The Signs

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Who was telling the story? And whose story was it anyway? The words fluttered and flew in the wind. They entreated as they fought the heavy air in the tremulous room, the words. They cried out to be heard, acknowledged and acted upon. But the listening silence was cautious, wary of committing and implicating the speaker in any manner. It was the calculative smarts of an ambivalent, modern professional. The school after all, ran on donations, its policies and decisions dictated by a cautious environment. There was a ball park figure to chase and livelihoods on the line. It was a standard operating procedure for everyone to watch and wait until pushed by a crisis. The question was, “Did anyone possess the empathy or the vocabulary to know the signs of one?” 

The counselor shifted in his chair, drawing back from the teenager

shrinking across his table. Garima Tandon had given up on her gritty brown eyes. The tears slid at speed down defeated cheeks. She sat perched on the edge of her seat, the right toe reaching for the door, ready to bolt. Hers was an earnest young spirit, flickering bravely through the heap of shame and humiliation dumped on her by bullying friends and class mates. “How do you feel at this time?” Her lips quivered at the careful voice of objective professionalism. She dragged her spiky eye lashes and darted an injured gaze at the falling drops outside the office window. Her slender frame snuggled deeper into the chair. “You were saying you feel empty and numb. Have you spoken with your mother?” the counselor prompted. “No. I just don’t see the point anymore. I don’t feel anything at all. I want it to stop.” The two locked their eyes briefly, startled away by the invasive ring of the telephone. Garima made to haul out of the chair, reaching for her knapsack but the counselor waved her back, raising the mouthpiece and banging it down to disconnect. It took him a while to focus back on the distress unfolding under his nose. “I am thinking of ordering the helium hood kit”, the high school senior mumbled under her breath. “What is that? Is it a video game?” He frowned at the curl in the girl’s lips. “Listen, don’t do anything stupid alright. Whatever is bothering you will settle down, I promise. It always does. You are very young. Also, our time is up now. Remember, I am always here should you wish to talk. Come and see me next week, alright? You take care Garima!”

Garima labored out of the dismissive office and through the hallway of the school, deaf to the buzz and chatter around her. No one paid any attention to the laden figure as she walked out of the building for the last time. The school guard at the gate nodded at her tentative smile, not knowing the desolation it hid. There were others of significance in the life of this beautiful young woman who had missed the cues. During an exercise in the English class three days ago, the teacher had conducted a poetry writing game. The anonymous pieces of expression were slipped into a small box and students took turns pulling one and reading it out aloud. The teacher had paused briefly at a particular poem that read, “I don’t want to share my life, if I could just give it away” before shaking her head, scanning the faces in the rooms and moving on to the next submission. Garima’s friends were, if anything, even more obtuse. At their after school parties out of the sight of their parents, they whispered about Garima, “What is with her man? She drinks too much and is easy. So ok dude, she is in pain. Well, isn’t everybody? We are all suffering. The earth is crying. Animals are dying. Children are starving. Get over it for heaven’s sake!”

“Listen, talk to your parents,” a friend had urged her on occasions.

His suggestion would be met by a sad shake of her head, “They think I am a good kid. It would break their hearts to know I have become the bad kid they always warned me against.” Garima had been distancing herself steadily from her loving parents, their pride and expectations and concern too much to bear. From proactive participants in her life, they had been reduced to being mere spectators. Their child was with them only in a physical sense. They had poured themselves into her upbringing and welfare but unknown to them, she was losing her heart and mind and soul to the perilous labyrinth created by peer parenting and the virtual space. Unkindness online, exclusion from groups, tiny betrayals, emotional rejection and an ever present sense of not being understood would have been enough to break an Atlas. She was only a golden waif. 

“There were no closed doors when we were growing up Garima.

