s heart

Spitting choice words picked from the gutter at each other’s face

Along they went with their fight unbothered even if it was over my hovering grave

Battles they fought and perhaps wars they win

With my soul to bear the scars within

Scared, surprised and stunned I lay not knowing who will collect my shattering pieces

Off they drifted into the big secure spaces of their egos

Dragging me into shallow worlds I didn’t want to go.

Everything they go through seems real to them 

Everything about them except me.

I will know the “truth” somebody said someday

And understand who was right and who was wrong…

Would I care to think that way?

A ‘knave’, a ‘rogue’, a ‘rascal’ one day I shall be and blame it on everyone to deem my right to be

You can take all the time you want then and decide

The rights and the wrongs and anything in between

And settle scores for yourself

A lifeless life I have now

With pretentious words and spontaneous lies

Secure places with insecure lives

Everyone trying to replace the other.

Every time I look out through the window

And get to see a child holding on to the hand of his father

All I want is that and nothing more;

Yet searching for that hand that is never there

Grasping in vain into thin air 

A fatherless child am I… for no fault of mine
for everyone to mock and stare

“Thank You” Mom; “Thank You” Dad for gifting this life

I’d rather not have;  

Where your lives mattered more than me

Someday I look forward to repay thee…

To Say The Least

Within the context of prayer, as a family, we make an earnest attempt every morning to begin our day with a prayer; and well, as far as prayers go, there are numerous requests that come to my mind to be laid before the crucifix. Sincere attempts I do take not to miss any request and to prioritize the special ones from members of the family and from the circle of friends and then to include the asks on behalf of people who do not ask and for those who cannot. Besides this, there are loads of asks I have which I am sure God as a witness must be busy handling as well including; those un-digestible incidences of injustice and violence we get to watch on the media for a starter. Before long, I have a never-ending, overflowing list of asks filled with applications and supplications.

One day, as we sat down for our family prayer, Rachael, our two and a half year old daughter, noticed a picture of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross slipping out of the Bible; the picture depicted a complete agony of pain and suffering that was visible on His face and the picture lay prominently exposing the violence and injustice He had endured on the cross and the dripping blood from the open wounds that seemed to be instigating the curiosity of the child. She asked with the utmost child-like curiosity who it was and why He was given a 'time-out'. Not knowing if it was the right time to tell a child the greatest story ever told, leaving it to the consequence of the sequence of events that just unfolded, we stopped to tell Rachael the story of Christ who died on the cross. She patiently heard it all.

Towards the end, she asked, "Why did they do that to Jesus?!" to which all I could say was, "Because He was a good Man." and thought I could teach her the rest later. Watching her absorbed with the picture I got up to leave and just as I was about to do that, I saw her rub the wounds of Jesus in that picture and say something repeatedly. I stood still for a moment and listened and heard her say looking at the crucifix, "I am sorry Jesus..."      

Hearing that, made me wonder why I never thought of saying so far... "I am sorry Jesus". All that I have been doing was add further burden to the cross obsessed with my supplications and agonized selfish needs. And remembered, Mathew 18:3, "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" and was glad I could learn this lesson from a child.

The Circle Of Life

Recently my F-I-L was upset over my B-I-L. Usually a man very reserved, he suddenly poured out his feelings with the repressed anger of an ageing man shadowed by the tenderness of an ignored father. I knew he was disappointed with the fact that his son hardly spends anytime to even recognize his presence around and this feeling of emptiness was making him feel more and more less wanted. This incident happened when he was watching me play with my 9-month-old. He said, "I used to take my son everywhere I could, spend as much time teaching him everything I could, get him as much as I could and I was a hero too once."  I looked at my kid, knew what future had in store for me too and I told him, "Today, the hero; tomorrow, the villain; then, the zero... I know its coming my way too." 


Often I have people asking me, "Will your son grow up to be like you?" and I wonder. With every reason to ponder, I realize that as I get pulled into the enigma of my child's presence-that innocence, that simplicity, that spontaneity-those 3 I am struggling to relearn, having lost it in the path of life that he is just stepping into, he is learning in the meantime from me-that necessity to be complex, the need to be manipulative and impossibly corrupted-those 3 I learnt encourse survive, that which I am fighting to unlearn. Now, who is growing up to be whom?! 


This is an interesting circle of life: 
Stage I: I am complex, manipulative and corrupted. He is innocent, simple and spontaneous. I want to be him and he needs to be me. We are full of mutual admiration.   
Stage II: We meet at crossroads. He calls it teenage and I call it mid-life-crisis. We have conflict of values. He is something I don't want to be and vice versa. We are each others villains who can't accept eachother's values, morale and everything that defines who we are and we bite eachother's very crux of existence. 
Stage III: I am fed up of fighting and call for truce. He is keeping himself busy with all the bruise. I am tired running the path of life and am moving slow. My thoughts are innocent, my living simple and deeds spontaneous-something I have been craving to be that my son was born with. In the meantime, what my son is busy chasing seems meaningless to me now and he is as much a zero to me as I am to him. We find eachother's existence worthless... yet, I love him.


Life ends for me thus as his begins... when he makes a home on his own and has a child of his own and sees the innocence, the simplicity and the spontaneity in that child of his and craves to be that. Yet again, once again... I will smile gently at this circle of life.  


By the by, in the pic is John Aariyar Fredjeev, my son.