Were our parents once kids too?
No, seriously, was my mother once a rebellious 20 something
with kohl lined eyes, who wielded a stethoscope and hoped to make this world a
little less ill?
Did my father slick his hair down with coconut oil and pull
on his bell-bottoms to impress the chicks of those days?
Did they have secret love affairs that were shut up in their
trunks and thrown onto the lofts in the course of time?
Did they have dreams that the man’s best female friend
called life peed all over?
Did they also battle parental pressure from our
grandparents?
Hmmm… Hard to picture. I like to believe that they jumped
onto earth as 55 year olds. Photographic evidence of dad and his friends
sliding down a snow slope in Delhi sporting ridiculous bell-bottoms and
handlebar moustaches suggest otherwise though! But come on, how else do you
explain the insurmountable difficulty they face in understanding and coexisting
with their children young adults?
Effect of those dirty life lessons, you say? Protective
instinct? Generation gap?
You’re gonna bowl me over with the ‘when you become a parent, you’ll know what it’s like’ argument,
huh?
Fair enough.
I’ve been thinking, and I’ve realised that I’ve grown to
treasure my freedom. Ever since the day I left home for college three years
ago, my life’s been different. Yes, good different.
I’ve had the fresh air I’ve always wanted; I’ve effectively
kept the constant negativity at bay; no mother’s voice asking me to tie up my hair or wear a bindi; no father warning me that journalism has no scope…with
all that effectively isolated, thinking clearly has never been easier!
Trust me…when the first thing you hear in the morning is not
a painful reminder of your past failures or a disturbing prediction of a not so
fabulous future, I can boldly say you’re up for a good start. At least a start
miles ahead of what mine used to be three years back.
But in the hostel, the worst that can happen to you is your
alarm failing to go off and you losing attendance for the first hour. And that
shouldn’t bother you too much unless you’re one of those.
When you’re alone, you wear a bindi because you’re dressing
up that day and the glimmering dot between your eyebrows goes with the
costume. On a normal day, you don’t
care.
You tie your hair into a pony when it’s hot outside, because
heat and sweat around your neck annoys you. On a cool, breezy day, you let your
hair down because you like the way it feels when the wind gently sweeps the
locks off your face.
You wear loose tees. You walk around with no bra. You cackle
with mad laughter. You discuss at length the concept of female condoms with
your peers.
You chatter with your boyfriend till midnight, and maybe watch
a movie later. And go to sleep in the wee hours. Nobody cares. Do you feel at
ease? That’s all that matters.
This space is what I’m talking about. No one tells you what
to do and makes sure you listen to them. YOU decide what to do with your life.
You got the freedom. You got the whole world in front of
you. You choose your values. You architect your personality, career and future.
Ironically, people call it ‘feeling at home’.
Never happens at home.
I have had it all here in these three years. I’ve faced my
fears, pains, joy and whatnot-alone. I’ve learnt to be myself at all costs. I’ve
unlearnt a truck load of nonsense that was dumped into my head when I was
younger.
The independence is intoxicating. It’s liberating and
addictive.
And now, I’m left wanting more. The thought of going back home terrifies
me.
---