 
What is this personal space and privacy you are constantly haranguing about?” the mother had no clue what more could a young woman want other than a loving family and fiercely proud grandparents. “I don’t want to meet the relatives. They judge too much, ask too many questions. I hate being queried about my life plans. Hell, I am figuring it all out still. What is the tearing hurry?” Mum would screech in alarm, “Language Garima!” The censure would be greeted with a violent bang of the door as the teenager flounced off with a wail, “Have the heavens fallen with one abusive word? There is no freedom of speech in this house. What do you want from me? Did you not take any parenting lessons before having me? Have you any idea what is happening in my life?” The dinner table in their hurting house often creaked under their conscious and manufactured care with words, “Bete, you know you can talk to us. We think your friends are not been responsible enough. Perhaps we should meet their parents. Bring all your friends home. We were always very happy to have our friends meet our parents. Why do you get so upset if we try to connect with any of yours?” The paternal patter would fade away at the horror on their daughter’s face. And for weeks now, she had stopped coming to the dinner table at all. Garima was fighting her demons behind closed doors, her same age peers for guidance and support.

And then one day, the heavens came down. There was no warning. At least the parents were caught completely unprepared. As it happens in such cases, they were the first on the scene. Their daughter did not even leave them a good bye note. She used an orange colored stole that her grandmother had bought her for a school dance drama she was participating in. There was no one at home that morbid of all days. Stealthy as a shadow, death paid the Tandon home a definitive visit that heartbreaking noon and a youthful life full of potential was nipped in the bud. What followed was an avalanche of disbelief and despair. A veritable storm broke around the family and friends. Candle marches, cries for justice, horror and shock on the social media, the deluge of wretchedness refused to abate. There was an angry frenzy to the aftermath. How could she be lost forever? She was such a fabulous talent. Where did she get this horrendous idea and courage from? Why did she not share her anguish with anyone? Could the family and friends and teachers have reached out more? What were the pressures she was struggling with? Did she have a school crush? Did anyone shame her? Was she being bullied on facebook? Did she plan the self-harm or was it an action born of impulse? What could her immediate environment have done differently?

Stung with guilt and grief, when the parents began to lash out at the
school and her friends, the picture perfect life of a young, talented child, deeply loved by her family and studying in one of the city’s best schools began to unravel. The horrific, yawning chasm between Garima’s reality and what her parents fondly imagined her life to be was every modern parent’s nightmare. “We gave her the best of care and opportunities,” her mother wailed. “I never put any pressure on her over her academic performance. She was a gifted artist and we always thought she was quite happy at her school”, her father sobbed inconsolably. “How come we were the last to know that she was facing harassment from a group of her class mates? She did mention once that a couple of teachers had counseled her regarding her report card but we treated it as just and rightful that a teacher confront a student with a constructive feedback. In fact, we made light of it with her, urging her to pay heed to her teacher’s words,” shared the mother.

With the case grabbing headlines, the media enveloped the family

completely. There were cameras galore and mikes constantly being thrust at their grieving faces. “Did you not meet with the counselor ever?” a reporter quizzed the parents. “Yes, I did once,” relented the mother. “I was concerned about Garima’s growing estrangement from us. She was moving away emotionally. It felt she had found an anchor elsewhere but I couldn’t be sure. We were always confused over the style of parenting she needed. Our parents’ formula did not seem to apply. Where to draw the line, when to concede…these conflicts were crushing us. There was no place to go, no one to compare notes with. Everyone else seemed happy and content with their kids.”

The shock and silence Garima left behind was soon taken over by the din of defense.
“I had no idea the Helium Hood Kit was a self-help suicide kit!”

“How could we know her sadness was sadder than the regular blues?”

“We presumed too much, we should have been more alert to her environment?”

“Did she have a boyfriend? No way. Not Garima. She was not that sort!”

“A lot of young people experiment these days. Could she have been in unfamiliar and threatening waters, with no one at home in the know enough to guide her?”

The ache at the criminal waste refused to heal. Lawyers, activists, politicians, loyalists, family, journalists, counselors, policy makers, teachers took up vantage spots in this arena of unbearable loss and sadness. While they wrestled, a powerful phenomenon called ‘time’ stood by and surveyed the maudlin madness. It whispered in the wind, “This is my story India. And I have changed. My values, my aspirations, my expectations are nothing like you could even dare imagine. Hark, my words are fluttering still.” But no one was listening.

Transference (Micro Fiction)

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Kamini inhaled deeply and held her breath at the door, exhaling slowly through the mouth as she approached the teachers’ table. High school kids sweated differently; her nose itched at the overactive apocrine glands in the classroom.

Alarmed at the rising incidents of teen stress, the management had mandated a weekly dose of moral science for the senior school. Her track record of lifelong learning and a talent for seeing the larger picture had marked Kamini an ideal life coach and her day was well underway. “Our lesson today is on assuming responsibility for what we are and the person we want to be” she had barely begun, marker pen poised on the white board.

“My parents messed me up in the head Ma’am! I do not want to take the engineering entrance. I want to become a scuba diver” Atul was first off the block, his educated belligerence echoing in assessing eyes around the room.

Kamini put the marker down, falling back into her chair heavily; this filial blame game had begun to come up more and more. It sounded dissonant in a culture that venerated parenting, a mother’s role in particular. She skimmed the faces trained on her, “Are there others in this class who share Atul’s anger?” Shaily pushed her chair back tentatively, “Yes Ma’am, it bothers me to have my mother say she preferred being “my mum rather than a chum”. My friends have parents they can really let their hair down with.” A titter rose at this from the far corner where Bikram stood waving his hand, “Look, we did not ask to be born. I think it is criminal to bring children into this chaotic world and then want to control them completely.”

Kamini turned towards the sound of a throat being cleared; it was Kriti, the school head girl, “Ma’am, you have a social system so deep rooted in a judgmental hierarchy, it is easy to look for someone or something to blame!”

The ensuing silence was broken by a rude movement at the door. Shambhu, the Principal’s peon did not stand on ceremony with any of the staff, least of all with the teachers, “Madam Ji, Principal Sir wants you.”  Shaking her head at the howl of protest from the class at this interruption, Kamini hurried to the lobby.

Taruna Kalra and her mother were standing stiffly outside the Principal’s office, ragged words clashing in low tones. “I feel repressed at home, I need space….there is too much drama already in my life” the young girl was shaking with anger.

The mother stood as though turned to stone. She had fixed her eyes at a spot on Kamini’s hair. Her voice was a flat drone, “I am numb. My chest feels like I have broken a rib. I did my best. I must not cry. You are treating me like I were an invisible, middle aged woman”

“Get yourself a life mother and stop worrying about me!” Taruna continued to lash out, stung and hurting. Kamini watched the parent splinter in slow motion and the daughter crack with an impotent fury; life could bring such pain. The two women dragged on the laden air, blinking rapidly to swallow the salt pricking their eyelids.

The parent moved first; Kamini stepping back to make way. At the sound of the summon bell from inside the office, Mrs Kalra broke stride and turned to look back at her daughter, “I love you but you no longer resemble me. You resemble your times!" Her daughter’s plaintive cry vainly tried to catch up, “Principal Sir is calling us inside and now you are making me feel really alone!”

Reversal (Micro Fiction)

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Pic by Aqseer

Shekhar frowned at the thought of his son. He talked all too much about feelings. “What’s with the boys these days?” he complained to his wife, “I don’t remember airing my thoughts and emotions so much. We mostly kicked ball or spent time doing house errands. All Pat does is jabber and sit around with friends over God knows what all; they call it chilling I believe. I hope he is not doing drugs?”

Shamita shooed him off, too busy surveying her pantry. Growing boys were such hogs, dinner time was approaching and she had her usual challenge of putting both quality and quantity on the table. “The snacks vanish from our cabinets before I can get them in, Prateek demolishes the reserves too. I feel so nervous when guests visit; there is nothing in the house to offer them.”

“Pat! Sam! Mug! What a waste of those elaborate naming ceremonies, why do we Indians even bother, these children are ruthless with shortening their original names!”

“I feel so disconnected with this “want it all” generation, may God bless them with wisdom and patience!”

The father gathered up his papers, unperturbed that neither the wife nor he was hearing the other, they both had peeves to air and time came at a premium. Pat had miraculously come home for the night and Shekhar was not about to waste this event. The youngster often slept over at his friends’ and was so self-absorbed  at home, an array of digital gadgets plugged into his physiology that it took forbearance and tremendous self-esteem to break through the opaque exterior.

Reaching out with trepidation now, Shekhar knocked at the teenager’s door, Pat liked his privacy. “Could he be watching pornography?” the father shook his head to clear the thought. He entered hesitantly at the silence from inside. There was the sound of water rushing in the toilet. Brushing aside his ‘deer in the headlight’ moment, he decided to wait, lowering himself on the single bed in the room. He skimmed the usual disarray in the room, looking up at the sound of the latch clicking. Pat had frozen at the sight of his father bunking in his room.

“Dad, please say you are not parked here to discuss my future plans! We have gone over that an umpteen number of times. ”

“Well, I did hope to bounce some thoughts off you…..” Shekhar trailed off lamely.

“I am good on email father, how about shooting me one, I promise to be prompt.”

Shekhar stared at the floor, his heart heavy and then heaved himself up, fighting down images of the two year old toddler he used to carry on his shoulders. His dismissive young son had already busied himself with rummaging around in his dresser. ‘How trustingly the baby would snuggle into his neck that lifetime ago’ Shekhar continued to reminisce. Back then, the roles had been reverse, Pat was the one seeking closeness. The older man nearly tripped over the doorway on his way out but what was this, Pat indeed was calling out to him, “Hold it Dad, have you any use for these? I am going off action for a while, need to keep it together, my SAT and all, you know how it is. I can’t afford distractions at this stage of my life.”

The room went suction vacuum still as the man squinted with his mid-forty vision at the packet the boy was holding out.

A cheerful pouch of Kamasutra Wet n Wild! 

Affection (Micro Fiction)

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“My generation is commitment phobic Auntie, just look at us! No one wants to marry.”

Simmar gave Guncha a thoughtful look, taking in her merry wise youth, tinged with that faintly fatigued resignation. Driving always relaxed her; put her in a meditative trance. She guided the car, thoughts in tandem with its smooth turns. There was no panic, she told herself, the Kathak performance they were attending was nearly an hour away and there was Olivia to pick up from the Instituto Hispania. She enjoyed engaging with her daughter’s group of diverse friends.

The Honda flowed seamlessly with the traffic until their next stop. “Tell us about Spain Olivia”, she queried of the newest entrant in the car. There was the slightest pause as the Latino leaned back, having made herself comfortable in the rear seat! “Well, it is the women who are ready to set up house and raise families in Spain but the men will not bite. It is as though they do not want to grow up. There are all these rovers, well into their middle years, chasing and winning teenage girls. They see no incentive in committing to one person for life?!”

Guncha was quick to retort, “In India, it is an institution still, in the slow process of becoming elective of course. Most people my age are questioning it big time. More and more, they will not marry just for the sake of marrying or because it is the next stage in life. ”

Marvelling at her luck in finding a vacant parking slot, Simmar eased the vehicle in and the trio was soon enough settled on the red ply chairs over Paneer Kulchas at the Auditorium canteen. “We have a half hour before the curtain rises, let’s wait here for Sonal.” For a while, silence reigned, punctuated by appreciative sounds of gastronomical delight. Simmar resumed the conversation, patting an extra Kulcha down for her daughter Sonal, “So what do today’s young expect of marriage?”

“I think the men in my country are able to meet all their needs outside of marriage. Either that or the unrealistically high expectations of marriage that appear to call for too much effort,” Olivia prised the Kulcha open to peer into the filling. Guncha sighed, turning at the sound of Sonal approaching, “There are times I think arranged marriages were so much simpler.” 

Plaintive strains of the Sarangi began to pluck and nudge from inside the hall at this pensive band.

They waited for Sonal to settle in; she wanted chocolate powder on her coffee. “Ten more minutes,” Simmar announced with that typical parental inflection. “Maslow’s hierarchy of needs,” Sonal leaned forward, warming up to the subject and the reheated Kulcha, “Mum, your parents were happy enough to pool in resources; for you and Dad, it was companionship of sorts but for us matrimony is nothing short of self-actualization. It is about self-expression, personal fulfilment, core growth.”

“There are these endless check boxes Auntie, chemistry, looks, books, music….almost as though…well, let’s put it this way….we either want it all or none at all!”

Simmar sighed, pushing back her chair. Her mind spun in sync with the dancer’s pirouettes on stage. She turned in the dark to gaze over the three young heads aligned next to her. Her heart quaked for them. She bit back the words, chewing them down the oesophagus, “Girls, chuck the actualization, where are you going to find the time for it, will you settle then for plain affection and respect!!”

The pain of irrelevance

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My grandmother lived by one abiding dictum, “Daughters must never be left alone anywhere, overnight.” She was obsessive about Mom’s friends and rationed her rare friendly visits to the last minute. In fact, she is known to have chucked a pair of scissors at her once, over a five minutes delay, returning home from a class mate’s. My mother was chaperoned, supervised, guarded and watched over closely. She did not dare incur my grandmother’s wrath.

By the time I came around, the rules had bent more than a bit. I did stay over at one odd home of a colleague for an all night movie session; there was even a group detour to ‘Ghungroo’ at the Maurya, not leaving the bike ride to Mathura. I went out on school trips, as also outings to do with work. The peripherals had transformed but the core of parental approval still remained intact. Their sanction had to be sought for every little adventure and their happiness was personally important to us.

The tyrannical power of my grandma’s generation had given way to a watered down and benevolent form of authority, a progressive model of parenting tempered with caution. There were no diktats but Dad and Mom’s involvement and active presence was presumed. The heavily authoritative tone of the earlier generation had made room for a moderate, accommodating acceptance based on the premise of the parent holding the superior position.

Though we picked careers of our choices and married people mutually chosen for us, we led our lives with our parents as our lodestars. They were there with us, in all of our life’s events and it was important to keep them informed, connected and supportive.

It is 2012 now and a lifetime later.Children leave home early for college. There is a sense of independence, in personal goals and life’s markers. Many of their emotional needs are met by those outside of the immediate family. Parental approval may still be critical for some but there are likely a few riders. Home is a neater, more convenient hostel. Involvement with the household affairs is negligible. They don’t necessarily align by the family rhythm. Existing in the twilight zone of digital overload and emotional tentativeness, they inhabit rooms with the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the doors.

There is a new parent-child vocabulary at play. A parent’s affectionate concern could be construed as criticism. Beware of making that friendly but unannounced trip to their place of work. It may come across as interference. Gentle nudges towards life’s great truths may be taken as attempts to sabotage their life’s passion. The slightest tone of disapproval is likely to elicit threats of moving out. Heaven help those incorrigible optimists who set out to spell some home truths to their progeny…all their years of sleepless nights and diapering and fretting will smoke out under the burning reminders of their parenting disasters.Do watch out for the pitch and tone in the voice, it can rake up their childhood traumas that plenty gets traced back to, in any case. The degree of parental expectations have steadily declined over the generations. It is cause for celebration and gratitude today if the offspring are happy, chilled out and clear of trouble.

The kids did not ask to be born, remember! And now that you are beginning to feel a little bit irrelevant, well, lump the pain…….or well, go ahead...shed those tears!